David Gemmell 

Knights Of Dark Renown 

Mass Market Paperback: 320 pages ; Dimensions (in inches): 0.72 x 6.89 x 4.20 
Publisher: Del Rey; Reprint edition (April 24, 1993) ISBN: 034537908X 

Once the legendary knights of the Gabala defended the nine duchies. Their hearts were 


beautiful; their armor was beyond compare. They were greater than princes, more than 
men. 
But they were gone, disappeared through a demon-haunted gateway between worlds. 
Only one held back -- Manannan, whose every instinct told him to stay. Now he was the 
coward knight, and in torment. 
Murder and black magic beset the land. Rumors circulated that the king was enchanted, 
changed, that his soul was dead . . . and that a reign of terror was about to begin. 
Now Manannan realized he would have to face his darkest fears: he had no choice but to 
ride through that dreaded gate and seek out his vanished companions. 
And the secret he would learn there would tear his soul apart . . . . 
"A sharp, distinctive medieval fantasy. Dramatic, colorful, taut." 


KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN 

David A. Gemmell 

LEGEND 

CENTURY 

LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND JOHANNESBURG 


Copyright © David Gemmell 1989 
All rights reserved 
First published in Great Britain in 1989 (simultaneously in hardcover 

and trade paperback) 
by Century Hutchinson Ltd 
Brookmount House, 62-65 Chandos Place 
London WC2N 4NW 
Century Hutchinson South Africa (Pty) Ltd PO Box 337, Bergvlei, 2012 

South Africa 
Century Hutchinson Australia Pty Ltd 
89-91 Albion Street, Surry Hills, New South Wales 2010 
Australia 
Century Hutchinson New Zealand Ltd 
PO Box 40-086, Glenfield, Auckland 10 
New Zealand 
Reprinted 1989 
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data 
Gemmell, David A. Knights of dark renown 

I. Title 823’.914(F) 
ISBN 0-7126-2542-9 ISBN 0-7126-2547-X pbk 
A Legend book published by Century Phototypeset by Input 
Typesetting Ltd, London 
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Courier International Ltd, 
Tiptree, Essex 


Dedication 

True friends are rare, but without them life would lack all quality. 

Knights of Dark Renown is dedicated with love to Val and Mike Adams, 
good neighbours, good friends. And also to Ivan Kellham, Sue 
Blackman, and the staff at Village Video, Hastings, who put up with a 
quirky author serving behind the counter whenever he feels the need 
to run away from his word processor. 

Acknowledgements 

As always grateful thanks to Liza Reeves for the guidance, Jean Maund 
for the copy editing, and Stella Graham, Tom Taylor, Edith Graham for 
the test reading. Special thanks to Roger Garland for the inspired 
cover art. 

And to Val, the safe haven in the sometimes treacherous sea of life. 


Prologue 

He was nine years old, torn between grief and joy, and he was flying 
beneath the stars and above a land bathed in moonlight. It was a 
dream. Even at nine years old he knew that people did not really fly. 
But still, at this moment, dream or no, he was alone and free. 

No one to chastise him for stealing a honey-cake, no one to beat him 
for failing to see a finger-mark on the silver as he polished and 
polished hour upon hour. 

Somewhere - though he knew not where - his mother lay cold in 
death, and the grief was like hot knives in his soul. But, as children 
will, he forced it from his mind and looked to the bright, diamond 
stars. They seemed so close and he tried to soar towards them. But 
ever they remained, glittering and cold, far from his reach. He slowed 
in his flight and gazed down. 

The land of the Gabala was so small now, and the world so large. The 
Forest of the Ocean lay beneath him like a wolf pelt, the mountains 
merely wrinkles in an old man’s skin. He dropped lower, falling, 
spinning towards the ground, and screamed in his fear as the 
mountains roared up towards him, jagged and threatening. His dizzy 
fall slowed and he floated once more. On the sea beyond Pertia Port he 
could see the great triremes with their square sails, their oars lifted and 
on the land the lights of the towns and cities. Four huge braziers 
were lit on the walls of Mactha fortress, twinkling like candles on a 
cake. He sped away from the lights towards the distant mountains. 

He wished he might never go home; wished he could float like this for 
ever, safe from the many tortures of slavery. While his mother had 
been alive there had been someone who cared for him - not as a slave 
boy but as Lug, the child, flesh of her flesh. Her arms had always been 
open to him. 

Grief and pain swamped him once more. When she had become ill Lug 
had been told she needed rest. . . but it did not help. They had sent 
for the healer, Gwydion, but he was away in the city of Furbolg. Lug 
had watched the flesh vanish from his mother’s features, seen her 
change from a living, loving woman to a skeletal creature whose eyes 
could look at him without recognition, and whose arms did not have 
the strength to open for him. 

And then she was gone . . . while he slept. He had kissed her good-
night and been led away to a room he now shared with five other 
boys. In the morning he had finished his chores and run to her 


chamber, only to find her covered with a white linen sheet. This he had 
pulled back from her face. The eyes were closed, the mouth open. And 
no trace of breath or movement could be seen. 

The elderly house slave Patricaeus had found him there and carried 
him back to his own room. Lug had been aware of the old man, but he 
could not move. He was frozen in shock. He felt himself tucked up into 
Patricaeus’ bed, the warm blankets around his shoulders, but he could 
not even close his eyes. The old man had stroked his face, and gently 
closed his lids. 

For a long while Lug had slept. Then something inside him snapped and 
his spirit had sailed free into the night air. 

He shivered, though he felt no cold, and wished he could bring his 
mother back. Just then his eye was caught by movement far below. A 
line of riders, nine of them, were riding out into the night on tall white 
horses. Lug dropped towards them and saw that they were Knights 
dressed in silver armour, white cloaks draping to their saddles. They 
formed into a line in a meadow, and white mist billowed around the 
horses’ hooves like a ghostly sea. On a nearby hillside Lug saw a man, 
his face partly hidden by a dark hood on a velvet cloak. The man was 
chanting, but the language was unknown to the boy. The Knights sat 
silently as the mist deepened. 

Lug came closer, avoiding the chanting man and settling himself on 
another hillside near some trees. As he came to the ground he sank 
through it; a touch of panic spurred him and he rose again, wishing 
that he were solid. The wish became reality and he sat down upon the 
grass. The mist had not reached the upper slopes of the hill and he 
settled down to watch the Knights. 

Their armour glistened in the moonlight, round helms under tall black 
plumes, silver neck-plates linked to curving shoulder-guards, engraved 
breastplates, thigh-guards and greaves. Yet they carried no shields. 

Nine riders on nine white stallions. . . . 

Lug remembered the stories Patricaeus told in the Slaves’ Hall at the 
Solstice Feast - and he knew then upon whom he spied. 

The legendary Knights of the Gabala. 

Lug did not know their names -save that the Lord Knight was 
Samildanach, the greatest swordsman in the realm. The boy scanned 
the group. There at the centre, taller than the others, shining silver 
raven wings adorning his helmet, was Samildanach, sitting silently . . . 
waiting. 

But for what? 


Lug transferred his gaze to the chanting man and suddenly the horses 
began to whinny in fear. The Knights held them steady, and Lug’s 
mouth dropped open, for the stars were disappearing from the sky as 
a great black gateway formed before the riders. A sliver of silver grey 
appeared in the rectangle of black and a bitter wind howled through 
the opening. Then the mist rose like a huge wave to engulf the 
Knights, and unearthly screams sounded from beyond the black Gate. 

‘Follow the Sword,’ came the cry, and Lug saw the blade of 
Samildanach shining like a lantern, and heard the drumming of hooves 
as the Knights thundered forward. 

Then there was silence and the darkness faded, leaving the stars to 
shine once more. 

Lug looked across at the far hillside, but the chanting man had gone. 

The mist gathered and flowed up the hillside and Lug rose and tried to 
fly. But he could not. His body was solid, and rooted to the earth. The 
cold wind touched him and he shivered. 

The dream was no longer comforting and he was desperate to return 
home. But where was home? How far had he flown? 

A noise came to him through the mist — a slithering, rustling sound. 
He spun and tried to scan the ground, but the grey fog was 
everywhere. Lug ran back up the hill, heart pounding, but he slipped 
and fell in the muddy grass and rolled to his back. A black shadow 
reared over him and sharp talons raked down at his body; he rolled 
again desperately as they scored the skin of his chest. 

‘No!’ he screamed, as the slavering jaws of the beast dropped towards 
his face. He threw up his arm. A blazing beam of golden light sprang 
from his fingers to engulf the creature and with a scream of agony it 
disappeared as Lug sank back to the grass. Another shadow fell across 
him and he cowered to the ground. 

‘Do not be afraid,’ said a voice. 

Lug looked up to see the outline of a man. The moon was shining over 
the stranger’s shoulder and his face was in silhouette, his features 
impossible to see. 

‘I’m frightened,’ said Lug. ‘I want to go home.’ 

‘And so you shall, my boy. And then this. . . dream . . will be 
forgotten.’ 

‘What was the beast?’ 

‘It came from beyond the Gate. But it is dead. You destroyed it, boy — 
as I knew you would - for within you is the Power. Farewell. We will 


meet again.’ 
‘Who are you?’ 
‘I am the Dagda. Sleep now - and return home.’ 
Lug had closed his eyes and slipped from awareness. When he opened 


them again he was lying in Patricaeus’ bed; the old man was sitting 
beside him, dozing in a chair. 
Lug rolled over. The bed creaked and the old man awoke. 
‘How are you feeling, Lug?’ 


‘What am I doing here, sir? Where is my mother?’ 
‘She is dead, boy,’ said Patricaeus sadly. ‘We buried her this 
afternoon.’ The blanket slid from the boy’s chest as he sat up. 


‘Dear Gods!’ whispered Patricaeus. ‘What have you done?’ Lug looked 
down; his chest was scored in four shallow cuts which had bled 
profusely, drenching the sheet below the blanket. When Patricaeus 
pulled the bedding aside, the boy’s legs were covered in dried mud. 


‘Explain this, Lug. Where did you go while I was sleeping?’ 


‘I don’t know,’ said Lug. ‘I don’t know anything. I want my mother! 
Please?’ 
The old man sat beside the weeping boy and placed his arms around 


him. 
‘I am sorry, Lug. Truly.’ 



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. 


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 cutthroats.’ 


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 handto-
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.’ 



CHAPTER THREE 

The Once-Knight rode along the narrow trails far from any 
settlements. He lived by hunting his meat with his longbow and taking 
what herbs he needed from the clearings in the woods and meadows. 
Time was running short for him now, and the pressure on his throat 
was greater. But nowhere had he heard of a craftsman with special 
skills, and the name Ruad Ro-fhessa was unknown. Only the large 
town of Mactha was left now in the north and he was loth to travel 
there, for the Duke would remember him - even if his page did not. 

It was fifteen days since he had stopped at a town to purchase 
supplies of salt, a wax-sealed jug of brandy and a sack of grain for his 
stallion. Grass was plentiful, but a grain-fed horse could outrun any 
wild beast. The town had been small - some sixteen houses, a smithy 
and a store - and the prices of his supplies more than double what he 
expected. But he had paid and ridden on to camp just outside the town 
in a wooded meadow by a stream. 

It was hot and sweat trickled on his scalp under the suffocating helm. 
As he opened the brandy and drank deeply, his mind fled back to the 
worst moment of terror in his childhood. He had climbed a dead tree 
and was traversing from one side to the other when a dry branch 
snapped beneath him and he had plunged through the leaves and 
fallen into the rotted heart, his feet hammering through an ants’ nest. 
His arms were pinned at his sides, the trunk surrounding him like a 
narrow upright coffin. He had cried out, but he was far from home and 
had told no one where he was going. 

Ants began to crawl over his skin ... up along his face, across his 
eyelids, into his ears. He screamed and screamed, but they crawled 
into his mouth. With his arms pinned he could not climb out, and he 
waited for hour upon tormented hour until at last a forester heard his 
feeble cries. Six men laboured for an hour to cut him free and from 
that day he had avoided confined spaces. Even into manhood the 
terror had stayed with him. 

And when the Black Gate opened the nightmare had rushed from his 
memories, engulfing him in a tidal wave of fear. 

Yet now he was trapped again, this time by a cylinder of silver steel 
locked to the neck-plates of his Gabala armour. He could not wipe 
away the sweat that trickled on his scalp . . . that felt like ants upon 
his skin. He drank more of the brandy. 

Where was Ollathair? Manannan had tried the sword-jewel often, but 


so far it had offered no hope. But then the Armourer had to be within a 
day’s ride of the wielder. 

Damn you, wizard! Where did you go? 

During his six years of self-imposed exile, Manannan had listened 
avidly to all the news from home; but mostly it concerned the new 
King, Ahak, fresh from his victory in the last Fomorian War. He had 
negotiated the dissolution of the empire with rare brilliance, agreeing 
treaties with all the territories the Gabala had once ruled. But the 
Knights had passed into legend and of the Armourer there was no 
word at all. Had he changed his mind and travelled with Samildanach? 
On that terrible night there was a deep, fine mist; that was how 
Manannan had been able to slip away unseen. 

But no ... Ollathair had said he must remain to reopen the Gate when 
the Evil Ones had been defeated. Five days, he said he would wait. So 
where could he be after six years? 

Manannan sat with his back to a broad oak and continued to drink. 
After a while he began to sing a ribald song he had learned as a 
mercenary far to the east. It was a good song - about a girl, her 
husband and her two lovers, and the various ploys she used to keep 
them all apart. He could not remember the last verse. The stallion 
moved away from him, cropping grass at the edge of the stream. 

‘It is no joy to sing alone, Kuan. Even in such a beautiful spot,’ said 
the Once-Knight. ‘Come, stay by me and I’ll give you grain. Come!’ 

The stallion lifted its great grey head and stared at the man. 

‘I am not drunk, I am happy. There is a difference, although I would 
not expect a horse to understand.’ He struggled to rise, but tripped 
over his scabbard. Pulling it from his belt, he dropped it to the grass 
and stood. ‘See? I can stand.’ 

‘Look at that, lads. He really can stand!’ 

The Once-Knight turned and peered at the newcomers. There were 
four men, three of them bearded and the fourth a youngster of maybe 
fifteen years. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, may I offer you a drink?’ 

‘Oh, we think you can do better than that, sir. We are in need of 
money and a fine horse.’ 

The Once-Knight sank to the ground and chuckled. ‘I only have the 
one horse, and he is not for sale.’ 

‘But then,’ said the first man, a broad-shouldered fellow with a dark 
forked beard, ‘we are not planning to buy him, sir.’ 

‘I understand,’ said the Once-Knight slowly. ‘But he is not for stealing, 


either. Now be off with you!’ 

‘That is not friendly, sir, and you risk much with such an attitude. Look 
around you - there are four of us, all armed and not one of us drunk.’ 

‘I’ve offered you the jug,’ the Once-Knight told him. Pulling his sword 
clear of its scabbard, he hauled himself upright by gripping the trunk 
of the oak. ‘Now be warned,’ he said, his voice slurred, ‘I am a Knight 
of the Gabala. To face me in battle is to die.’ 

‘Well, my boys,’ jeered the first man, ‘here is an interesting sight - a 
regular Knight -a Gabala Knight, no less. Strange that he should wear 
no armour save that dented helm. Even stranger that he should be 
drunk. I would not doubt your word, sir, but was strong drink not 
frowned upon by your Order?’ 

‘It was,’ admitted the Once-Knight. ‘We were . . .’ he struggled for the 
word. 

‘Pure?’ offered the man. 

‘That’s it! Pure. Noble Knights.’ He laughed. ‘Noble like gods! And 
proud. Proud. Yes. All gone now. Gone away,’ he said, waving his hand 
in the air. ‘Off to fight the Demon Lord.’ 

‘But you don’t appear to have gone with them, sir?’ 

‘No. I was . . . frightened. The Black Gate. Ollathair conjured it and I 
would not pass it. I couldn’t, you see. Something inside just. . . 
snapped. We were all mounted and ready -and the Gate opened. The 
others, Edrin, Pateus . . . they all rode in. But not me. No. Not I. All 
gone!’ 

‘You are - and forgive the bluntness of my language, sir - a coward, 
then?’ 

‘Yes, yes. That is me: the coward-Knight. And yet the truth does not 
hurt the way it once did. Are you sure you will not share my jug?’ 

‘Thank you, but no. We will, however, relieve you of your horse and 
your purse.’ 

‘I do wish you would not attempt this,’ said the Once-Knight. ‘We have 
known each other but a short time and already I like you.’ 

‘Kill him,’ said the man and the other three drew their knives and 
rushed forward while the leader walked towards the stallion. The 
Once-Knight rolled his wrists and the longsword hissed as it swept up, 
sunlight flashing on the blade. The first man tried to halt his charge, 
but it was too late and the blade sang down to slice his jugular before 
smashing his collarbone and opening a great wound all the way to his 
lungs. He was dead before he hit the ground. The blade slid clear and 


slashed back in a reverse cut that opened the second man’s belly clean 
through to his backbone; he alone had time to scream. The youngster 
had circled behind the Knight and now he leapt forward with knife 
raised. Without turning the Once-Knight dropped to his knee, spinning 
his sword so that the blade was between his right arm and his side. 
The boy did not see the danger until he was almost upon the kneeling 
man and the sword clove into his chest, dissecting his heart. 

The Once-Knight dragged his blade clear and stood. In the several 
seconds that the fight had lasted, the robbers’ leader had reached 
Kuan and grabbed for the reins. The stallion reared, his front hooves 
cracking into the thief s face so that he stumbled back and fell heavily. 
A shadow moved across him and he looked up. 

‘It was a foolish move, and your friends have suffered for it.’ The man 
rolled to his knees, eyes wide in disbelief as he stared at the bodies. 

‘My son!’ he screamed, scrambling to the boy. ‘You’ve killed my son.’ 
For some seconds he cradled the body, then stood and drew his own 
knife. The Once-Knight said nothing, for he knew no words could 
dissuade him. With a piercing scream the robber raced towards him. 

The longsword sang out. . . 

Sober now, the Once-Knight climbed into the saddle. ‘Come, Kuan, 
this place is no longer beautiful.’ 

Since that day he had avoided towns, settlements and even lonely 
cabins until he reached the Duchy of Mactha. If Ollathair was 
anywhere it would be here, in his homeland. The Once-Knight drew his 
sword and gazed into the ruby pommel. ‘Ollathair,’ he whispered. The 
jewel shimmered and darkened, an image forming at its heart; there, 
by a well, stood the Armourer. 

And armed men were moving towards him, their swords bright in the 
moonlight. . . 

‘No!’ shouted the Once-Knight. But the image faded. 

Errin rose from his bath and stepped into the thick robe held out for 
him by Ubadai. His body glowing from the hot water, he moved to the 
window and felt the freshness of the night breeze. Ubadai poured a 
goblet of watered wine and carried it to his master, but Errin waved it 
away. 

‘No drink tonight,’ he said. 

‘Something troubles you, Lord?’ 

‘Why do you stay in my service, Ubadai? I freed you two years ago 
and you could go wherever you want -back to the Steppes; across the 


sea to Cithaeron, or into the east. Why do you stay?’ 

Ubadai shrugged, his dark, slanted eyes showing no emotion. ‘You 
should drink. Drink very much. Fall down, maybe.’ 

‘I do not think so. Go. Leave me.’ 

Errin watched as the Nomad turned on his heel and strode from the 
room. He gazed down at the wine and shivered. Having closed the 
window, he walked to the far side of the room where a log-fire blazed 
in a stone hearth. Dragging a heavy chair to the fireside, he sat and 
stared into the flames. 

The meeting with the Seer, Okessa, haunted him -forcing its way into 
his mind again and again. He had never liked the man, whose shaven 
head and curved nose gave the impression of a vulture. And his eyes 
always seemed to shine with a malevolent gleam. No, Errin did not like 
Okessa. 

‘It is rare that you take the time to consult me,’ the Seer had said as 
Errin entered his study. 

‘Our paths seldom cross,’ Errin replied, gazing at the shelves and the 
tomes placed there. ‘You have some interesting books. Perhaps I could 
borrow some?’ 

‘Of course, my Lord. I did not know you were expert in the Dead 
Languages.’ 

‘I am not.’ 

‘Then, sadly, the books would be of no value. How can I help you?’ 

Errin sat in a high-backed chair opposite the Seer, who carefully laid 
his quill on the desk, pushing aside the book on which he had been 
working. 

‘I have come to seek your advice. A youth -a runaway - shouted a 
word. I think it was some kind of spell casting, for his running speed 
increased. I wounded him, but he escaped to the Great Forest.’ 

‘And the word?’ 

‘Ollathair.’ 

‘You are sure?’ 

‘I believe so. My man, Ubadai, heard it also. What does it signify?’ 

Okessa leaned back and stroked his long nose with the index finger of 
his right hand, his pale eyes fixed on Errin. ‘A dead wizard -he 
shouted the name of a dead wizard. Are you sure his speed increased? 
Could not fear have spurred him to greater urgency?’ 


‘It is possible — but only just. I have never seen a man run faster and, 
as you know, I was Master of the Games last autumn in Furbolg. No, I 
think the word was one of Power. Is that possible?’ 

‘All things are possible, Lord Errin. Some. . . artefacts . . . of Ollathair’s 
survive, I believe. The King beyond Cithaeron has a golden falcon, and 
King Ahak possesses a Gabalic sword which can cut through anything, 
even steel. But these are priceless. How would a runaway slave obtain 
such an artefact?’ 

Okessa stood and moved to the bookshelves, drawing down a leather-
covered tome. Returning to his seat, he opened the book and carefully 
began to turn the pages. 

‘Ollathair,’ he said at last. ‘Yes, here it is. The son of Calibal, fifteenth 
Armourer to the Knights of the Gabala. Ollathair was apprentice to his 
father in 1157 at the age of thirteen. He succeeded his father in 1170, 
so, he would have been twenty-six then. In 1190 the Knights vanished 
from history and we are left with merely legend, the most enduring of 
which is that they rode into Hell to destroy the essence of all evil. 
Ollathair was arrested as a traitor the following year, and was put to 
death in the dungeons of Furbolg. There is also a brief description of 
his interrogation. No, I do not think you heard the boy correctly.’ 

‘Could there be more than one Ollathair?’ Errin 
asked. 

‘If there was, my Lord, be assured I would have heard of him. Was 
there anything else?’ 

‘No, my Lord Seer, but I am grateful for your time | and effort,’ said 
Errin, rising. 

‘Please, do not leave quite so soon: there is a matter I wish to 
discuss.’ Errin sat down. ‘It is the question of your household, my 
Lord. You have some six Nomad .-, retainers, I believe?’ 

‘Yes - and all loyal, both to myself and to the crown.’ 

‘The crown sees it differently. The King is about to issue an edict that 
all Nomads be detained and sent to Gar-aden.’ 

‘It is a desert!’ 

‘You question the King’s wishes?’ asked Okessa softly. 

‘It is not for me to question my sovereign; it was merely an 
observation. However, the Nomads in my employ are not slaves and 
they are free to travel where they wish.’ 

‘Not so,’ said Okessa, smiling. ‘No Nomad can now enjoy citizenship, 
and all are under the King’s express command to gather at Gar-aden. 


Those who do not obey are to be hunted down and slain, their goods 
and chattels taken by the crown or the crown’s agents. In Mactha the 
agent will, of course, be the Duke.’ 

‘And how, may I ask, are we to describe who is a Nomad? They have 
been among us for hundreds of years; it is said that many noble 
families have Nomad blood.’ 

‘You know of such families?’ Okessa asked, leaning forward, his eyes 
gleaming. 

‘Not with any certainty.’ 

‘Then be careful of what you say. It is decreed that the Nomads are a 
tainted people and they must be removed from the kingdom.’ 

‘Thank you for this advance intelligence,’ said Errin, forcing a smile. 
‘Be assured I shall act upon it.’ 

‘I hope that you do. By the way, this matter of Ollathair intrigues me. 
Tell me, would you know of any craftsman or landholder around 
Mactha with only one good eye?’ 

‘I do not make it my business to mix with the lower orders, Lord Seer, 
but I shall have enquiries made for you.’ 

‘Thank you. Would you treat the matter with some urgency-?’


‘I will indeed.’ 

Errin had gone straight to the Duke, who took him to his private 
apartments in the west tower. 

‘It is not for us to question a royal decree,’ the Duke pointed out. ‘And 
let us not forget the question of increased wealth. You and I are in a 
fortunate position. Neither of us has any Nomad blood in our family 
lines; we can only benefit.’ 

Errin had nodded. He had always known the Duke was a hard and 
cruel man, but he had believed there was also a certain nobility of 
spirit in him. Now as he looked into the Duke’s dark eyes he saw only 
greed. The Duke of Mactha stood and smiled. Taller than Errin -who 
had once been his page - he was a handsome man approaching forty 
years of age, with a carefully cut and combed forked beard. ‘Do not 
fret about a few peasants, Errin. Life is too short.’ 

‘I am thinking of my manservant, Ubadai. He has been a faithful 
companion - and he saved my life. You remember? The bear hunt, 
when my horse fell? The beast would have torn me to pieces, but 
Ubadai leapt from his horse to the bear’s back.’ 

‘A brave move, but is that not what we expect from our followers? 


Give him money and send him to Gar-aden. Now, let us move to 
happier matters. The King is coming to Mactha in the spring and I 
want you to be the Lord of the Feast.’ 

‘Thank you, my Lord. You do me great honour.’ 

‘Nonsense, Errin, you are one of the finest organizers I know. The 
worst swordsman and the finest cook!’ The Duke had chuckled, and 
Errin had bowed and left the room. 

Now, here before the fire, his heart was heavy and his mind full of 
foreboding. 

Okessa was a snake, and it would be long before Errin would forget 
the malevolence in his eyes as he had asked, ‘You know of such 
families?’ It was that alone which had saved the one-eyed Craftsman, 
Ruad Ro-fhessa. Errin would never deliver any man into the hands of 
the Lord Seer. But where did that leave him? 

Lost in thought, he did not notice Ubadai approaching. ‘Food,’ said the 
servant, placing a silver tray beside Errin’s chair. 

‘I am not hungry.’ 

Ubadai looked long into Errin’s pale face. ‘Some bad thing, hey? No 
drink. No food.’ 

‘You must leave Mactha. . . tonight. Take all Nomad servants with you 
and make for the forest. Beyond it is the sea. Get as far from the 
realm as you can.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘To stay is to die. All Nomads are to be herded to Gar-aden. It is a 
place of death, Ubadai; I can feel it. Prepare the servants.’ 

‘It is done,’ Ubadai assured him. 

Ruad adjusted the silvered mirror and stropped his shaving blade 
against the leather hanging from the wall. Satisfied with the edge, he 
wetted his face with warmed water and carefully cut away the black 
and grey stubble. 

The face he saw was one that merited a beard, he thought: a heavy, 
all-disguising beard, to cover the lantern jaw and mask the gash of a 
mouth with its crooked teeth. 

‘You are uglier now than ever,’ he told his reflection. Returning to his 
table he pushed aside the remains of his breakfast and removed the 
bronze eye-patch, polishing it with a soft cloth until it gleamed. 
Replacing it, he poured himself a goblet of apple juice and watched the 
coming dawn, the shadows shrinking back from the trees outside his 


window. 

He had been happier here than at the Citadel, for the old fortress held 
too many memories of his father. Calibal had been a stern parent to 
the son he had not wanted and the boy - ugly and awkward - could do 
nothing to please him. Every day of his youth had been spent trying to 
win his father’s love. At last he had succeeded in the Colours, proving 
himself a greater magician than Calibal; then his father’s indifference 
had turned to hatred, and he put the boy from him. Even when he was 
dying, he would not allow his son to sit by his death-bed. 

Poor Calibal, thought Ruad. Poor, lonely Calibal. 

He stood and forced the memories from his mind. For three hours he 
worked on his designs, then wandered out into the meadow beyond 
the woods to sit and enjoy the autumn sunshine. Soon the dark clouds 
would gather, the north wind howl and the blizzards cover the 
mountains with freezing ice and snow. Already the leaves were turning 
to gold, the flowers fading. 

A distant figure caught his eye, making slow progress up the hill. Ruad 
waited as Gwydion approached. 

‘Lazing in the sunshine?’ said the newcomer, his lined face red with the 
exertion of the climb, his white shoulder-length hair shining with 
sweat. 

‘You should buy yourself a horse,’ responded Ruad, rising to his feet. 
‘You’re too old for mountain walking.’ 

The old man smiled, took a deep breath and leaned on his staff. ‘I 
have not the energy to argue,’ he admitted, ‘but a glass of your apple 
juice will revive me.’ 

Ruad led him into the house and poured him a drink, while Gwydion 
sat down at the table. 

‘How is life treating you?’ the old man asked. 

‘I do not complain,’ said Ruad. ‘You?’ 

‘There is always work for a Healer - even one with fading powers.’ 

Ruad cut several slices of dark bread and a wedge of cheese, passing 
them to Gwydion. While the man ate Ruad walked to the doorway, 
scanning the road to Mactha. All was still. 

‘Okessa is seeking news of a one-eyed craftsman,’ said Gwydion as 
Ruad returned. 

‘I do not doubt it. I made a mistake.’ 

‘You gave magic to the boy, Lug?’ 


‘Yes.’ 

‘That was not wise.’ 

‘Wisdom should be tempered with compassion,’ observed Ruad. ‘Did 
you come all this way to warn me?’ 

‘Yes and no,’ replied Gwydion. ‘I would have sent a message, but there 
is a pressing matter you might help me to resolve.’ 

‘You speak of the change in the Colours?’ 

‘Then it is not all in my mind? Good,’ said Gwydion. ‘So my powers are 
not fading as fast as I believed?’ 

‘No. The Red is swelling, the other Colours fading. Green is suffering 
the worst, for it is the furthest.’ 

‘What is the cause?’ Gwydion asked. ‘I know that the Colours shift and 
dance, but never in such an extreme way. The Green is now a 
shimmering thread - I am hard pressed to heal a sick calf. ‘ 

Ruad moved to the hearth, cleared away the ash and prepared a new 
fire. ‘I do not have any answers, Gwydion. There is an imbalance; the 
Colours have lost their harmony.’ 

‘Has this, to your knowledge, happened before? I have never heard of 
such a thing.’ 

‘Nor I. Perhaps it will right itself.’ 

‘You think so?’ asked Gwydion. Ruad shrugged. ‘There is an ugly 
feeling in the air,’ whispered the old man. ‘In Mactha there have been 
three murders in the last week. There is fear, Ruad.’ 

‘It is the influence of the Red; it stirs the emotions. I have felt it too - 
an impatience, an anger, that affects my work. Lately I have been 
unable to use the Blue, so I have resorted to the Black, but even that 
is fading.’ 

The old man shivered as a cold wind blew through the open doorway. 
‘Light the fire, Ruad. These ageing bones cannot take the cold.’ 

Lifting a thick branch from the hearth, Ruad ran his fingers along its 
length. Fire leapt instantly from the wood and he thrust it into the 
prepared tinder. ‘The Red, of course, still has its uses,’ he said, adding 
fuel to the blaze. 

Gwydion grinned. ‘Not for Healing, from which I earn my meagre 
income.’ 

Ruad closed the door and pulled two chairs before the fire. Gwydion 
seated himself, holding out his hands to the dancing flames, and Ruad 


joined him. 

‘You will, of course, stay the night? You are most welcome.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Gwydion accepted. 

‘What other news have you?’ 

The Healer shivered. ‘None that is good, I fear. A traveller from 
Furbolg says the city is in the grip of terror — a killer is stalking the 
streets. So far the bodies of eleven young women have been found, 
and five young men. The King has promised to hunt down the killer, 
but as yet there is no sign of any success. Added to this are rumours 
concerning the Nomads. More than a thousand were taken to Gar-aden 
to what was described as a settlement. I have it on good authority . . 
.’ Gwydion shuddered. ‘Strange how fire does not warm me as once it 
did. Do you think I am close to death, Ruad?’ 

‘I am not a seer, my friend,’ said Ruad softly. ‘You were talking of the 
Nomads?’ 

‘There is a pit near the mountains. I am told a thousand bodies lie 
there, with room for many thousands more.’ 

‘It cannot be,’ Ruad whispered. ‘Where is the logic? Who could gain 
from such a slaughter?’ 

Gwydion said nothing for a moment, then he turned towards the 
Craftsman. ‘The King has decreed that the Nomads are tainted, that 
they corrupt the purity of the realm. He blames them for all ills. You 
have heard of the nobleman, Kester?’ 

‘I met him once: an irascible old man.’ 

‘Put to death,’ said Gwydion. ‘His grandfather wed a Nomad princess.’ 

‘I have never heard the like. Is there no opposition to the King?’ 

‘There was,’ replied Gwydion. ‘The King’s champion, the knight Elodan, 
left his service. He stood up for Kester and demanded the ancient right 
to champion his honour. The King agreed, which surprised everyone, 
for there was not a finer swordsman than Elodan anywhere in the 
empire. 

‘A great crowd assembled for the combat in the jousting fields outside 
the city. The King did not attend - but his new Knights were there, and 
it was one of these who stepped forward to face Elodan. The battle 
was fierce, but all who saw it - I am told - realized at once that Elodan 
had no chance against this new champion. The end was brutal. 
Elodan’s sword was smashed to shards and a blow to the helm sent 
him to his knees. Then the Red Knight calmly cut Elodan’s right hand 
from his arm.’ 


‘A Red Knight, you say?’ whispered Ruad. ‘Describe him.’ 

‘I was not there, Ruad. But I am told they appear only in full armour, 
their helm visors closed.’ 

‘They? How many are there?’ 

‘Eight. They are deadly. Six times now they have fought in single 
combat for the King and on each occasion a different Knight takes the 
field. But all are invincible.’ The old man shuddered. ‘What does it all 
mean, Ruad?’ 

The one-eyed Craftsman did not reply. Moving to the window, he 
pushed it shut, drawing the heavy woollen curtains to block any 
draught of cold air. 

‘Treat this house as your home,’ he told Gwydion. ‘If you are thirsty, 
drink; if you are hungry, there is food in the pantry.’ 

Ruad strode through to his workshop, opening the chest by the far wall 
and rummaging through its contents. At last he found what he was 
seeking: a gold-and silver-rimmed plate, round and black as ebony. He 
carried it to his work bench and slowly polished it with a soft cloth. 

Satisfied, he closed his eye and reached into the Colours. The Red 
almost swamped him but he rose through it, seeking the White. The 
Colours were shimmering, receding . . . the White was a slender 
ribbon now but he fastened to it, finding calm. 

His eye snapped open. Taking a curved knife from the bench he 
pricked his thumb, allowing a single drop of blood to fall to the plate. 
As it touched the ebony it disappeared, and the black plate became a 
silver mirror in which Ruad gazed down at his reflection. 

‘Ollathair,’ he said. A mist covered his image, then cleared as if a 
ghostly wind was blowing, and Ruad found himself staring down at the 
Great Hall in Furbolg. The King was seated on his throne and around 
him stood eight Knights in red armour. Ruad’s concentration 
increased; the scene grew closer still. 

The Knights’ armour was of a strange design, yet similar to the work 
he himself had designed for the Gabala. The helms were round, the 
neckrings overlapping. The shoulder-plates were perfectly fitted, but 
boasted a high collar that would stop any swinging blade from harming 
the neck. 

Suddenly, as his examination continued, the tallest of the Knights 
swung round; his head jerked up and through the visor Ruad saw a 
pair of blood-red eyes staring at him. The Knight’s sword flashed up ... 
Ruad hurled himself back from his seat as the plate exploded, shards 


of burning metal slashing the air. One thudded into the door-frame, 
smouldering into flame as Ruad rose trembling from the floor. The 
smell of burning wood hung in the air. Taking a deep breath and 
steadying himself he moved around the room stamping out the 
smouldering pieces. 

When he had finished, he returned to his seat. Gwydion entered. 

‘I am afraid to ask,’ said the old man, ‘but I must. What did you find?’ 

‘Evil,’ said Ruad. ‘And there is worse to come -much worse.’ 

‘Can it be countered?’ 

‘Not by the likes of you and me.’ 

‘Then it must be terrible indeed, if Ollathair is powerless against it.’ 

Ruad smiled. ‘I am not powerless, my friend. I am just not powerful 
enough.’ 

‘Is there any force in the world that could make you so?’ 

‘The Knights of the Gabala,’ Ruad answered. 

‘But they are gone.’ 

‘Exactly. And I have surrendered the one weapon I had.’ 

‘What weapon is that?’ asked Gwydion. 

‘Secrecy. They know who I am, and worse, where I am.’ 

Towards midnight Ruad stirred in his chair. In the back room he could 
hear Gwydion snoring and outside the autumn winds were rattling the 
window-frames. He could not recall dropping off to sleep, but he had 
awoken refreshed and now he stretched and rose. The fire was dying 
down; he thought of the old man, and his inability to take the cold. 
Stepping outside, he walked to the wood store and gathered an armful 
of logs. The night was cold and, but for the sighing of the wind, quiet. 
Three times more he carried wood to the hearth, building up the fire 
so that some warmth would remain at the dawn. 

Wide awake now, he wandered outside to the well. Just as he was 
about to lower the bucket he glimpsed a moving shadow to his left and 
stood stock still, not turning his head. Then he sat down on the well 
wall and waited. 

They came in a rush, seven swordsmen all wearing the livery of the 
Duke - a black raven, wings spread on a field of green. 

‘I need you!’ bellowed Ruad. From the rear of the house came the 
sound of wood being splintered and three golden forms bounded into 
the clearing. Shaped like hounds, yet larger than lions, they ran to 


Ruad and stood facing the armed men — jaws gaping, steel teeth 
shining in the moonlight. 

‘Good evening to you,’ said Ruad, standing to face the soldiers. 

They stood very still, gazing at their leader, a slim young man carrying 
a longsword. He licked his lips nervously, tearing his eyes from the 
golden hounds. ‘Good evening, Craftsman. We have been sent to 
escort you to Mactha.’ 

‘For what purpose?’ 

‘The Lord Seer, Okessa, has ordered your presence. I do not know his 
reason.’ 

‘But he asked you to come in the dead of night? Armed and ready for 
war?’ 

‘He said you were to be brought at once, Craftsman,’ said the young 
man, avoiding Ruad’s gaze. 

‘Return to Mactha and tell the Lord Okessa I am not subject to his 
bidding. Further, tell him I like not his method of invitation.’ 

The young man stared at the golden hounds and their slavering steel 
jaws. ‘You would be wise, Craftsman, to come with us. You will be 
declared a nothing, an outlaw.’ 

‘I think, boy, it is time for you to leave.’ Ruad knelt by the hounds, 
whispering words that the soldiers could not hear. The beasts moved 
forward, their eyes gleaming like red stars, and suddenly a ferocious 
howling came from them. As the men panicked and fled, sprinting 
down the hill, the golden hounds bounded after them, baying in the 
moonlight. 

Gwydion walked from the house to stand beside the Craftsman. 

‘How did they find you with such speed?’ 

‘I do not know; but it does not matter now. I must leave here at once.’ 

‘I will come with you - if you think I will not slow you down.’ 

Ruad grinned. ‘I would be glad of the company.’ 

‘Those hounds . . . they tore through the back of the house. How many 
of those men will get back alive?’ 

‘All of them. I did not order the hounds to kill. They will follow the men 
until they reach their horses, then they will return. Come, you can help 
me to gather my belongings. I wish to leave nothing behind me that 
can be used by the Duke or Okessa.’ 

Together the two men gathered the smaller artefacts in Ruad’s 


workshop, placing them in a large canvas bag. There were also gold 
and silver ingots hidden behind the chest and these Ruad loaded into 
two saddlebags, carrying them out on to the main porch. 

The hounds returned after an hour and stood like statues under the 
stars. 

‘Can I approach them?’ asked Gwydion. 

‘Of course; they will not harm you.’ 

The old man knelt by the lead animal, running his fingers over the 
overlapping plates of the beast’s neck. ‘This is marvellous 
workmanship. Are the eyes rubies?’ 

‘Yes. You think it overly dramatic? I had thought to make them 
emeralds, but they are scarce.’ 

‘They are perfect. I take it you cast the limbs from actual bones?’ 

‘No, I copied a design of my father’s. Hounds were his speciality. I just 
made them bigger.’ 

Ruad carried the saddlebags from the porch, draping them across the 
gleaming backs of two hounds. Then he tied the canvas bag to the 
back of the third. 

‘Wait here,’ he told Gwydion. The Craftsman returned to the house and 
the old Healer saw a bright flame spring up in the main room. Ruad 
wandered from his blazing home without a backward glance. 

‘Let us go,’ he said. The hounds silently padded alongside him. 


CHAPTER FOUR 

Lamfhada awoke, his eyes unfocused, his vision swimming. Lines ran 
above his head - dark lines, like the panelled lid of a coffin. 

‘No!’ he groaned, struggling to rise. A gentle hand pushed him back, 
and soothing words calmed him. His head rolled on the pillow and he 
saw a young woman with dark brown eyes who stroked his brow. 

‘Rest,’ she whispered. ‘You are safe. Safe. Rest. I am with you.’ 

When his eyes opened again he saw that the lines were timbers, 
supported by a central beam. He turned his head, hoping the young 
woman was close by. Instead he saw a man sitting by his bed, a 
handsome man in a sky-blue shirt; he had long, shoulder-length hair 
and was beardless; his eyes were violet. He smiled as he saw 
Lamfhada looking at him. 

‘Welcome back to the world, my friend.’ The voice was soft and almost 
musical. ‘I am Nuada. I found you in the forest.’ 

‘You saved me,’ Lamfhada whispered. 

‘Not quite; there was another man with me. How do you feel?’ 

‘My back is sore.’ Lamfhada licked his lips. ‘Thirsty,’ he said. 

Nuada brought him a cup of water, supporting his head as he drank. 
‘You were struck by an arrow which lodged deep. You have been in a 
fever for five days but Arian says you will live.’ Nuada spoke on, but 
sleep once more overcame the youth and he dreamt of golden birds 
flying around the sun. 

He awoke during a storm, hearing the shutters on the windows rattling 
and the rain pounding on the slanted roof. This time there was another 
man beside his bed - yellow-haired, with a red-gold beard and eyes 
the colour of storm-clouds. 

‘It is time you roused yourself, boy,’ the man told him. ‘You are 
costing me dear.’ 

‘Costing?’ 

‘You think Arian and her mother do this for love? Much more time in 
bed and I will be penniless.’ 

‘I am sorry,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Truly. I will repay.’ 

‘With what? I have already sold your dagger.’ 

‘Leave him be, Llaw,’ said a voice and Lamfhada saw a middle-aged 
woman come into view. ‘He’s not ready yet; it will be days before he 


can rise. Get out with you!’ 


‘Into the storm? Your charity fails to impress me. And the food smells 
too good to miss.’ 
‘Then behave.’ The woman came to the bedside and rested a calloused 


hand on Lamfhada’s brow. ‘Good, the fever is passing.’ She leaned 
over the youth and smiled. ‘You will be weak for a few days, but your 
strength will return.’ 


‘Thank you, lady. Where is ... the other woman?’ 


‘Arian is hunting. She will not be back tonight; she will have taken 
shelter from the storm. But you will see her tomorrow.’ 
‘A few more days,’ snapped Llaw. ‘Already he is thinking of a pretty 


face. Put some broth into him and I’ll wager he’ll proposition her.’ 


‘Why should he not?’ replied the woman, grinning. ‘Every other man 
has - but for you, Llaw Gyffes.’ 
‘I have no need of a woman,’ he said, and reddened as she laughed. 
Lamfhada slept again. 
The storm had passed by the time he woke. He seemed to remember 


being fed, but the memory was hazy and his hunger was great. He sat 
up, but winced as a sharp pain pulled at his back. The young woman 
was kneeling by the hearth, striking flint against iron to light the tinder 
in the grate. Lamfhada watched as a thin spiral of smoke rewarded her 
efforts and, bending over the hearth, Arian blew the fire to life. He 
found himself staring at her hips, and the stretched buckskin trews she 
wore. 


‘It is rude to stare,’ she said, without turning. 
‘How did you know I was staring?’ 
‘The bed creaked as you sat up.’ With the fire lit she rose smoothly 


and walked to his bedside, pulling up a chair. Her hair was honey-gold, 
her eyes deep brown, her mouth full, her smile an enchantment. 
‘Well?’ she asked. 
‘Well, what?’ he stammered. 
‘Am I fit for market?’ 
‘I don’t understand.’ 
‘You are staring at me as you would a prize cow.’ 
He looked away. ‘Forgive me. I am not usually rude.’ 
She laughed and took his hand. ‘And I am not usually so easily 



offended. I am Arian. You?’ 
‘Lu . . . Lamfhada.’ 
‘Are you sure? There seems to be some confusion.’ 
‘I am sure. I was called Lug, but I gave myself a good name - a man’s 


name.’ 


‘Very wise. Lug does not suit such a pretty face. Why did you run 
away?’ 
‘I was sold to the Duke. I thought it was better to run. Where am I?’ 
‘In the Forest of the Ocean. Llaw Gyffes brought you to my mother. 


You nearly died. He should not have pulled the arrow out; you almost 
bled to death.’ 

‘I do not know why he saved me. I seem to be causing him trouble.’ 
‘Do not concern yourself with Llaw; he is a contrary man and few 
people understand him. What are your talents?’ 


‘I can cook . . . clean - and I have skill with horses. I play the flute.’ 
‘Can you hunt? Make clothing, fashion wood?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Can you work clay?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘What about herbs? Would you recognize amarian or desarta?’ 
‘I’m afraid not,’ the young man admitted. 
‘Then life will be difficult for you, Lamfhada. It would seem you are 


about as useful as a dead sparrow.’ 
‘I can learn. Will you teach me?’ 
‘You think I have nothing better to do?’ 
‘Of course you have. But will you?’ 
‘We will see. Are you hungry?’ 
‘Ravenous!’ he admitted. She brought him some cold venison and 


cheese, then gathered her bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘Where are you 


going?’ 
She looked at him and smiled. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said, holding up 
the bow. ‘I’m going to pick flowers!’ 


After she had gone, Lamfhada pulled back the blanket and eased 
himself from the bed. He looked around for his clothes, and padded 


across to the hearth. His trews lay across the back of a chair and he 
slipped them on; his shirt was hanging on a hook by the far wall and 
he saw that someone had expertly sewn the hole made by the arrow. 
Once dressed, he sat down by the fire; his legs felt weak and 
unsteady. He added wood to the blaze and sat quietly, thinking of the 
terror of his flight and the sudden hammer-blow as the arrow struck 
his back. 

He had been saved by Llaw Gyffes, the man he had come to join, but as 
Arian had pointed out - he had little to offer the rebel leader. He felt 
suddenly foolish and, worse, useless. The door opened and a blast of 
cold air touched him. 

‘How the young recover,’ said Nuada. ‘Good morning to you!’ 

Lamfhada smiled. ‘I remember you . . . like a dream. You were sitting 
by my bed. Nuada, isn’t it?’ 

‘It is.-I can see you’re feeling stronger, but you shouldn’t overstretch 
yourself. You really were extremely ill. Arian tells me you are called 
Lamfhada. A good name. A Gabala Knight, no less - one of the first, I 
think.’ 

‘Yes, so I am told. Are you a rebel?’ 

Nuada chuckled. ‘You know, I think that I am. But I fear I will strike no 
terror in the hearts of the King’s soldiers. Saga poets are rarely 
swordsmen.’ 

‘You are a poet?’ 

Nuada bowed and sat down beside the youth. ‘I am. Probably the best 
in the realm.’ 

‘Do you know many stories?’ 

‘Hundreds. When you are feeling better you must come to the hall. I 
perform there every night. I have become famous here and men travel 
from settlements all over the forest to hear me. If they had any 
money, I would be rich.’ 

Tell me of the Gabala Knights.’ 

‘A rather wide area, covering two hundred years. Could you not be 
more specific? The tale of Lamfhada, perhaps?’ 

‘Tell me of Ollathair,’ said Lamfhada. 

‘Ah, a student of modern history,’ commented Nuada. ‘Do you know 
the origins of the Knights?’ 

‘No, not really. Weren’t they rebels at one time?’ 


‘Not quite. The Order was formed in 921 by the then King, Albaras. 
They were judges; there were nine of them and they travelled the land 
adjudicating on disputes in the name of the King. But in 970, during 
the War of the Rebellion, they saved the King from execution and 
spirited him away to Cithaeron. When he returned in triumph in 976, 
he granted the Knights lands for a Citadel and freed them from the 
jurisdiction of monarchs. They were still judges and they travelled the 
nine Duchies of the realm. They were the arbiters, scrupulously fair. As 
the years passed, the Order gained more rules. No wealth, for that 
could lead to corruption. Wives were forbidden to the Gabala Knights, 
for families could be threatened in order to extort favourable decisions. 
It was an honour to be chosen, but the price was high.’ 

‘But what of Ollathair?’ Lamfhada asked. 

‘Patience, boy. The Knights were chosen by the Armourer. When one 
died, or was killed, the Armourer would travel the lands to find a 
successor.’ 

‘Why the Armourer? Was he not a servant?’ 

‘The Armourer was the Father of the Order. He supplied not only the 
magic armour they wore, but also the spiritual armour. He alone could 
command the Gabala. Ollathair was the last Armourer.’ 

‘What happened to the Knights?’ 

‘No one truly knows. But the King sent a messenger to Samildanach, 
the Lord Knight, requesting a special favour. It is said that his request 
took the Knights to a world of demons, where they battle still for the 
good of the Realm. I do not know what became of them. It was the 
first year of the new King’s reign. Perhaps he had them poisoned, for 
they ruled against him in several disputes. Or perhaps they were killed 
by assassins. Perhaps they fled to another land. Whatever their fate, 
the Armourer Ollathair was taken by the King’s men and imprisoned. 
He died in Furbolg. Why the interest in a dead sorcerer?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Lamfhada lied. ‘It just interests me.’ 

‘The Realm could do with them now - the Knights I mean,’ said Nuada. 

‘Just what we need,’ agreed Llaw Gyffes sardonically, pushing shut the 
door behind him and walking to the fire. ‘A handful of Knights in pretty 
armour! I am sure they would sway the King.’ 

‘They were more than Knights,’ said Nuada, ‘and greater than heroes. 
Do not mock them.’ 

Llaw warmed his hands before the fire. ‘You poets never see reality, do 
you? Everything is part of some great Romance. You came here 


looking for a rebel leader and found only an outlawed blacksmith. That 
is reality. The Knights were just men, and they knew greed and lust 
and despair just like all of us. Don’t make gods of them, Nuada.’ 

‘I’ll agree to that, Llaw Gyffes. But do not make fools of them either, 
for they were all better men than you.’ 

‘That is not difficult,’ Llaw agreed, slapping Nuada on the shoulder. 
‘But I am alive, when many better men are dead. And I will remain so 

- by looking after my own interests and leaving the heroics to you and 
your sagas.’ 
The Once-Knight rode up the hill, dismounting before the charred 
remains of the house of Ollathair. The stallion, Kuan, stood nervous 
and afraid; as the acrid smoke swirled to his flaring nostrils, he 
whinnied and backed away. The Once-Knight stroked the stallion’s 
neck. 

‘It’s all right, Greatheart. It is only the ruins of a house; there is no 
harm here. Wait for me.’ Carefully he picked his way through the 
embers, searching for any sign of a body. But there was nothing. 

Returning to the stallion, he loosened the saddle cloth and lifted his 
food sack from the pommel. There was precious little left: three 
honeycakes and a canvas bag of oats. He fed one of the cakes to Kuan 
and ate the other two. Then he drew water from the well and drank, 
leaving the bucket for the stallion to slake his thirst. 

Ollathair was gone. Taken by the armed men? He doubted it. Would 
they have destroyed the house? Perhaps. But there was no sign of a 
struggle. He saw tracks close to the well and knelt by them. Paw-
marks, deep and sharp. Lions? Here, so close to a town? He stood and 
followed the tracks for a little way. Men running, slipping and sliding 
down the hill, the beasts bounding after them. He grinned, then 
laughed aloud, but this increased the pressure on his throat and he 
calmed himself. The beasts had padded back to the house, where two 
men had stood. The Once-Knight knelt again. The paw-marks suddenly 
became deeper. He thought for a moment, then noticed that some of 
the boot-marks coming from the house were deep also. Ollathair had 
loaded the lions with packs and set off towards the forested mountains 
. . . four, maybe five hours ago. 

Kuan whinnied, his head turning towards the trail to the town. The 
Once-Knight stood and saw a party of riders galloping towards the 
gutted house. Swiftly he dragged his foot over the tracks; then he 
tightened Kuan’s saddle cinch and mounted, leading the stallion 
forward to disturb the ground still further. 

As the riders neared, he saw they were all wearing breastplates 


bearing a painted raven on the chest. There were some fifteen men in 
the party. 

‘Good day to you,’ said the Once-Knight. 

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded a lean, hawk-faced man. 

‘I saw the smoke and wondered if anyone needed help. I take it you 
are upon the same business?’ 

‘My business is none of your concern. Who are you?’ 

‘I, sir, am a man of manners,’ the Once-Knight replied, ‘and ill suited 
to conversation with men of no breeding.’ 

The riders sat very quietly, waiting for a response from their captain. 
His face burned red and his dark eyes narrowed as he heeled his 
mount forward. 

‘It ill becomes a stranger to insult an officer of the Duke. Apologize, 
sir, or I shall be forced to deal with you.’ 

The Once-Knight leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. ‘When 
last I met the Duke, he had won the Silver Lance for his prowess on 
the jousting field. I recall him saying that a gentleman should learn 
three things: honour, that he might bring it to his name; 
swordsmanship, so that none could take his honour from him; and 
humility, so that he could always see where honour lay.’ 

‘You are a friend of the Duke?’ 

‘I am the man he beat in the tourney - but then I was always better 
with the sword than with the lance.’ 

The captain thought for a moment, then came to a swift decision. ‘My 
apologies, sir, if my words caused offence, but we are hunting an 
outlaw and the Duke has charged me with his capture.’ 

‘Your apology is accepted - and allow me to offer my own. I have 
travelled far and I fear my temper is short. Tell me, do you seek a 
heavy-set man, travelling with three large beasts?’ 

‘I do indeed, sir. Have you seen him?’ 

‘About two hours ago, that way,’ answered the Once-Knight, pointing 
away from the forest. ‘I thought the creatures might be lions, but I did 
not see them closely.’ 

‘My thanks to you, sir Knight. Are you heading for Mactha? The Duke is 
in residence, and I am sure he would be delighted to see you again.’ 

‘I think perhaps I will. Good luck in your hunt.’ 

As the riders thundered away, the Once-Knight tugged on the reins 


and touched his heels to Kuan’s side. The forest was maybe two hours’ 
ride, and with luck he would find Ollathair before nightfall. 

As he rode, he remembered his joust with the Duke. The man was a 
skilled horseman and a deadly lancer. Had the tips of the weapons not 
been covered with wooden plugs, the lance would have pierced his 
heart; even so, he had endured the pain of two cracked ribs. It was a 
shame the man’s character was not as well honed as his skills. The 
Duke had not uttered the words he credited him with - these had been 
said by the Lord Knight Samildanach, as a reproof to the Duke. 

The Once-Knight grinned as he thought of Samildanach: a true Knight, 
and a man of great humility. Had the Duke found the temerity to 
challenge Samildanach, the outcome would have been considerably 
different. 

Memories of his friend flooded back, filling him with sadness . . . 

Samildanach riding to the joust against the King of Cithaeron’s 
champion, or in single combat against the rebel Duke of Tarain, or 
leading the prayers at the Citadel, or dancing with Morrigan at the 
Feast of Souls. There never was a better Knight of the Gabala, he 
thought. Or a better friend. 

‘I am sorry I betrayed you,’ murmured the Once-Knight. 

Furious when the report of the escape of Errin’s Nomad servants was 
brought to him, Okessa took the news to the Duke and demanded 
Errin’s arrest. The Duke in turn berated Errin, but accepted his 
assurance that his servants had run away, stealing some two hundred 
Raq in gold in the process. 

‘You are a dreadful fool, Errin,’ said the Duke. ‘But then you have 
always believed the best of people. Now I you see, do you not, that 
these people cannot be trusted?’ 

‘Indeed I do, my Lord. I curse myself for my stupidity.’ 

‘It cannot be helped. Okessa would like you hanged, but it is one 
pleasure I shall deny him. After all, where would I find another Lord of 
the Feast? And who would prepare the swans cooked in wine?’ 

Errin smiled. ‘And the quail, my Lord.’ 

‘Indeed, the quail. Far more simple to acquire another Lord Seer! By 
the way, one of the King’s Knights will be here some time today, to 
finalize the arrangements for the visit. Make him welcome, would you?’ 

‘Of course, my Lord,’ Errin answered, bowing and leaving the room. 
Okessa was waiting in the hallway; his eyes shone with malice and 
sweat gleamed on his bald pate. 


‘Do not think,’ he hissed, ‘that you fool me. You conspired to allow 
those Nomads to escape justice -just as you did not tell me about 
Ruad Ro-fhessa. But you will fall, Lord Errin, and I will spit upon your 
grave!’ 

‘What a charmless man you are, Okessa. And as for this Ruad, do not 
forget that I came to you concerning Ollathair. How was I to know that 
he was alive and living in the Duchy under another name? You are said 
to be a Seer. Surely you should have been able to find him? Or are 
your powers fading?’ 

Okessa smiled. ‘We will see, Lord Errin. I cast your horoscope this 
morning. In five days your life will face a critical time - so critical that 
you might not survive. How does that please you?’ 

Errin swallowed hard and tried to force a smile, but it did not fool 
Okessa, who chuckled and stalked away. Errin lifted a trembling hand 
to his face. He was angry with himself for showing fear, but he knew 
Okessa would not have lied to him. What would be his purpose? No, 
Errin was sentenced to death. How would it come? Poison? 
Suffocation? A fall? A stray arrow? 

His first urge was to run to his home and flee to Furbolg; he had 
friends there. But what would the Duke make of his flight? No, he was 
trapped. He wished Ubadai was close. The little Nomad had a nose for 
trouble and would die to protect him. Not that Errin wanted anyone to 
die for him, but it was pleasant to know that Ubadai was asleep 
outside his door. If an ant broke wind in the meadow outside, the 
Nomad would be instantly awake. Without him Errin felt isolated and 
vulnerable. 

That night he slept badly, his door barred, the windows shuttered and 
locked. In the morning he bathed and dressed in a green tunic of 
eastern silk embroidered with gold thread, soft boots and a cape of 
yellow-dyed wool edged with the softest leather. Okessa’s threat 
seemed less dreadful on this bright morning, and with the King’s 
Knight due the Lord Seer was unlikely to risk an assassination. Errin 
was determined to make a fine impression on the Knight; as matters 
stood, he needed all the friends he could get. 

It was sunset before the Knight arrived, and Errin was relieved when 
the guard on the watch-tower signalled a rider approaching. Errin and 
the Duke hurried down to the gate to greet him. The Knight wore 
crimson armour and rode a great black stallion of some seventeen 
hands. The rider’s visor was down, and the sun was setting behind him 
as he made his slow progress to the castle gate where he drew to a 
halt under the portcullis. 


‘Welcome, sir Knight,’ said the Duke. 


‘My horse is to be stabled alone,’ said the Knight, his voice muffled by 
the helm. ‘No other beast must be present.’ 
‘Of course,’ said the Duke, nonplussed, turning to Errin who whispered 


instructions to a sentry. The man ran off to warn the ostler. 


‘We have a fine feast for you,’ said the Duke. ‘It will be ready within 
the hour. And there are rooms prepared in the north tower.’ 
The Knight dismounted. ‘Where is the stable?’ 
‘Errin,’ said the Duke, biting back his anger, ‘show the King’s 


messenger to the stable. I will see you both in the great hall.’ 


As the Duke departed, Errin approached the Knight. ‘Was your journey 
arduous?’ 
‘The stable, if you please.’ 
‘Certainly. Follow me.’ Errin led the Knight across the square and into 


the stable yard, where the other horses were being led away. As the 
stranger entered the yard leading the stallion, several horses began to 
whinny and rear. Their handlers fought to control them, but the 
Knight’s horse remained motionless, its head still. 


‘He is well trained,’ said Errin. 
The Red Knight did not reply but walked past Errin, leading his horse. 


Errin reached up to pat the beast’s back but his hand recoiled as it 
touched the flesh of the creature’s flank; it was cold as ice. 
Inside the stable the Knight unsaddled the stallion and led him into a 


stall. The horse stood silently, ignoring the feed box. 
‘There are blankets close by. I’ll have them fetched,’ said Errin. 
‘There is no need.’ 
‘I beg to differ, sir Knight. The horse is cold.’ 
The Red Knight swung on Errin. ‘Do not touch him again. I do not like 


to see others place their hands upon what is mine.’ 
‘As you please,’ said Errin. ‘What is your name?’ 
‘I am the King’s messenger. You, I take it, are Errin, the Lord of the 


Feast?’ 
‘I am.’ 
‘Show me to my rooms. And have a woman brought to me ... a young 


woman.’ 
‘With respect, sir Knight, I am not a procurer of women. There are 



many inns in Mactha, and many women who sell their services. I 
would suggest you attend to the Duke and then make your way there 
after the Feast of Welcome.’ 

The Knight stood silently for a moment. ‘You are quite right, Errin,’ he 
said at last. ‘I am tired after my journey, and my . . . manners are 
lacking.’ 

‘Think nothing of it, sir. Let me show you to your rooms,’ replied Errin 
coolly. 

In the main room a fire blazed and a hip-bath had been filled with 
warmed, scented water. Errin left the Knight to prepare himself and 
rejoined the Duke in the great hall. 

‘What a humourless, mannerless dolt!’ stormed the Duke. ‘Is the King 
trying to insult me, do you think?’ 

‘I would think not, my Lord. The King has always held you in high 
esteem — and quite rightly. Perhaps the Knight is tired; he did 
apologize to me at the stable.’ 

‘Yes - and that’s another matter. His horse is to be stabled alone! Is 
this a prince among horses?’ 

‘It is.a strange beast, my Lord. When the other horses were being led 
away, they seemed terrified of it. I think that is what he was thinking 
of.’ 

‘Well, his attitude will not do, Errin. I am of a mind to write to the King 
about him.’ 

‘Might I suggest - respectfully — that you suspend judgement until we 
have seen him again? The King obviously favours and trusts him.’ 

‘Wise words, Errin. But he would do well to show good manners this 
time.’ 

‘I am sure that he will, my Lord.’ 

As he spoke, the Crimson Knight came into view at the top of the 
staircase. He was still in full armour, but had removed his helm. His 
face was ivory pale and extraordinarily beautiful, his hair white and 
cropped close to his skull. He seemed in his early twenties. Errin 
moved forward, greeting him with a smile. Seen closer he looked older 

- perhaps thirty, perhaps more. The Knight bowed; his eyes were dark 
and bloodshot and he seemed weary beyond words. 
‘Are you well, sir?’ Errin asked. 
‘Well enough, Lord Errin.’ 
‘Your armour will wear you down. Tonight is a time for feasting and 



dancing.’ 

‘I do not dance. I am here to inspect the Duchy on behalf of the King. 
Dancing I leave to others. But do not concern yourself about my 
armour; it never leaves me. That is part of an oath I have sworn.’ 

‘I see,’ said Errin. ‘Tell me your name, sir, so that we may introduce 
you?’ 

The Knight hesitated for a moment, then responded with a swift, 
almost shy, smile. ‘My name is... Cairbre.’ 

Errin, resplendent in hose and doublet of blue silk shot with silver, sat 
at the Duke’s left hand during the Feast of Welcome, the Red Knight 
taking his place on the Duke’s right. There were some thirty of the 
Duke’s retainers present at the great square table, nobles all, from 
minor gentlemen of the Duchy to Knights of the Order. Errin had 
surpassed himself and the food, as all agreed, was exquisite: giant 
mushrooms, filled with minced beef and coated with Northern Duchy 
cheese; ten roast swans; honeyed ham, spiced beef and cakek of 
surpassing sweetness. But Errin noticed that the Knight scarcely 
touched his food, and asked for water to replace the wine he was 
served. 

The Duke grew more ill at ease during the feast and was unable to 
draw his guest into any lengthy conversation. Finally he gave up 
altogether and turned his attention to Errin. 

‘Splendidly organized! Fit for a king,’ said the Duke, wiping sweat from 
his brow with a scented handkerchief. 

‘I can assure you that the King’s feast will be even finer, my lord. In 
the spring there will be many other delights which, sadly, the autumn 
denies us.’ 

As the slaves cleared away the dishes, Errin clapped his hands and 
rose. 

The guests fell silent. ‘Friends, the Duke hopes you have enjoyed the 
meal, and now asks that you make your way to the Narrow Hall where 
musicians are waiting for the dances to begin.’ 

As the guests filed away a flute began to play in the Narrow Hall, 
joined by a harp. The sound was lilting and light, and the Duke’s mood 
changed. 

‘By heavens, Errin, is that Corius playing?’ 

‘It is, my Lord. I took the liberty of requesting his presence for the 
evening.’ 

‘The man charges a fortune!’ 


‘I hope you will accept his performance as a gift, sir.’ 

The Duke bowed his head. ‘You have outdone yourself. Well done!’ 
Turning to the Red Knight, he said, ‘I overheard you tell Errin you did 
not dance. Would you prefer to retire?’ 

‘I will watch the dancing,’ said the Knight, rising. Errin followed him 
into the hall, where many couples were now engaged in the Dance of 
the Winter Sun. The music was merry and Errin saw Dianu dancing 
with the young knight, Goan. Her dark hair was bound with silver 
thread and she wore a dress of shimmering white silk. 

‘I think,’ said the Knight, ‘that you would prefer to dance rather than 
to stand with such a sombre guest.’ The ghost of a smile touched his 
lips as he spoke. 

Errin grinned. ‘That is the woman I hope to marry.’ 

‘Then lead her to the music, sir.’ 

Errin needed no second invitation. Moving smoothly across the hall to 
the dancers, he tapped Goan on the shoulder. ‘Goan, my dear fellow, 
would you introduce the King’s messenger to the other guests?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Errin took Dianu’s arm and led her into the dance. When 
the music stopped he took her to the rear of the hall, where slaves 
were stationed carrying silver trays on which were goblets of light, 
white wine. Errin took one and passed it to his companion. 

‘You are looking exceedingly beautiful this evening,’ he told her. 

‘I only came because you asked me,’ said Dianu. ‘What do you know of 
that strange young man with the white hair?’ 

‘His name is Cairbre. I know nothing of him, save that he is the King’s 
messenger.’ 

‘His face is very sad.’ 

‘These are sad times,’ he whispered. ‘Come, let us seek some air.’ 

They left unnoticed through a side door and mounted the steps to a 
small chamber, where Errin had ordered a fire lit. The room was warm, 
the window open. Dianu wandered to it, staring out over the town of 
Mactha and its twinkling lights. 

‘I am leaving for Cithaeron,’ she said. 

‘Leaving? But why?’ 

She turned suddenly. ‘Oh, Errin, don’t be such a fool! The King is 
murdering Nomads, the kingdom is falling ever more deeply in debt. 


Every day there are stories of unrest, of murder and robbery. Where 
will it end?’ 

He moved to her and led her from the window. ‘Best not to speak of 
such things where you can be overheard,’ he said, keeping his voice 
low. ‘But Furbolg is a long way away, and in Mactha we do not suffer.’ 

‘We do not suffer. But there are food shortages in the countryside and 
winter is not yet here. It is all right for the nobility, with its roast 
swans. But swans will not feed a nation, Errin.’ 

‘I had hoped we could be married at Midwinter,’ he said. ‘Are you 
saying the marriage will not take place?’ 

She took his hand and kissed it. ‘Of course I am not saying that. I love 
you. But we could be married in Cithaeron?’ 

Errin shook his head. ‘You cannot leave without the King’s blessing,’ he 
said, ‘and he will not give it. The Duke was telling me that seven noble 
families have secretly left the realm, taking their riches with them. 
They have been branded traitors and their lands forfeited. This is your 
home, Dianu. Do you want to live the rest of your life in a foreign land, 
hated and despised by your countrymen?’ 

‘You do not see as I see,’ she answered sadly. ‘There is evil here, 
Errin. Real, terrible evil, waiting to engulf all of us. The King is mad 
and surrounded by madmen. Did the death of Kester not trouble you? 
A fine man. A noble man. Put to death for having a Nomad 
grandmother? Sweet Heaven, Errin! Why do you not see?’ 

Pulling her to him, he kissed her face. ‘I do see,’ he told her. ‘These 
are dangerous times. But they will pass ... we can ride out the storm.’ 

She pushed him from her. ‘It is not enough to ride out the storm. I am 
leaving here in two days; all the arrangements are made. My father, 
rest his soul, had many contacts in Cithaeron and I have transferred 
funds through the merchant, Cartain. All that is left here is the palace 

- and I can live without that.’ 
‘All that is left here?’ he said softly. ‘You will leave me here, Dianu . . . 
and I cannot leave.’ 
For a long moment she looked into his eyes, saying nothing. 
‘It is your choice,’ she said at last. 
‘I know that,’ he answered, backing away. ‘May fortune follow you.’ 
He turned swiftly, opened the door and made his way to the Narrow 


Hall. The music was faster now, punctuated by the laughter of the 
dancers as they swept into the furious pace of the Dance of the Storm. 
Unnoticed, Errin passed through the double doors and out into the 


night. 


CHAPTER FIVE 

Arian ran smoothly up the game trail - her stride long, her footing 
sure. Every evening the deer travelled this trail, but these she never 
hunted for they were too close to the settlement. As her father had 
warned her during her training, ‘When you are fit and strong, hunt far 
from home. You never know when disaster may strike -a sudden 
blizzard, or a lame leg — and you may come to need the meat you 
allowed to live. But hunt within sight of the settlement and you will 
drive the game far from you.’ 

He had been a good man and a better father, until the wasting disease 
hit him. It had been hard watching his strength melt from his bones, 
despite all his wife’s skills. As the end drew near Arian’s mother 
prepared him a goblet of wine mixed with foxglove. He had died 
peacefully and the two women had wept together beside his corpse. 

Arian’s mind dwelt on that image as she ran - and she did not see the 
slender wire, taut across her path. Hitting it with her lead leg, she 
tumbled to the trail and instantly three men raced from the trees. 
Dropping her bow Arian reached for her hunting-knife, but a diving 
body struck the air from her lungs and coarse hands held her down. 

‘Well, now,’ said the man sitting astride her and pressing a grimy hand 
to her breast. ‘What have we here?’ She felt hands tearing at her 
trews and kicked out. The man above her slapped her viciously across 
the cheek. ‘Watched you for days, we have,’ he said, casually hitting 
her with his other hand. ‘Watched you and wanted you. Beg, will you? 
Beg Grian to spare you?’ 

Arching her neck, she spat in Grian’s face. Another casual blow 
snapped her head back to the ground. He ripped open her shirt and 
gazed down at her body; his face was round and brutal, his mouth 
open, showing blackened teeth. 

‘You pack of whoresons!’ came a voice and the man above Arian 
stiffened and turned. 

Standing at the centre of the trail was a hooded man in a black cloak. 
The sun was behind him and his face was hidden. Two of the men 
pulled knives from their belts and Grian also drew a knife, but 
remained kneeling on the stunned girl. 

The hooded man threw his cloak back over his shoulders. His right arm 
ended at the wrist, the stump covered by a black leather cap laced 
along his arm. And he carried no weapons. Grian smiled and stood. 

‘You picked the wrong time and the wrong place, cripple,’ he said, 


advancing. ‘You are dead — food for maggots!’ 

Grian’s two companions eased out to the newcomer’s left and .right, 
but he did not move back. Instead he stepped forward. The attacker to 
his left leapt for him with knife arm extended. The cripple swayed back 
and the knife flashed by him. At the same moment his elbow 
hammered into the attacker’s throat and he staggered, his face 
turning blue. Then he slumped, dying, to his knees, his fingers 
scrabbling at his throat. As the second knifeman charged in the 
hooded man spun on his heel and leapt, his booted foot thundering 
into the man’s jaw. The knifeman’s neck cracked like a dry stick. The 
hooded man landed lightly and turned back to Grian. 

‘You won’t take me with your fancy tricks,’ Grian snarled. 

‘No, I won’t,’ said the man softly. 

Grian stepped forward. Arian’s knife entered his lower back, driving up 
through his lungs and into his heart. A strangled cry escaped him as 
he fell face down in the earth. 

Arian found her trews and pulled them on. The laces were cut, but she 
roughly fastened them. When she looked back the stranger was sitting 
on a tree-trunk with his face turned from her. Gathering her bow, she 
moved to him. 

‘My thanks, for your gallantry.’ 

He pushed back his hood and she saw a square face and deep brown 
eyes. He was not handsome, but he radiated strength. He smiled and 
became handsome. 

‘It was not gallant, it was merely necessary. Are you hurt?’ 

‘Only my pride. I should have seen their trap.’ 

‘It is only from such mistakes that we learn. How are you called?’ 

‘I am Arian.’ 

He nodded and rose. He was a head taller than Arian, which made him 
tall indeed. ‘Is your home close by?’ he asked. 

‘About an hour to the west.’ 

‘May I escort you there?’ 

‘There is no need,’ she told him, reddening. 

‘No offence was intended, Arian. It is just that I am hungry, and a 
meal would not be unpleasant.’ 

‘You have not told me your name.’ 

‘I am Elodan.’ 


She looked into his dark eyes and kept the pity from her own. ‘The 
King’s champion?’ 


‘Once upon a time. Shall we go?’ 
‘You really should not walk in the forest un . . . without weapons. It is 
not safe,’ she said. 


‘No, I will be more careful,’ he told her with a wry smile. She looked 


back at the bodies and grinned. 
‘There are some larger bands of wolfsheads - and despite your skill, 
you are no match for a bowman.’ 


‘Indeed I am not.’ Together they set off down the trail, Arian leading. 
After a while she looked back at him. ‘You are very quiet,’ she said. 
‘I was thinking.’ 
‘What about?’ 
‘Are you married?’ he asked. 
‘No. Why do you ask?’ 
‘Merely to make conversation. How old are you?’ 
‘Seventeen. And you?’ 
‘Older than time.’ He chuckled. ‘At least, it feels like it sometimes.’ 
‘You don’t look more than thirty.’ 


‘As I said, older than time - to a seventeen-year-old.’ 
Waking with a sore head and a stomach that seemed to be on wheels, 
Errin groaned and rolled to his side. The empty flagon of wine lay in 
pieces where he had hurled it at dawn. He opened his eyes slowly and 
groaned again as he remembered the events of the previous evening. 
Dianu was going away. He could not quite believe it, yet he knew her 
well enough to realize that she meant what she said. He decided to 
ride to her palace later in the afternoon. 


His new manservant, Boran, entered silently. ‘Your bath is ready, my 
Lord,’ he said. 
‘For pity’s sake, don’t shout,’ Errin told him. 


‘I hear it was a good feast, sir.’ 
Errin looked up at the balding servant, taking in his tanned healthy 
face and his sickeningly clear eyes. ‘I feel that if I blink too quickly I 
will bleed to death,’ he said. 


‘The bath will revive you, my Lord, and the Council meets in an hour.’ 



Errin flopped back on his pillows and pulled the blankets over his head. 
Boran sighed, cleared away the broken flagon, opened the velvet 
curtains and left the room. Alone once more, Errin sat up. The Council 
of Nobles was a deadly dull affair and usually no more than three or 
four of them turned up for the meeting. ‘ But today was different. 
Today the Red Knight, Cairbre, would be present, along with the Lord 
Seer, Okessa. Everyone would be there, vying to show their loyalty to 
the King. 

‘A pox on it,’ said Errin, sliding from the bed and walking through to 
the outer room and his steaming bath. The water was rose-scented, 
which Errin had never liked, and Ubadai had never forgotten that. But 
Boran was new and had yet to learn his master’s tastes. Errin walked 
down the marble steps and splashed into the bath. After a few minutes 
Boran entered with his robe and the nobleman stepped into it. ‘How do 
my eyes look?’ he asked the servant. Boran peered at him. 

‘Bloodshot, sir. In fact you do not look well.’ 

‘You should see them from this side. What shall I wear?’ 

‘After the meeting, the Duke has arranged a hunt, so I have laid out 
your riding outfit.’ 

‘The black leather with silver trim?’ 

‘No, sir, the red.’ 

‘Make it the black. I’ll leave the red to the Duke’s guest.’ 

‘Yes, sir. Might I suggest some breakfast, sir?’ 

‘No,’ said Errin, shuddering as his mobile stomach heaved. 

‘You may be glad of it while bouncing up and down on a horse.’ 

‘Bouncing? One doesn’t bounce, Boran. One rides.’ 

‘Indeed, my Lord. Perhaps a little dry bread?’ Errin nodded and walked 
through to his bedroom, waiting while Boran fetched his clothes. The 
trews were fashionably cut from soft black leather, ending at the calf. 
Over these Errin pulled a pair of knee-length black boots. His tunic was 
of wool, black and unadorned, while his riding coat was of black 
leather, double-shouldered and trimmed with silver thread. 

‘You will need a cloak, sir; there is a vicious wind.’ 

‘I’ll take the black one, with the sheepskin lining and the hood.’ 

‘It needs to be oiled, sir. I will have it ready after the meeting.’ 

After breaking his fast with bread and a little cheese, Errin walked 
across the courtyard to the main hall. Some membeis of the Council 


were already inside, waiting to be summoned through to the inner 
chambers. 

‘Good morning, Lord Errin,’ said a portly man dressed in riding clothes 
of green velvet. Sweat shone on his brow. 

‘It is pleasant to see you, Lord Porteron. I missed you at the feast.’ 

‘Yes, yes. I had work to attend to. I am told it was a fine affair.’ 

‘Yes,’ agreed Errin, turning to greet a newcomer. ‘Lord Delaan, good 
morning. You look wonderfully refreshed considering your exertions on 
the dance floor.’ 

The slim young man in the brown tunic grinned. ‘Youth, my dear Errin. 
My, my, you do look a little frail.’ 

‘I guarantee that I look better than I feel. You know Lord Porteron?’ 

‘Of course. How are you, sir?’ 

‘I am well. Very well. Couldn’t be better.’ 

During the next few minutes the other lords and knights made their 
entrance. Last to arrive was the Lord Seer, dressed in robes of white. 
Errin greeted them all and sent a message to the Duke that the 
Council was assembled. As always the Duke kept them waiting the 
obligatory ten minutes, then they filed into the inner chamber where a 
long table was set with six chairs on either side and two at the head. 
The Duke was sitting talking to Cairbre. 

As the nobles entered the Duke waved them to their seats and Errin 
strode the length of the table to sit alongside Cairbre. The man 
seemed greatly refreshed; his eyes were clear and there was colour in 
his pale cheeks. 

‘I see that you slept well, Sir Cairbre,’ said Errin. 

‘I am well rested. Thank you for your concern.’ 

The business of the day proceeded much as always. Tax gathering was 
discussed, and the greater incidences of robbery close to the forest. 
There was talk from Porteron of a problem with runaway slaves in the 
west and a shortage of skilled workers for the fields. It was agreed to 
ship forty slaves to his estate. 

‘What is causing the shortage?’ asked Errin. Porteron blinked and 
rubbed at his sweating face with a handkerchief. 

‘It is not a great problem, Lord Errin.’ 

‘I take your word for that, of course. But is it disease?’ 

‘No, no. Naturally we have followed to the letter the decree of our dear 


- and revered - monarch, but we have . . . had a large number of 
resident Nomads. They have been sent to Gar-aden, and . . . 
temporarily you understand ... we are short of workers.’ 
‘I see. Thank you.’ 

‘We expected short-term problems of this nature,’ said Okessa 
smoothly. ‘But the land, and its nobles, can only benefit from the 
removal of these tainted souls.’ 

All around the table heads nodded in agreement. ‘You have a further 
point to make?’ Okessa asked. 

Errin shook his head. ‘No, my Lord Seer. I understand that in Mactha 
there is now a shortage of bread, since the local baker was 
dispossessed.’ 

‘The shortage arose, Lord Errin, because the filthy Nomad burned 
down his own premises. He should have been hung.’ 

‘May I say a word, gentlemen?’ said Cairbre, rising. ‘I know -as does 
the King - that the removal of the Nomad vermin is bound to cause 
immediate hardship in many areas. But the ultimate goal is a worthy 
one ... a crusade, if you will. Less than thirty years ago, the Lords of 
this kingdom ruled the entire continent. For two hundred years we 
brought laws, education, civilization to nations of barbarians. But we 
allowed ourselves to become weak, tainted with the blood of lesser 
peoples, and now we rule only the land of the Nine Duchies. Our 
strength, both physical and spiritual, has been polluted. A great 
cleansing is needed. Until this year the economy of the realm has been 
largely in the hands of the merchant class, who are predominantly 
Nomad. The King was becoming powerless in his own land. Now the 
treasury is ruled by the King and his wisdom is beyond question. The 
future, gentlemen, stands and beckons. When the realm is rid of all 
impurity, we shall rise again and become pre-eminent among nations!’ 

Cairbre sat down to stunned silence, which was immediately broken as 
the Duke applauded, followed by the entire Council. Errin clapped 
hands with the rest, but less enthusiastically. Words and phrases 
flashed in his mind: Lesser peoples. Vermin. Impurity. Taint. 

‘Thank you, Sir Cairbre,’ said Okessa. ‘Your stirring words have 
brought us to the most delicate of matters. As you will know, the King 
has decreed that all of Nomad blood are to be sent to Gar-aden. I 
have, on the Duke’s insistence, begun examinations of all families with 
known Nomad connections. It seems we have two noble families in 
Mactha with tainted blood.’ 

Errin’s eyes flickered around the table. Lord Porteron’s face was chalk



white. 

‘Sadly, our duty to the King necessitates that these also be sent to 
Gar-aden,’ Okessa continued. 

‘I have always been loyal,’ said Porteron, rising. ‘My family has fought 
in three wars for the King and the crown.’ 

‘Your loyalty is not in question, sir,’ said Okessa with a thin smile. ‘And 
I am sure the King will arrange your speedy return to us.’ 

‘This is outrageous! Insane!’ 

‘Be so kind, Porteron,’ said the Duke, ‘as to wait outside. There are 
men waiting there who will take you to your quarters.’ 

‘Sir Cairbre!’ shouted Porteron. ‘Surely the King cannot mean to 
destroy the noble families? The Nomad line in my House goes back to 
my great-grandfather.’ 

The Red Knight rose, his eyes cold. ‘Already you have shown the worth 
of your Nomad blood. A direct order from your Duke to leave has been 
disobeyed moreover, you have willingly sent to Gar-aden people from 
your district who have even more tenuous blood links than your own. 
Had your true blood been in the ascendancy, you would have come to 
the Duke and confessed. Now get out of my sight.’ 

Porteron staggered back as if struck and stumbled from the room. 
Errin had guessed that Porteron was out of favour when he had been 
instructed not to invite him to the Feast. But this? 

‘You mentioned two noble families, Lord Okessa?’ said the young Lord 
Delaan. 

‘It is no one present, sir,’ said Okessa. ‘I refer to the Lady Dianu, 
whose mother was of Nomad extraction.’ 

Errin felt his heart hammer in his chest and his hands began to 
tremble. 

‘The Lady Dianu’s mother died in childbirth,’ said Errin. ‘She was from 
Cithaeron, and there is no record of any Nomad involvement in her 
blood line.’ 

‘Sadly that is not the case,’ said Okessa, unable to keep a triumphant 
grin from his thin lips. ‘She was the daughter of a man named Kial 
Orday, who was born on the eastern steppes into a Nomad tribe called 
the Wolves. There is no doubting her tainted line; she has been 
summoned to Mactha and will be sent to Gar-aden.’ 

Errin bit back any further argument. ‘My congratulations, Lord Seer. As 
ever, you have been meticulous in your endeavours.’ 


‘Meticulous enough, Lord Errin, to have discovered that you planned to 
marry this woman. Thankfully you are now spared the prospect of 
coupling with a Nomad whore.’ 

The words were sent like arrows, but Errin had been expecting 
something of the like. ‘Indeed, my Lord. I can hardly think of the 
words to thank you.’ Okessa’s disappointment was obvious and it 
brought a taunting grin from Errin, who leaned forward holding to the 
Seer’s gaze. ‘Happily, sir,’ said Errin, ‘there is no doubt as to your 
bloodline. Your mother was a fine Gabalan of good stock, who plied a 
trade among the sailors near the docks at Furbolg. I am confident they 
were all good rabalan sailors, and there was not a Nomad among 
them.’ 

‘How dare you?’ stormed Okessa, surging to his feet. 

‘How dare I? How dare the son of a common prostitute abuse the 
name of a noble lady of this realm!’ 

‘I take it, Errin, that you will champion her? You will demand trial by 
combat?’ Okessa’ hissed. 

Errin froze as the words hammered home. All he had been taught as a 
Knight and the son of an earl seremed at him to accept the challenge 
in the name of chivalry, but all that he had learned as a man warned 
him to beware. He was no swordsman and he knew what had 
happened to the champion Elodan. He took a deep breath. ‘I will 
consider that option,’ he said. Aware that all eyes were upon him, he 
transferred his gaze to the table and fought to quell the anger within. 

‘You will consider the option,’ sneered Okessa. ‘How gallant of you!’ 

‘That is enough,’ snapped the Duke. ‘The Lord Errin has every right to 
take time on this issue. We are . . . were ... all fond of the Lady Dianu. 
But if her blood is tainted, then it is right that she travel to Gar-aden. 
The King’s word is law; we all accept that. Now let us move on.’ 

Errin sat in a daze throughout the rest of the meeting, images racing 
through his mind. Dianu had told him that evil was rampant in the 
land, and now she would pay, perhaps with her life. He thought of her 
being brought to Mactha, derided and alone, to endure the sneers of 
serpents like Okessa. And what would she find in Gar-aden? Stripped 
of wealth and privilege, she would be forced to live in a desert hut 
making a living as best she could among other Nomads. But what skills 
did she have that could make her life bearable? None — save her 
beauty. They might just as well kill her, he realized. When she was 
brought to Mactha he would have to avoid seeing her; he would not be 
able to meet her eyes. And when they took her away, he would have 
to live every day of his life in the knowledge that he had done nothing 


to save the woman he loved. 
Love. At the thought of the word and the emotions it conveyed, his 
throat swelled. He swallowed hard. Yes, he loved Dianu. He always 


had, ever since they were children together. Could he bear to live, 
knowing he had done nothing to aid her? 
In that moment he knew he did not have the courage to turn away 


from her. 
He blinked and stared around the table. The meeting was obviously 


over and all eyes were on him as his voice came surprisingly clear and 
strong. 
‘My sword will speak for the Lady Dianu,’ he declared. 
Okessa smiled as he sank back in his chair and switched his gaze to 


the stunned Duke. 
‘My Lord, you must name someone to champion the King’s cause.’ 
‘Retract, Errin,’ whispered the Duke. ‘This is madness.’ 
‘I cannot.’ 
‘I think you should,’ said Cairbre softly. ‘For I must champion the 


King’s cause, and that will mean us facing one another.’ 
Errin shrugged. ‘What will be will be.’ 
‘I hope,’ said Cairbre, ‘that you are a fine swordsman. But think on 


this. I am the man who cut the hand from Elodan, and he was the best 


I ever fought.’ 
A storm broke over the forest as Ruad, Gwydion and the three magic 
hounds reached the shelter of the trees. Ruad led the way east into 
the thickest of the woods, seeking a haven from the driving rain. 
Mortally tired, Gwydion slipped on a muddy slope and fell heavily. 
Ruad walked back to help him to his feet. 


Calling one of the golden hounds, Ruad lifted Gwydion to its back. 


‘Such is the fate of old men,’ said Gwydion, with a weak smile, ‘to be 
mounted on a dog.’ 
Ruad chuckled. ‘At least it is a magic dog.’ 
‘Have you been here before, Ruad?’ 
‘Two years ago I came looking for herbs. There is an old cabin about a 


mile further along the trail. It was uninhabited then. Now?’ He 
shrugged. 
‘This is a gloomy place,’ said Gwydion. 



‘It will look better by sunlight, I promise you.’ 

They continued on the trail and Gwydion found his mount not entirely 
to his liking. The metal back made a poor seat, the plates grinding and 
pinching the skin of his thighs. But it was a great deal less arduous 
than walking. 

Ruad’s recollection of the distance was faulty, and it was two hours 
and almost midnight before they came to the cabin. It was no longer 
empty and no longer solitary; four other homes had been built close 
by. 

‘I hope we will be welcome,’ said Gwydion. 

Ruad did not reply. Boldly he stepped to the first door they came 
across. Warm golden light showed through the gap in the shutters of 
the window as he rapped his fist against the door. 

It was opened by a young man, carrying a broad-bladed knife. 

‘What do you want?’ asked the man. Then he saw the golden hounds; 
his mouth gaped and he stepped back, the knife forgotten. ‘A wizard!’ 
he shouted to someone behind him. 

Ruad moved swiftly into the house. ‘Indeed I am,’ he said, forcing a 
broad smile to his face. ‘But a friendly wizard, seeking shelter for the 
night. We mean no harm to any here, I promise you. And we will pay 
for shelter.’ Inside the one-roomed cabin was an elderly woman, three 
young children and a younger woman in a bed by the fire. The man 
was in his early twenties, stockily built, with thick dark curly hair. 

‘What else can go wrong?’ he shrugged, dropping the knife to a rough-
cut table. ‘For what it is worth, you are welcome. But the beasts stay 
outside.’ 

‘Of course.’ Ruad helped Gwydion into the house and the hounds sat 
outside the door, the rain streaming from their metal hides. Inside 
once more, Ruad removed his soaked leather jerkin and stood before 
the fire, enjoying the warmth. The children sat quietly staring at him, 
their eyes wide and fearful, while the old woman returned to the 
bedside, where she sat dabbing at the brow of the younger woman. 

‘Is she sick?’ Gwydion asked. The young man looked away and sat at 
the table staring at the wall. Gwydion struggled out of his white 
woollen robes and laid them over a chair by the fire. Dressed only in a 
loin-cloth, he dried himself by the blaze and then moved to the 
bedside. The young woman was skeletally thin, her skin almost 
translucent. Dark rings had formed beneath her eyes. When Gwydion 
lifted her wrist, the pulse was weak and fluttering like a trapped 
butterfly. 


‘May I take your seat?’ he asked the old woman. ‘I am weary from my 
travels.’ She looked up at him, her eyes dull, then stood and moved 
away, shepherding the children to their beds by the other wall. 
Gwydion placed his hand on the dying woman’s brow, closing his eyes 
and seeking the Colours. The Red was still powerful, yet less so than in 
Mactha; he rose through it to the outer edges of the Harmony, 
fastening to the Green. Slowly he linked with the woman, flowing with 
her blood, pulsing with the rhythms of her life. He found the cancer; it 
had spread across both lungs and down into her stomach. 

‘Fetch me a piece of meat,’ he said. 

The young man ignored him, but Ruad walked to the table and 
touched him on the shoulder. ‘Bring some meat to my friend.’ 

‘Dying people give him an appetite, do they?’ 

‘It is not to eat. Do as I ask. Please?’ 

The young man rose and fetched a joint of ham from a hook in the 
pantry, carrying it to Gwydion. ‘Put it in a bowl on the bed,’ said the 
elderly Healer. The old woman fetched a bowl and the ham was placed 
in it. Ruad joined them. Gwydion soared into the Colours. One bony 
hand rested on the woman’s brow, the other on the meat in the 
wooden bowl. Gwydion’s face grew ever more pale and he began to 
tremble. Ruad moved alongside him, waiting. The young woman 
groaned. 

‘What is he doing?’ the young man asked. 

‘Be silent!’ hissed Ruad. 

The old woman gasped and stepped back, her hand over her mouth. 
The meat in the bowl began to writhe and darken; white maggots 
appeared, and the stench of corruption filled the room as the ham 
grew slimy, edged with blue. Maggots crawled over the old man’s 
fingers. 

The young woman’s face seemed less translucent now, and her cheeks 
showed colour. Gwydion’s hand slipped from her brow and, as he 
toppled, Ruad caught him and carried him to the fireside, where he 
laid him on the goatskin rug before the hearth. ‘Get a blanket!’ 
ordered Ruad. The old woman brought two and covered the sleeping 
Healer with one, making a pillow of the other which she eased under 
his head. 

‘Ahmta!’ cried the young man, as his wife’s eyes opened. 

‘Brion,’ she whispered. ‘I have been dreaming.’ 

The young man’s eyes filled with tears and he leaned over the bed, 


taking Ahmta in his arms. Turning, the old woman began to weep. 
Ruad patted her shoulder and moved to the bedside. 
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked the woman. 


‘Tired, sir. Who are you?’ 
‘Travellers, passing through. Sleep now. In the morning you will feel 
better.’ 


‘I doubt that, sir. I am dying.’ 


‘No,’ Ruad told her. ‘Tomorrow you will wake and rise, and all will be 
as it once was. You are cured.’ 
The woman smiled, disbelieving, but faded into sleep as Brion lifted 


the blankets around her, then rose. 
‘Is it true?’ he asked, his face still wet with his tears. 
‘I do not lie. Well. . . not often. Gwydion is a Healer, a great Healer.’ 
‘I have no way to repay you. I ... do not even own this cabin. Food is 


short. But what I have is yours.’ 
Ruad grinned. ‘A roof for the night and, perhaps, a little breakfast. I 


am afraid the ham is ruined, and I should take it from the house 
before the stench reaches us all.’ 
The young man took the decomposed meat from the house and hurled 


it into the undergrowth. When he returned, he offered Ruad a goblet of 
water. ‘We have no wine or ale,’ he apologized. 
This will suffice.’ 
‘Are you truly men?’ asked Brion. 


‘Yes. Do we look so strange?’ 
‘No, not at all. It is just. . . you are an answer to prayer, and it comes 
to me you may be ... gods?’ 


‘If I was a god,’ said Ruad, grinning, ‘would I have made myself so 


ugly?’ 
Ruad lay beside the sleeping Gwydion on the floor by the fire, his 
thoughts sorrowful. 


Gwydion had cleansed the cancer from the woman, Ahmta, but to 
Ruad the scene was only a grim reminder of the malignancy eating at 
the heart of the realm. And Ruad knew that he, as the Armourer Ollathair, 
had helped that cancer to grow. Despite his wisdom - perhaps 
even because of it — he had fallen victim to the god of Folly -Pride. 


When the new King, Ahak, fresh from his triumph in the Fomorian 



Wars, sent word to Ollathair of the world beyond the Gate, it had 
seemed the answer to prayer. All his life Ollathair had sought to excel 

- first to impress his father, Calibal, and then to be the greatest 
Armourer in the long history of the Knights. 
He could still recall with total clarity the night the King’s messenger 
brought him the letter. A visitor had come to Ahak, claiming to be 
from a land called the Vyre; this land was beset, said the messenger, 
by great evil. They needed the legendary Knights of the Gabala to 
come to their aid. In return they offered gifts of medicine and 
knowledge that would eradicate sickness and disease, that would bring 
a new era of peace and contentment to the Gabalan people. 

At first Ollathair had been sceptical, but the King sent a silver mirror 
imbued with a magic more powerful than anything Ollathair had ever 
experienced. Using the mirror, he could focus on any part of the realm 
and see it clearly. More, he could pierce the mystic curtain between 
the worlds of the Gabala and the Vyre. And he found, as the 
messenger said, a land of great wonders: a white, many-towered city, 
peopled by angelic beings, was surrounded by impenetrable forests in 
which dwelt creatures of nightmare. It was the jewel of Paradise, set 
amidst the horrors of Hell. 

Ollathair made contact with a man named Paulus, a councillor of the 
Vyre Elders. Paulus begged the Armourer to send his Knights and Ahak 
also urged the Armourer to respond. 

For Ollathair this was an opportunity his pride forbade him to ignore. 
He had the chance to outdo his father, Calibal, and to earn his place in 
history as the greatest Armourer. He had called Samildanach to him, 
and the Lord Knight had questioned him until dawn. If Hell surrounded 
the Vyre, how could they survive? How could they combat the 
screaming demons with their long talons? How could they return, once 
Ollathair was no longer with them? 

He answered all questions with promises: he would make finer armour, 
he would create swords that would never dull, he would re-open the 
Gate between Worlds at prearranged times, beginning one month after 
they had passed through. And he would stay in contact with them, 
using the magic mirror. 

Samildanach was enchanted with the idea, and with the gifts promised 
by the Vyre. He longed to be the Knight who brought an end to 
disease and despair. 

Ollathair had opened the Gate on Midsummer’s Eve six years ago and 
Samildanach had led the Knights through — never to return. 

Ollathair had hurried back to the Citadel and taken up the mirror, but 


only his reflection stared back at him. He tried the Colours: Black 
under the moonlight; Blue under the sun; Red with his own blood; but 
the mirror had lost its power. 

Fear began to gnaw at him and he tried in every way to breach the 
Gate with his spirit, but it seemed that a wall -invisible and yet 
impenetrable - had been set before him. He contacted the King, to see 
if the messenger was still at Furbolg, but the man had returned to his 
own land. Ollathair was beside himself; all his powers wer useless. 

He had one great hope -Samildanach, greatest of warriors, finest of 
men. A descendant of kings and the most complete Knight Ollathair 
had ever known. Whatever perils lay beyond the Gate, the Armourer 
was sure Samildanach would overcome them. 

The days drifted by with agonizing slowness until the month had 
passed and Ollathair cast the spell that opened the Gate. Screeching 
creatures of nightmare gathered in the darkness beyond, but the 
Armourer’s powers hurled them back. Of the Knights there was no 
sign. 

Night after night Ollathair conjured the Gate, until his powers were 
spent, his strength wasted. 

Finally he had travelled to Furbolg. The King had greeted him like an 
old friend and had entertained him royally for several weeks. But then 
he had been asked to create weapons of power for the monarch and 
he had refused. As the Armourer of the Gabala Knights, he was not 
under Ahak’s rule. 

The King had ordered him arrested, claiming his refusal bordered on 
treason. For days he had suffered torture - his eye burned from his 
skull, hot irons scorching his flesh. Then he had feigned death and 
been hurled into a shallow pit outside the city walls. 

He had escaped, but it was almost a year before his strength and 
power returned. Then he had taken the name Ruad Ro-fhessa and 
moved to the north. And for three years had explored every means of 
breaching the world beyond. 

At last he was forced to the inescapable conclusion that the Knights - 
his Knights - had been slain. 

Samildanach, Edrin, Pateus, Manannan, Bersis, Cantaray, Joanin, 
Keristae and Bodarch - all dead. Ruad Ro-fhessa carried the blame like 
a burning coal in his heart. 

Yet now, here on this wooden floor, the pain was worse than ever 
before. For the King had embarked on a reign of terror and had 
gathered to him other Knights, dread warriors strengthened by 


sorcery. And the world needed the true Knights more than ever. 

At last Ruad fell asleep, but his dreams were of fire and blood and 
Knights in crimson armour hunted him with knives of cold steel. He 
awoke sweating in the pre-light of dawn. Gwydion slept on, as did the 
household. He sat up and added tinder to the ashes, stirring them and 
blowing the flickering embers to life. Brion awoke and stared down at 
his sleeping wife. He kissed her lightly and her eyes opened. 

‘It was true,’ she whispered. ‘I am healed.’ Ahmta sat up. ‘There is no 
pain.’ 

‘When I woke I thought it was a dream,’ Brion said, cupping her face 
in his hands. 

Ruad grinned and rose from the floor. ‘Good morning to you both. You 
slept well, I trust?’ 

‘Yes, sir,’ said Brion, sliding from beneath his blanket and standing. ‘I 
promised you breakfast and you shall have it - eggs, bacon, and I shall 
borrow ale from Dalik.’ 

A low metallic growling came from outside and Ruad ran to the door 
and opened it. A small crowd had gathered silently to examine the 
hounds, and one man had tried to prise a golden scale loose. As Ruad 
appeared the crowd fell back. Brion ran from the house and swiftly 
explained the presence of his visitors, and the magic they had 
wrought. 

Within an hour the news had spread to settlements nearby and a 
larger crowd had gathered - many of them sick, or with boils, or deep 
cuts, or swollen joints. 

Ruad woke Gwydion. ‘You had best eat, my friend. I fear you have a 
busy day ahead.’ 

For most of the morning Gwydion plied his trade on the porch of the 
cabin, receiving payment in copper and silver coin, goods - a battered 
knife and two hatchets, three blankets, a small sack of flour, a side of 
ham, a barrel of ale, a pair of boots, a cloak, two chickens, seven 
pigeons and a silver ring set with a black stone - and occasionally just 
the promise of food and a bed for the night should he desire it. 

By noon the old man was exhausted and he sent away the fifteen or so 
who were still waiting, promising to see them tomorrow. He gave the 
chickens and the ham to Brion and then Ruad, he and the family 
enjoyed the small barrel of ale. 

‘Had I known my powers would be so great here, I would have come 
five years ago,’ said Gwydion. ‘The Green is easy to find, and very 


strong.’ 

At dusk a rider came to the settlement. People hid behind locked 
doors, watching the man from behind barred shutters as he reined in 
his stallion before the house that boasted the three golden hounds. 

‘Ollathair!’ he called. ‘Come forth!’ 

Ruad opened the door and stepped into sight. The man looked 
familiar, but his face was hard to see, for he wore a helm and though 
the visor was up the sun was behind him. 

‘Who calls for Ollathair?’ Ruad asked. 

The man dismounted. ‘One who knows him well,’ said the rider, 
approaching the Armourer. All colour fled from Ruad’s face as he 
recognized the workmanship of the battered helm and the grey eyes of 
the Once-Knight. 

‘Manannan?’ he whispered. ‘It cannot be!’ 

‘It is Manannan,’ said the Once-Knight. ‘It is the traitor, Manannan. I 
have no right to ask this of you, but it would be pleasant if you would 
remove this damned helm. I fear the beard within the neck-plates is 
strangling me to death. I have worn it for six years.’ 

‘How did you get back?’ 

‘I never went. As Samildanach beckoned us forward, something inside 
me snapped. Fear swept through me like a storm, and I turned my 
horse away into the shadows.’ 

Despair struck Ruad anew. ‘Then you do not know what became of 
them?’ 

‘No. Will you help me?’ 

‘I cannot, Manannan. If I could, I would do it in an instant. But the 
spell I cast was to protect you in the inferno beyond the Gate and the 
Gate is the key. All spell-locks were made to be undone the moment 
you passed back through the Gate.’ 

‘What are you saying? That I am doomed to die in this metal cage?’ 

‘No,’ said Ruad softly. ‘I am saying you must pass the Gate and 
return.’ 

The Once-Knight staggered as if struck. ‘Pass the . . . alone? When I 
could not do it surrounded by the finest warriors in the world? 
Impossible!’ 

‘You would at least know the fate of your friends. You might even find 
them and bring them home. The gods know how they are needed 


now.’ 
‘And that is the only way for me?’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘Let me inside, Ollathair. Let me sit and think.’ 



CHAPTER SIX 

The country estates of the Lady Dianu covered six hundred acres, at 
the centre of which was a wooded valley. On the high ground to the 
west, some twelve miles from Mactha, was the old castle - derelict 
now, but still used by the local villagers for the May Dance and for 
open-air banquets in the summer. Beside it was the New House built 
by Dianu’s grandfather and boasting forty bedchambers, a central hall, 
two libraries and a lower hall with sleeping quarters for sixty slaves. 

The windows were wide and the house had been built without concern 
for defence. At present only twelve servants were in residence, and 
the two upper floors were closed. 

On the ground floor in the main, circular library, Dianu and her sister 
Sheera were meeting with the merchant Cartain, who had arrived in 
the night, travelling alone with false papers. 

‘You must leave now,’ Cartain snapped. ‘Why do you not understand 
the danger? Okessa has been researching your family records. Believe 
me, there will be troops on the way.’ 

‘Errin would have warned me,’ said Dianu. ‘Have no fear, Cartain. Take 
Sheera and the two Nomad servants. I will meet you in Pertia Port.’ 

The sun was shining through the open window and Dianu moved to the 
sill, enjoying the scent of the roses below. The gardener waved at her. 

‘I think we should listen to Cartain,’ said Sheera. She was dressed in 
riding buckskins, wearing tight well-fitting trews under a brushed hide 
tunic. 

‘I do not think it becomes you, sister, to dress like a man,’ said Dianu. 
‘Whatever will the servants think?’ 

Sheera shook her head. ‘You still think he is coming, don’t you? You 
believe that Errin will surrender his status and his lands to journey 
with you to Cithaeron? Well, he will not. Cartain has risked his life to 
help us escape. I think your attitude is selfish - and very foolish.’ 

‘I have five men waiting in the woods, my ladies,’ said Cartain. ‘If we 
leave now, we can be in Pertia Port in four days. Much of your wealth 
has already been shipped. You achieve nothing by delaying your 
departure, Lady Dianu, but you risk much.’ 

‘I do not believe the risk is as great as you say,’ Dianu maintained, 
smoothing the front of her white silk dress. ‘But very well; you go 
ahead with Sheera. I shall follow tomorrow, I promise you. I will need 
to pack, and I have ordered five wagons to be delivered here.’ 


‘Ordered . . . are you mad?’ hissed Cartain. 

‘How dare you use that tone with me, sir! You think I would leave here 
without my mother’s heirlooms?’ 

‘This was to have been a secret departure, Lady Dianu. How secret will 
it be when it is known — as known it will be -that you have ordered 
five wagons?’ 

‘The people of Mactha have been loyal to my family for generations, 
Cartain. They will say nothing.’ 

The merchant shook his head and turned to the taller sister. ‘Will you 
travel with me now, my lady?’ 

‘I will, Cartain,’ she agreed. Sheera rose and walked to her sister. ‘I 
think you are wrong, Dianu, but I hope to see you in Pertia Port.’ 

‘Safe journey,’ said Dianu, leaning to kiss her sister’s cheek. ‘I will be 
several days behind you. The wagons will be slow-moving.’ 

‘Might I ask,’ enquired Cartain, ‘how you intend to protect this valuable 
cargo when you pass Groundsel’s realm?’ 

‘I have hired soldiers to escort me,’ Dianu told him. 

‘I thought you might have done,’ said Cartain softly. ‘You will not, by 
any chance, have trumpets sounded as you leave?’ Without waiting for 
an answer, he spun on his heel and strode from the room. Sheera 
caught up with him by the doorway as he stepped into the sunlight. 

‘You should not have been rude, Cartain.’ 

He breathed a deep sigh. ‘No, I should not. Her rank demands respect, 
but her stupidity is hard to bear.’ 

‘It is not stupidity, sir merchant. It is stubbornness. There is a 
difference,’ she said, swinging herself into the saddle of a tall black 
gelding. 

He mounted his own bay mare. ‘Yes, there is,’ he admitted, ‘and I will 
accept your point if she is proved to be right. But we are dealing here 
in life or death. And to risk life for a few pretty pieces of silver is not 
wise.’ 

He spurred his mount down the gravel path as Sheera swung in the 
saddle. Dianu had leaned out of the window and plucked a red rose, 
which she waved at her sister. 

Sheera raised her arm in farewell, then thundered her mount after the 
merchant. 

Dianu was arrested by the soldiers she had hired to protect her and 


brought under guard to Mactha - her servants with her, her wagons 


piled with her possessions. 
The Duke visited Errin with the news. ‘You realize, Errin, that you can 
no longer stand for her? She is now an accepted traitress, never mind 
her Nomad blood. It frees you from this insane battle.’ 


Errin sat by the narrow window, staring out over the countryside. He 


looked at the Duke and smiled. 
‘How does it free me, my Lord? I love the woman; I cannot stand by 
and see her shipped to Gar-aden.’ 


The Duke poured himself a goblet of wine and drank deeply. ‘She will 
not be sent to Gar-aden,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. 
‘What? Why?’ 
‘That is for Nomads.’ 


‘What are you saying?’ 
‘You know what I am saying, Errin. She is to be tried as a traitress and 
sentenced to death, probably at the stake.’ 


‘Sweet Heaven, is the world mad?’ said Errin, rising and slamming his 
fist against the stone of the sill. 
‘There is nothing you can do. Nothing! Cairbre will kill you in seconds 


— and what will it achieve? One more noble line ended. Is a stupid 
gesture worth your life? It would be different were you an Elodan, but 
you are not. Errin, my page could best you with the sword.’ 
‘I fear that is no longer the point, my Lord. What sane man would 
desire to live in a world such as this? And how could I look at myself in 
a mirror, knowing I had done nothing to save the woman I love?’ 

The Duke poured a second goblet of wine and drained it; he was 
looking tired, and his eyes were bloodshot. ‘Cairbre does not want to 
fight you. He has asked me to see you ... to implore you to 
reconsider.’ 

‘I will be at the field tomorrow and it will be decided by the laws of the 
Gabala,’ said Errin. ‘I am sorry, my Lord. You must find another Lord 
of the Feast for the King’s visit.’ 

‘You realize this is what Okessa wants? You know that his is the only 
victory?’ 

‘I care nothing for Okessa. He told me I would die in five days - and 
that is tomorrow. Long may he laugh.’ 

‘Would you like me to practise with you?’ 


Errin gazed at the Duke and realized the man was sincere. It touched 
him. Greedy, cruel, lustful - all these vices the Duke had and yet, still, 
there was a place for compassion. ‘Thank you, but no,’ said Errin. 
Suddenly he chuckled. ‘You think I can become a champion in one 
day?’ 

The Duke smiled. ‘You remember the year I won the Silver Lance? You 
were my page. You brought me my sword and the scabbard slipped 
between your legs, sprawling you to the dust. I knew then you’d never 
be a knight. Come Errin, let us get drunk.’ He offered his friend a full 
goblet of wine, but Errin shook his head. 

‘Will you allow me to see Dianu?’ 

‘Of course . . . for as long as you want.’ 

‘Privately?’ 

‘I guarantee it, my friend.’ 

An hour later Errin was led through the dungeon corridor to a long 
room at the end. Dianu was there. There were no chains, and a 
comfortable bed and two chairs had been placed at her convenience. 
She was dressed still in her riding clothes, a grey velvet doublet and 
black hose. Her dark hair flowed free now, making her seem younger 
than her nineteen years. 

Errin heard the door close behind him and opened his arms, but she 
just stood by the bed staring at him, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. 
He moved to her, drawing her to him. 

‘They are going to burn me alive,’ she whispered. ‘Burn me!’ 

He could say nothing, except perhaps to tell her he would not be alive 
to see it - and that would bring her scant comfort. So he held her in 
silence. 

After a while she pulled back from him. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I have 
done so ever since I was small and you used to come to our palace 
with your father. You remember the games of hunt-and-find in the 
gardens?’ 

‘Yes. It was always easy to find you; you always moved.’ 

‘I always wanted to be found,’ she said. ‘By you.’ 

‘I wish I had come with you. I wish we had gone on the night of the 
Feast. I wish. . . .’ 

‘Is it true that you are going to champion me, Errin?’ 

‘Yes.’ 


‘Against the Red Knight?’ 

He nodded. ‘You would expect me not to?’ 

‘No, I have always known you were the bravest of men, but can you 
win? And even if you do, will they allow me to depart?’ 

‘I cannot answer either of these questions. Tomorrow we will know. 
But today, now, we have each other, and today may ... be all that we 
have. I don’t mind if we just sit quietly, saying nothing. I just want to 
be here with you.’ 

‘We will not be disturbed?’ 

‘No, the Duke has promised.’ 

She unfastened the laces of her doublet and said, ‘Then be with me, 
Errin, be part of me.’ 

At midnight Errin slid from the bed - leaving Dianu sleeping — and 
tapped on the door, which was opened by a burly guard. The man 
closed the door quietly and locked it. He would not meet Errin’s gaze 
and led the way silently to the upper levels. 

As the guard turned to go, Errin touched him on the shoulder. ‘Treat 
her gently,’ he said. The man said nothing and glanced down at Errin’s 
outstretched hand; two gold Raq nestled in his palm. The guard took 
the money and walked away; then he stopped and spoke without 
turning. ‘I would have done so anyway,’ he said, ‘but I need the 
money.’ 

Errin smiled. ‘Let her sleep for as long as she will. Tomorrow will be a 
long, fearful day.’ 

He returned to his own apartments, where Boran had placed his battle 
armour on a wooden stand. Errin stood and gazed at the weapons laid 
out on the narrow table before the stand: longsword, battle-axe, mace 
and chain. He had worn the armour only once, at the coronation of the 
King seven years ago; he had never fought in it. The helm was 
cylindrical, with a broad slit across the face. Errin lifted it and placed it 
on his head; it was lined with cushioned velvet and sat snugly in place. 
He could hear his own breathing, like the sound of a wolf creeping 
forward in the darkness. His vision through the eye-slit was limited. 
Removing the helm, he tossed it to his bed. The sword was double-
handed and he hefted it, trying to recall the advice of Sword-master 
Pleus more than a decade before. But all he could remember was the 
man shaking his head and telling him he was too clumsy, and that he 
had two left feet. 

Errin sat at the northern window with the sword in his lap until the 


dawn streaked the sky, when Boran entered silently. 

‘My Lord, will you eat breakfast?’ 

‘No. I have no appetite.’ 

‘If I may say so, respectfully, you are not being wise. To fight, a man 
must have strength — and this comes from the food we eat. I have 
prepared some honey-cakes. Please eat something.’ 

‘It ill becomes a man to die on a full stomach, Boran. I have seen dead 
men; their bowels open, you know, and they stink. I have no wish to 
stink.’ 

‘On the field today, sir, there will be two men with swords. Now swords 
have no brains, they go where they are directed. Sir Cairbre may be a 
wondrous warrior, but he might slip in the mud just as you strike. Best 
to be prepared. I shall fetch the honey-cakes.’ 

As Boran turned the door opened and Sir Cairbre entered. He was 
wearing his crimson armour and carrying his round, plumed helm 
under his arm. He approached Errin and bowed. 

‘Good morning, my Lord,’ he said softly. ‘Have you reconsidered this 
unwise action?’ 

‘I have not, sir. Nor shall I!’ 

‘Leave us!’ ordered Cairbre, but Boran stood his ground. 

‘I take no orders from you, sir,’ he said, reddening. 

Errin rose. ‘Thank you, Boran. Fetch the honey-cakes if you please, 
and some fresh water for our guest.’ 

The servant departed and Errin, realizing he still held the longsword, 
hurled it to the bed where it clanged against his helmet. 

‘I applaud your courage, Lord Errin,’ said Cairbre, ‘but it will avail you 
nothing. The Duke has explained to me that you are no swordsman, 
and I have no wish to walk on to the field for the purpose of simple 
butchery.’ 

‘But that is the law, Sir Cairbre - the King’s law. I have the right to 
champion my lady — is that not so?’ 

‘Indeed it is, sir. But even if you win - you lose. As the Lord Seer 
Okessa has pointed out, even if you defeat me you will only establish 
the Lady Dianu’s innocence of the charge of treason. She will still be a 
Nomad and thus required to travel to Gar-aden. And at that point you 
will be arrested for treason.’ 

‘How so? I have never spoken against the King.’ 


‘But, sir,’ said Cairbre, smiling softly, ‘you are about to fight the King’s 
champion. Therefore you are setting yourself against the King, and 
that makes you a traitor.’ 

‘That is logic of the most dubious kind, Sir Cairbre. The right of the 
accused to be championed has been with us for a thousand years. In 
one stroke you remove that right for men - or women - deemed the 
King’s enemies?’ 

‘Traitors should have no rights,’ Cairbre declared. 

‘And how then are we to decide who is a traitor?’ 

‘The facts should judge, not the skills of swordsmen.’ 

‘And who decides the facts?’ 

‘The King, or the King’s judges.’ 

‘I see,’ said Errin. ‘An interesting hypothesis. Let us say that a farmer 
has a complaint against his liege lord. Is it fair that the liege lord 
decides his case?’ 

‘We are not talking of farmers, but of the King. His word is the law and 
his wishes are above the laws of men,’ said Cairbre. ‘Despite 
knowing the Lady Dianu is of Nomad blood, you have decided to 
champion her. Thus you are championing the cause of all Nomads regardless 
of their rank. Can you not see that you are defying your 
King?’ 

Boran returned with the honey-cakes and then left. Errin poured 
Cairbre a goblet of water. ‘Can you not see, sir Knight,’ he said 
persuasively, ‘that in history there have been bad kings as well as 
good?’ 

‘What point is there in such a question? Are you saying the King is 
bad?’ 

‘No, no. Do not put words in my mouth, sir. I am saying that the past 
shows us that a bad king, or an evil king, or a foolish king can make 
appalling decisions which are not good for the realm. If we say now 
that the King is above the law, then in a hundred years a bad king 
may abuse such a position.’ 

Cairbre smiled and sipped his water. He sat down on the edge of the 
bed. That will not happen in this case, Lord Errin, for we will have the 
same King in a hundred years. Indeed, in a thousand years. For he is 
now immortal. . . even as I am.’ 

Errin said nothing, scanning the Knight’s eyes for any sign of madness. 
Cairbre chuckled. ‘I know how this sounds, Lord Errin. Truly I do. But 
look at me. How old am I? Twenty-five. Thirty? I am nearly fifty.’ 


Errin could not believe it. He stared into the warrior’s face, seeking the 
tell-tale lines, but the Knight’s skin was pale and smooth, his dark 
eyes glowing with health. 

Cairbre finished his drink and stood looking down at the silver goblet. 
His slender fingers contracted suddenly and the goblet crumpled in his 
hand. ‘Youth and strength is mine,’ said Cairbre, ‘and the King’s. Do 
you see now what I was trying to tell the Council? We are going to 
build an empire - the greatest empire of all time. Faithful friends of the 
King will become immortal; they will never taste death. This is what 
you are throwing away. We need you, Errin. Your blood is pure, your 
line without blemish. Give up this foolishness - and join us in our 
crusade.’ 

Errin’s eyes grew cold and he stepped back from the Knight. ‘I will 
meet you, sir, on the field at noon. When I am dead I ask - as one 
Knight to another -that you allow me to be buried alongside Dianu. I 
think it is inappropriate for us to talk further.’ 

Cairbre sighed and stood. He drew his sword and tossed it to Errin; it 
was wondrously light and razor-sharp. 

‘The blade has magic properties,’ he said. ‘It will enhance your skill 
and cut through anything - ultimately even this armour I wear. Use it 
today and I will take your blade.’ 

‘It is not necessary,’ said Errin. 

‘No, it is not,’ Cairbre agreed. ‘But at least your lady will see a battle 
for her life and not a meaningless slaughter. Until noon, then.’ 

The jousting field, hemmed by stakes and fenced by purple ribbons 
tied between them, held two thousand people. It seemed that the 
entire town of Mactha had emptied for the occasion and Errin was 
distressed to see fires burning and steaks being fried. Vendors were 
selling food and drink, and children were playing at knights, fighting 
each other with wooden swords. Errin stood alone at the centre of the 
field, his helm tucked under his arm. He could scarcely believe that 
people could turn an event of life and death into such a festive 
occasion. The sky was clear and blue and despite the presence of 
autumn it was like a summer’s day, bright and warm. His armour felt 
heavy and, even though Boran had greased the joints, it was difficult 
to move. 

He remembered a day such as this in Cithaeron, when a champion had 
stood for the life of a noble. He himself had not bothered to watch. He 
had caught the eye of an attractive lady and they had repaired to her 
apartments for a lazy afternoon of exquisite pleasure; he had not even 
troubled to enquire as to the outcome of the battle. 


Now he stood alone at the centre of the grass-covered field. There 
should have been two friends beside him, but none had come forward. 
Considering Cairbre’s talk of treason, he was not surprised. 

Dianu was brought into the field on a wagon, and the crowd began to 
boo and jeer. A tremendous sense of anger engulfed Errin, but his 
eyes remained fixed on her. She stood with head held high, ignoring 
the taunts from the crowd. The wagon was followed by the Duke and 
the Lord Seer, and behind them came the Lords and Knights of the 
Council. 

A herald blew a single blast on a silver bugle and the crowd fell silent. 

The wagon was brought to the centre of the field and Errin approached 
it. Bowing to Dianu, he took her hand and kissed it. He could think of 
nothing to say, but answered her nervous smile with one of his own. 

Sir Cairbre rode into sight and dismounted at the far end of the field. 
Then he walked slowly to the centre and bowed to Errin. Once more he 
was wearing the red helm and his eyes were hidden in shadow. He 
drew his sword - Errin’s sword — and pushed it into the earth. 

‘Do you still wish this affair to continue?’ asked Cairbre, his voice 
muffled and metallic. 

‘I do.’ 

‘Then let us begin.’ He dragged the sword clear and raised it two-
handed, dropping the point until it covered half the distance between 
them. Errin put on his helm, drew his sword and touched the blade to 
Cairbre’s. 

Both men looked towards the Duke, who raised his hand. ‘Begin!’ he 
bellowed and immediately their swords clashed together, sweeping 
and blocking, cutting and parrying. Errin had never handled such a 
blade as Cairbre had given him; it seemed almost to have a mind of its 
own, saving him three times from deadly slashes. 

The screams of the crowd grew louder as the battle continued, but 
Errin heard nothing above the harsh sounds of his own breathing 
inside the cushioned helm. Cairbre stumbled, his sword dropping down 
to expose his left side, and instantly Errin’s borrowed blade hammered 
home into the red armour, smashing several plates from it. He heard 
Cairbre grunt in pain, and the Red Knight backed away. Storming after 
him, Errin lost his footing and at once Cairbre crashed a blow to his 
helm, tearing it from his head. Errin staggered back, blocking cut after 
cut. Cairbre’s speed was dazzling and he felt panic welling within him. 
He saw Cairbre’s sword flash for his head and his own blade leapt to 
block, but at the last second Cairbre rolled his wrists and sent the 


blade crashing into Errin’s side. He felt his ribs crack, though his 
armour held. A second blow to the calf broke the bone and Errin fell to 
his knees, his neck exposed. 

He glanced up at the upraised sword . . . 
‘No!’ screamed Dianu. ‘Stop it! I am guilty! Guilty!’ 
The blade swept down, halting just as it touched Errin’s neck. He did 


not feel it; his vision swam and he fainted. 
He awoke in the fading light of dusk, in his own room. Boran^was 
beside him, bathing a wound in his temple. Errin struggled to rise, but 


Boran pushed him back. ‘Be still, my Lord. You have broken ribs, and 
they may pierce your lung if you struggle.’ 
‘Why am I alive?’ 
‘The Lady Dianu shouted her guilt and that ended the battle. She 


saved you, my Lord. Now there is someone to see you.’ 
‘I wish to see no one.’ 
‘I think you will wish to see this man; he is in great danger.’ 
‘Who?’ 
Boran moved aside and there, sitting beside the bed, was Ubadai. 
‘You fought pretty good,’ said the Nomad. ‘He was pretty much better.’ 
‘You must help me,’ Errin whispered. ‘We must save Dianu. We must!’ 
‘First we save you. Your new man here — good man — he hear they 


come for you tomorrow. You, me, we go, yes? We run. Get to 
Cithaeron.’ 


‘Not without Dianu. Now help me up.’ 
‘Gently,’ ordered Boran, lifting Errin to a sitting position. A sharp pain 
lanced his side. 


‘We help the lady,’ said Ubadai, ‘but first we get you out of castle. 
There are horses — you can ride?’ 


‘I can ride,’ said Errin. ‘Get me some clothes, Boran.’ 
‘It is already done, my Lord. The dark brown leather with the 
sheepskin cape. I have also packed food, and some coin. You only had 
three hundred Raq, but it should pay for the passage to Cithaeron.’ 


Errin looked down at the tightly-bound splint on his left leg. ‘Will it 
support me?’ he asked. 
Boran shrugged. ‘I hope so, my Lord.’ 



‘Help me into my clothes,’ said Errin. As Boran moved to obey him 
there came the sound of marching feet from the courtyard below and 
Ubadai ran to the window and looked down. 


‘A squad of men,’ he whispered, ‘coming this way.’ 


Errin groaned as Boran gently lifted his arms into the leather shirt. His 
ribs were bandaged tightly, but the pain was intense. 
‘Better be quick,’ he urged Ubadai as a hammering came from below. 
‘Open up, in the name of the Duke!’ 
‘Use the side stair-well, my Lord,’ said Boran. ‘I will detain them for as 


long as I can.’ Errin called Ubadai to him, then levered himself upright 
by gripping the Nomad’s shoulder. He felt the bones of the broken leg 
grind together and almost screamed. Ubadai half carried him to the 
small door leading to the servant’s stair-well, where Errin stared down 
into the dark depths. There was no hand-rail. 


‘I can’t climb down there,’ he said. 
‘Much trouble, you,’ said Ubadai. Turning, he threw an arm around the 
back of Errin’s thighs and lifted him over his shoulder. Errin’s broken 


ribs grated and he groaned. ‘No noise!’ Ubadai hissed, slowly 
descending the stairs. 
At the main door, Boran lifted the bolt and bowed to the officer. 
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ 
‘Where is Lord Errin?’ 
‘He is upstairs sleeping. He was wounded badly today; he has a broken 


leg.’ 
‘Our orders are to take him into the custody of the Lord Seer.’ 
‘I take it you have a stretcher,’ said Boran. 
‘No. I ... no one mentioned a broken leg.’ 
‘It was diagnosed by the Duke’s surgeon. The Duke himself was here 


earlier to enquire after his friend. Who did you say ordered his arrest?’ 
‘The Lord Seer, Okessa.’ 
‘Ah, well, it must be correct then. I am sure the Duke must have 


authorized it. You have his seal?’ 
‘Seal? Look, you, the Duke’s seal is only used for arrests made away 


from Mactha, in order to prove the identity of the Duke’s officers. Why 
in the devil’s name would I need a seal?’ 
‘I am not arguing, captain. I know little of such matters, having never 



arrested a cousin of the King. Please go about your business.’ 
‘Cousin of the King? Lord Errin?’ 
‘So I understand. Well, go upstairs and drag him down. I’ve not been 


in his employ for long, so I have had no time to grow fond of him.’ 


‘I’m not "dragging" anyone anywhere. I was told to arrest the Lord 
Errin. Haven’t you got something we could use for a stretcher?’ 
‘Well . . . you could take his bed, I suppose. It would take more than 


six of you, though. Are there any more men back at the barracks?’ 
The officer spun on his heel. ‘Medric, Joal, go back and get a stretcher. 


And see if the Duke’s orderly is about; I wouldn’t mind an official seal 
on this one.’ 
‘Very wise, captain. Perhaps you and I should go upstairs and carry 


Lord Errin down, ready for the stretcher?’ suggested Boran. 
‘Do I look like a labourer?’ snapped the captain. ‘I’ll wait here.’ 
‘Then allow me to fetch you some wine, sir. The very best western 


wine, aged in the cask for twenty years.’ 
‘That’s very decent of you,’ the captain thanked him. 
‘Not at all, sir.’ 
At the rear of the apartments Ubadai opened the door to the yard and 


stepped outside. The alley was deserted save for the two horses 


tethered at the gate. 
He eased Errin down, then lifted him to the saddle and led the horses 
towards the eastern gate. This was mainly used for traders, and 
Ubadai guessed that news of Errin’s arrest would not yet have been 
circulated to the gate sentries. 


He was right, and the two men rode unhindered from Mactha fortress 


and down through the town. 
‘It seems deserted,’ said Errin. Ubadai grunted and pointed to the 
nearby hills. 


‘What is happening?’ asked Errin, his mouth suddenly dry. 
‘Tonight they burn the Lady.’ 
‘Sweet Heaven! I must get there.’ Errin lashed the reins across his 


stallion’s neck and forced him into a mad gallop across the fields. 
Ubadai raced after him, leaning over to grab the reins. 
‘Stop!’ said the Nomad. ‘One stupid deed a day is enough.’ 
‘Leave me alone!’ shouted Errin, hitting out weakly, his hand cracking 



against Ubadai’s face. 

‘Think!’ ordered Ubadai. ‘One man, all broke up. Useless. He is going 
to ride through the Duke’s soldiers and rescue the Lady. You could not 
even get off horse.’ 

‘There must be something I can do.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Ubadai. ‘Something. Only thing.’ He lifted Errin’s bow from 
his saddle horn. 

‘I can’t!’ 

‘Then let us ride to forest and leave this cursed country.’ 

Errin swallowed hard and took the bow and quiver. Then he pushed his 
stallion forward, edging it to the cover of some trees near the brow of 
the hill. A great mass of firewood had been laid around a central stake 
and as he approached he saw Dianu being led forward by Okessa. The 
Duke was nowhere in sight. The Red Knight sat his unearthly mount 
away from the crowd, his gaze fixed on the doomed girl. 

Tears stung Errin’s eyes and he blinked them away as Dianu was led 
up on to the pyre and tied to the stake. Her eyes scanned the crowd, 
but she could not see him in the shadows of the trees. When she was 
tied, Okessa and the men with him drew back and climbed down to the 
ground. Then the Seer took a burning torch and thrust it into the 
tinder at the base of the pyre. Flames and smoke leapt instantly. . 

Errin took an arrow from his quiver and notched it to the bow. 

Heeling his horse forward into the light, he shouted, ‘Dianu!’ He saw 
her head come up, and watched in anguish as hope flared in her eyes. 
‘I love you!’ he screamed . . . and drew back the bowstring. He saw 
realization replace hope and she closed her eyes. He loosed the shaft. 
It sped through the air to slice home through the blue doublet that 
covered her breast. Her mouth opened - and her head fell. An angry 
roar came from the crowd and hands reached out to seize Errin. He 
was beyond caring but Ubadai rode forward, lashing a man across the 
face with a riding whip. The Nomad seized the reins of Errin’s mount, 
wheeled it, and the two men thundered from the hill as the flames of 
Dianu’s funeral pyre lit the sky. 

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. 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

Ruad heard the screaming and ran from his cabin. In the square 
beyond, a scaled creature was dragging a man back towards the trees. 
The beast was over ten feet long, with six legs, and a long snout which 
had fastened to his victim’s leg. 

Several villagers ran at the creature, hammering at it with picks and 
axes. It released the screaming man only to lunge at a villager, who 
jumped back. The beast swung, and Ruad watched as its tail cracked 
out like a whip to circle the legs of one of its attackers and haul him 
towards its gaping jaws. Ruad knelt beside his golden hounds and 
whispered the word of power, then he pointed at the beast and spoke 
again. The hounds leapt across the square. The first sprang to the 
creature’s back, sinking its steel fangs through scale and bone. The 
second lunged for the beast’s throat, ripping apart flesh and artery. 
The third fastened its terrible teeth to the tail trapping the villager; the 
jaws snapped shut and the tail parted, green gore pumping from the 
wound. The ruined tail thrashed wildly, spraying blood across the 
square, and the hounds backed away. For several seconds the creature 
snapped its great jaws at the air, then it settled slowly to the ground 
and died. 

The villagers gathered round the wounded man and Gwydion came 
running from a nearby hut to lay his hands on the man’s gashed leg. 
The blood stopped flowing immediately, and Gwydion ordered the 
injured villager to be carried to his hut. 


The hounds padded back to Ruad. He touched each on the head - and 
they froze once more into statues. For several hours the villagers, 
armed with bows and axes, searched the woods for more of the 
creatures. At dusk they returned, having seen tracks but no monsters. 

Brion dropped the club he had been carrying and walked to where 
Ruad sat beside his hounds. ‘What manner of beast are they?’ he 
asked. 

Ruad shrugged. ‘It is too complex to explain, my friend. But they are 
not from here.’ 

‘I know that,’ the villager snapped. ‘Speak plainly.’ 

‘They are from a world beyond our own - summoned here by a 
sorcerer of great power.’ 

‘For what purpose? Merely to kill? Who does that serve?’ 

‘I do not know,’ answered Ruad, turning away, but Brion was not to be 
ignored. 

‘It seems strange to me that first you come with your magic beasts, 
and then these things follow. I am not a fool, wizard. Do not treat me 
like one.’ 

Ruad looked into the young man’s square, honest face. ‘It may be that 
they were sent to kill me. I do not know - and that is the truth. The 
world outside this forest is sliding inexorably into evil.’ 

Brion was about to say more when the sound of horses’ hooves came 
to them and a rider cantered into the village. He appeared tall, and his 
freshly-shaven face was ghostly pale. He rode to the cabin and hurled 
a helm at Ruad’s feet; it bounced against the door, rolled, and came to 
rest against the flanks of a golden hound. 

‘There,’ said Manannan, ‘is your magic helm - the one that could not 
be released save by the magic of the Gate. Explain that to me, liar! 
And be convincing, Armourer. Much depends on it.’ He dismounted and 
stalked to stand before Ruad. 

‘Be so kind as to leave us, Brion,’ requested Ruad, placing his hand on 
the young man’s shoulder. ‘I will be leaving tonight, and your home 
will be your own once more.’ The young villager nodded, gave 
Manannan a long stare and then backed away. 

‘I am pleased for you,’ said Ruad. ‘And yes, I lied. I wanted you to 
pass the Gate. The spell on the helm was loosed the moment we 
spoke. Are you going to kill me?’ 

‘Can you think of a reason why I should not?’ Manannan retorted. 


‘Only that I desire to live - and I think I am needed,’ admitted Ruad. 

Manannan shook his head. ‘I never was one to kill for the sake of it.’ 
He glanced at the dead beast, still oozing green blood to the dust. ‘I 
killed a creature with two heads today. Now this . . . what does it 
mean, Ollathair? Where are they from?’ 

‘Beyond the Black Gate. Someone has decided to bring terror to the 
forest.’ 

‘And that someone is . . . ?’ 

‘I know of no sorcerer powerful enough. But ultimately it must be the 
King’s doing. Perhaps they are looking for me. Perhaps for another. It 
seems to me that evil never needs a sound reason for such deeds as 
this. Will you help me, Manannan?’ 

To do what?’ 

‘To fight the evil. To be what you were trained to be: a Knight of the 
Gabala. Once it meant a great deal to you.’ 

‘That was a long time ago.’ 

‘But you have not forgotten?’ 

‘How could I forget? What would you have me do?’ 

‘You know what is needed.’ 

‘No!’ hissed Manannan. ‘It is folly.’ 

‘The Knights must return; I can see no other hope. It is my belief that 
this evil emanates from the Red Knights of the King. Only the true 
Gabala can stand against them - surely you see that?’ 

‘What I see is a man with a lunatic dream. The past is gone, Ollathair. 
Dead. Find yourself some new Knights — I’ll even help you to train 
them.’ 

‘We do not have five years, Manannan. We may not have five months. 
Ride through the Gate,’ he pleaded. ‘Find Samildanach and bring him 
home. He was the greatest warrior I have ever known; the finest 
swordsman and the noblest of men. He could help me with the 
Colours; he could stand against the Red slayers. Together we could rid 
the land of this evil.’ 

‘Now there is a story I have heard before. Rid the world of evil! I did 
not accept it the first time.’ 

‘That was an abstract. And I was wrong! Wrong! Is it so terrible to be 
wrong?’ 

‘My friends died for the privilege of you being wrong.’ 


‘You do not know that, Sir Coward-Knight!’ snapped Ruad. 

‘No, I do not.’ He swung on his heel and walked out into the darkness 
to stand on the porch, feeling the freshness of the night air on his 
face. He pictured again the Black Gate and heard the hideous sounds 
of the hidden beasts beyond. His heart raced, his hands trembled. He 
could not pass that portal. He had told Ollathair he was afraid for his 
soul but that had been a lie — a falsehood enabling him to save face. 

It was death in the dark . . . just like the tree of his childhood. 
Trapped in the blackness with ants crawling on his skin. He shivered. 

And yet, would any beast be worse than the horror he^had faced 
today? 

Even the monsters of the dark? 

I can’t! I’m afraid! 

‘Come inside,’ said Ruad behind him. ‘There is someone I want you to 
see.’ He turned and stepped into the doorway, where the one-eyed 
sorcerer held out a silvered mirror. Manannan took it and gazed at a 
face he had not seen for six years. The eyes accused him and he 
looked away. 

‘You cannot run away any more, Manannan. You cannot live your life 
wondering if your friends are trapped in some deep, dark dungeon. I 
know you; it will haunt you all your days. And you are no coward; I 
would never have chosen you otherwise.’ 

‘Why did you choose me?’ 

‘Because you were strong in the broken places.’ 

‘Always riddles with you, Ollathair. I am free now, you said that 
yourself. Free of my oath - free of that cursed helm. I do not have to 
pass the Gate.’ 

‘You are correct in that. It is your choice. But if it would please you, I 
will beg - I will beg on bended knees.’ 

‘No,’ said Manannan softly. ‘I would not like to see that. I will journey 
with you to the Gate and I will sit Kuan as I did before. But I promise 
nothing, except to try.’ 

‘I will open the Gate here in the mountains,’ said Ruad, ‘and once 
through it you will find a city. They will have news there.’ 

‘And they are friendly?’ 

‘They are gods, Manannan. Wise and immortal. And you will find 
Samildanach; I know you will.’ 


Groundsel sat in the long hall staring at his treasury -three oak chests, 
the first half full of gold coin, the second brimming with silver, the 
third a gleaming pile of jewels and rings and brooches. The Royal Road 
was now a rich source of income, as Nomad families streamed along it 
to distant Cithaeron in the hope of a ship to safety. At first Groundsel 
had robbed and killed the merchants as they travelled, but the 
numbers of refugees had halted that simple plan. Had he continued, 
the Road would have become choked with bodies. Now he levied a toll 
on the escapers and soon he would be rich enough to leave this 
accursed forest and sail for warmer climes, where he would buy a 
palace and fill it with nubile slaves. Groundsel squirmed in his seat at 
the thought. He knew he was not a handsome man: short, squat, 
wide-shouldered and bulky, he had none of the clean lines of the 
athlete. His muscles were ridged and ugly, his body hairy, his arms 
inordinately long. As a slave he had been called Ape, and the masters 
and other servants laughed at him. Then he became Groundsel, for his 
job was to collect seeds for the feeding of the chickens. The name had 
weighed on him like a rock. 

He leaned back in his carved chair, his small button eyes closing so 
that he could the better re-live the memory of the last day. He had 
been given a beating by the senior servant, Joaper, and the whip had 
peeled away the skin of his back. He was taking it as he took all 
beatings -in a grim and defiant silence - when he saw the master’s 
wife grinning by the door of the barn. That dreadful smile carried all 
the weight of his anger and his shame, and it smote him with tongues 
of fire. He crouched and turned, grabbing the whip from Joaper’s hand 
and smashing a fearful blow to the servant’s face. The man crumpled 
without a sound. Then Groundsel had leapt upon the startled woman, 
dragging her back into a hay-covered stall and ripping her clothes from 
her. She had been too terrified to scream and his rage turned to lust. 

When he had finished with her, he stood and retied his leggings. Then 
he tapped his chest and looked down at her. 

‘Groundsel,’ he said. ‘The Ape. Now you are the Ape’s leavings. What 
does that make you?’ 

He strode from the barn with blood seeping from his whipped back and 
walked up the marble stairs into the house. A shocked servant tried to 
stop him, but he rammed the man’s head into a wall and climbed the 
winding stair. The master was sitting in his study with his son, an 
arrogant young noble fond of riding and whoring. It was the boy who 
reacted first. 

‘Get out, you miserable peasant!’ he ordered. Groundsel smiled and 
hammered his fist into the boy’s face. The older man ran towards his 


desk and swept up a dagger, but Groundsel was upon him before he 
could draw it from its scabbard and dragging the man to the wide 
balcony he pushed him against the edge. 

‘I have raped your wife. I will kill your son. Die with that thought!’ 

The old man screamed once as Groundsel toppled him from the high 
balcony to crash to the marble flagstones. The rebel slave grinned as 
he saw his master’s head split like a melon. Taking the dagger, he cut 
the throat of the unconscious youth, then walked back to the stables 
and saddled a gelding. The wife still lay where he had left her; he 
thought of killing her, but decided that to leave her was a greater 
punishment. 

And he rode for the forest. He had been foolish then, for he had not 
robbed the house, and it was two years before he had gained mastery 
of the first outlaw band he joined. Now, five years later, he was the 
undisputed master of the Western Wood. Five settlements paid tribute 
to him, and the Royal Road was making him richer than he had 
dreamed possible. 

He had thought to give himself another name -a proud name. Yet he 
had not. Groundsel was how he saw himself, and the sound of the 
name added fuel to his hatred. 

He closed the chests and dragged them back to their hiding-place in 
the false wall. It was not much of a hiding-place, but few would dare 
to approach Groundsel’s quarters in his absence. He rubbed at his 
close-cropped black hair. Rich, you are, he told himself. Yet something 
was lacking. 

It was curious, but until today he had not known what it was. Then the 
girl Arian had walked into the settlement, along with the poet Nuada. 
Groundsel watched her hip-swinging stride, her honey-gold hair 
blowing in the breeze, her high proud head — and need flared in him 
like a summer fire. He felt hot as he drank in her beauty; his mouth 
was dry. He rubbed the back of his hand over his face and then 
glanced at his fingers — noticing for the first time in days that they 
were filthy. Ducking back inside the hall, he rummaged through 
another chest which contained clothing he had stolen from his first 
forest victims. He found a shirt of yellow silk and took it out, along 
with a pair of brown leather trews and a belt emblazoned with silver 
circles. Then he ran from the rear of the Hall to the stream. Some 
women were washing clothes there, so he moved upstream and 
bathed, scrubbing himself with mint leaves and lavender blossoms. He 
wiped the surplus water from his body with his hands and dressed 
swiftly. The shirt was on the large side, but the sleeves were far too 


short; he rolled back the cuffs and pulled on the trews. Again they 
were too long. Removing them, he took his knife and cut several 
inches from each leg. Once dressed, he returned to the hall to 
welcome his guests. 

Like many others in the forest he had heard of the poet, and his first 
invitations had been courteously refused. Then Groundsel had sent a 
messenger with a gold coin - and the promise of more. 

The man had better be worth it, he had decided, or he’d cut his ears 
off. Arian and Nuada were waiting in the cool of the southern entrance 
when Groundsel appeared. Nuada gave a courtly bow -which pleased 
the robber -while Arian merely smiled. Groundsel’s delight was 
complete. 

‘Enter, enter,’ he said. ‘Welcome. I have heard wondrous tales of your 
skill, master poet. I trust you will not disappoint us, poor folk that we 
are.’ 

Nuada bowed again. ‘My Lord Groundsel, I can only hope that my poor 
talents prove worthy of the trust implicit in your invitation.’ 

‘I am no Lord,’ said Groundsel, sitting back on his chair and ordering 
wine to be brought for his guests. ‘Just a poor man trying to do his 
best for the people who need him. These are hard times. But I am not 
a Lord — nor would I want to be.’ 

‘A Lord,’ said Nuada, ‘is a man who commands respect from those who 
serve him, or fear from those obliged to serve him. He should also be 
a man of courage and leadership. Last year, I am told, a great fire 
sprang up, and men turned to you to save them, you organized bands 
of workers, dug a fire ditch, cleared the ground before the blaze and 
yourself worked alongside your men. That is heroic leadership, my 
Lord, sharing the dangers and inspiring your followers.’ Groundsel was 
lost for words. The fire would have destroyed his granary and winter 
would have brought Starvation and an end to his leadership. Could the 
fool not see that? But the words were pleasing, and he was beginning 
to see the value of his investment in the poet, he turned his attention 
to the girl, asking her name and straining to be cool and pleasant. He 
talked with them for an hour before having them escorted to an empty 
hut at the western edge of the village. When his men returned to 
explain that the woman and the man were not together, and desired 
separate accommodation, he was overjoyed. He ordered a second 
dwelling cleared, the resident family being moved to an overcrowded 
hut to the north. Naturally, there was no argument. 

Back at the first dwelling, Arian turned to Nuada. ‘You flatterer! Oh, 
my dear Lord Groundsel, what a hero you are!’ she mocked. 


Nuada grinned at her. ‘And you, I suppose, offered nothing by way of 
flattery yourself?’ 

‘What do you mean by that?’ 

‘He all but climbed into your breeches, but you just stood by smiling 
provocatively. Do not think to lecture me! I was raised at court, where 
the wrong word or look could see a man ruined - or worse. This is no 
different. Groundsel is like a king here and to go against him could 
result in unpleasant consequences.’ 

‘We are here on safe conduct,’ she reminded him. 

‘Oh, grow up, Arian. Safe conduct? The man is a savage. However, he 
is a rich savage, so that gives me a reason for being here. But if you 
will take my advice, you will leave as soon as it is dark.’ 

Arian had already decided on that very course of action, but the poet’s 
words stung her. 

‘I shall do nothing of the sort. I will leave tomorrow after breakfast. I 
wouldn’t miss your performance before these rabble for ... for a gold 
piece!’ 

He shrugged. ‘As you will. I should have known better than to advise a 
woman so worldly-wise. But when he drags you to his bed, I think you 
will find there is a pig inside that silk shirt.’ 

‘Jealous, poet? Are you attracted to men?’ She hurled the question like 
a barb, and was furious when he laughed at her. 

‘You are angry, Arian,’ he said. ‘Was I not attentive enough on the 
journey here? Did you expect me to ask you to share my blanket? How 
remiss of me!’ 

The truth of his words made her blush furiously. Had he so invited her 
she would have refused, but she had expected him to make an 
advance. Her hand snaked out to crack against his cheek. For a 
moment anger flared, then he smiled, bowed and left the hut. 

Arian watched him go, then swore under her breath. The poet was 
right; it was foolish to trust Groundsel’s safe conduct. And yet she had 
only risked this journey in the hope that it would inspire some concern 
in the heart of Llaw Gyffes. In that she had failed miserably. She 
pictured Groundsel and his lust-filled eyes and slowly pulled the 
hunting-knife from its sheath at her side. The edge was honed to 
razor-sharpness and curled up into a double-edge crescent. Drag her 
to his bed? 

She slid the knife back in its scabbard. And waited. 
Arian sat beside Groundsel as Nuada stood on a central table and wove 



his spell over the seventy or so men who had crowded into the hall. 
His talent filled the room - his voice mellow and musical, his words rich 
and rolling, his stories vivid and compelling. Even Arian, who often 
found the battles of men incomprehensible, was swept along by his 
tales of heroes and maidens, swordsmen and sorcerers. 

His delivery was subtly different here, she noticed -more quickfire and 
the stories less romantic, as if he had gauged his audience in the 
moment that he stepped to the table. The heroes he spoke of were 
common men, who had risen to the ranks of the great or who had 
fought against the evils of the monarchy in times past. 

Groundsel was as spellbound as his men, his dark eyes fixed on the 
poet. Nuada closed his performance with the tale of the great fire, and 
Groundsel’s part in it, emphasizing the strength of character and the 
powers of leadership that were gifts from the gods to men of certain 
futures. The hall exploded with applause and Nuada bowed to the 
audience, then turned to bow even lower in Groundsel’s direction. 

The outlaw leader stood and returned the bow. Bathed in sweat Nuada 
leapt from the table, swept up a flagon of ale and downed it. 

‘You are a man of great talent,’ Groundsel told him as he joined the 
outlaw and Arian at the far end of the hall. 

‘My talent would be as nothing without the exploits of heroes, my 
Lord.’ 

‘How did you come to hear of the fire?’ 

‘Everywhere I have travelled men talk of it,’ Nuada answered. Arian 
leaned back and shook her head. She said nothing. Early in the 
evening Groundsel had put his arm around her, stroking her neck or 
patting her thigh. But when Nuada had begun speaking he had 
forgotten her presence. It was galling. And as for the fire. . . everyone 
knew how Groundsel had done nothing until his own granary was 
threatened. Three villages were destroyed and fourteen people died 
before he even stirred from his own settlement. 

In that moment, Arian came close to hating Nuada for glorifying the 
incident. 

Groundsel turned to her and grinned. Sweat had drenched the yellow 
silk shirt and it was creased over his bulging belly. His hand pawed at 
her thigh. ‘You are a fire in my blood,’ he whispered, pushing wet lips 
against her cheek. 

She blushed deeply and pulled away from him, but his brawny arm 
circled her shoulder to drag her in against him. 


The door at the far end of the hall opened and two men entered. The 
first was drenched in blood; the second was Llaw Gyffes. 

Llaw supported the wounded man, helping him to a chair. Men rushed 
towards them, blocking Arian’s view. Groundsel leapt to his feet and 
ran forward, knocking aside any in his way. 

‘What in the devil’s name is going on?’ he roared. Llaw stood and faced 
the shorter man. 

‘There are beasts loose in the forest. I have never seen their like. I 
found this man crawling in the undergrowth about a mile away to the 
east; he said his family had been slaughtered. I carried him half-way 
here, then I saw one of them - eight to ten feet tall, with the head of a 
wolf and a body like a bear. It was feeding on a slaughtered bull and 
ignored me. In the distance I saw a second creature; I would swear it 
had two heads.’ 

Noise erupted all around them, for many of the men at the hall had 
homes in the woods and valleys beyond and had travelled in to hear 
Nuada. 

‘Silence!’ bellowed Groundsel, kneeling by the wounded man and 
ripping the blood-drenched shirt from him. Four jagged tears had 
gouged his chest and it was obvious from the lines that it had been a 
single slash. That made the paw a prodigious size. No bear could 
match it, not even the towering black grizzly of the high mountains. 
‘Carry him to the witch woman,’ ordered Groundsel, ‘or he’ll bleed to 
death.’ 

As the man was carried out, Groundsel turned to Llaw. ‘You saw two of 
them. How do you know there are more?’ 

The tall warrior scratched at his red-gold beard. ‘The howling,’ he said 
simply. ‘The beast by the bull let out a howl, and it was answered from 
many points.’ 

‘Aye, I heard the strange howling,’ said a man. ‘It was from the north. 
I thought it a trick of the wind.’ 

‘And I saw a track,’ put in another. ‘On the way here, Groundsel. Big, 
twice the size of a lion’s.’ 

Other men began to shout and the clamour grew. 

‘What a night for heroes!’ came a voice and the crowd swung to see 
the poet standing on his table once more. ‘If there are two beasts 
savaging the countryside, are there not heroes enough here to hunt 
them down? We have Groundsel, the Lord of the Fire, and Llaw Gyffes, 
who freed the prisoners. And as I look around me I see other men 



strong men, proud men. There is a saga waiting out there - and I shall 
sing it. We will place the carcasses at the far end of the hall and build 
a fire, and dance. And your bravery will become immortal.’ 

Those in the crowd screamed their approval and moved to the walls to 
gather their bows and knives. 

‘Wait!’ yelled Groundsel. ‘It will be dawn soon and I’ll have no wild 
men rushing around in the darkness sending shafts after everything 
that moves. We’ll kill more of each other than any beast.’ 

Llaw nodded. ‘We’ll need to lure them into a trap. I have no wish to 
walk into a darkened lair hunting the things.’ 

‘Get some rest,’ Groundsel told the men, then stalked back to his seat. 

Arian rose as Llaw approached. ‘I did not expect to see you this far 
west,’ she said. ‘Are you lost?’ 

‘I had intended to leave for Cithaeron, but the howling disturbed me,’ 
he told her. ‘I tried to skirt it, but I sensed the beasts had my scent so 
I cut west. What do you make of it, poet?’ 

Nuada shrugged. ‘There are many songs in legend about werebeasts, 
but I have never seen one. It is said that, far to the east, there is a 
rich land where the mines are dug by giant ants with the heads of 
men.’ 

Groundsel swore. ‘It is always far to the east, or the west, or the 
north. It seems to me that legends always originate far from where 
men can study them. However, that hardly matters. I too have heard 
the howling, but I doubt not that the size of the creatures is 
exaggerated. We are dealing with a rogue bear — large, but still a 
bear.’ 

Llaw reddened. ‘It is not wise to call a man a liar — especially a man 
you do not know.’ 

‘You have it right, Stronghand. I do not know you — therefore I have 
no reason to trust either you or your judgement. I say it is a bear. The 
dawn will tell.’ 

‘Indeed it will,’ agreed Llaw. ‘Until then, I will sleep.’ 

‘I’ll show you to my hut,’ said Arian swiftly and now it was Groundsel 
whose colour darkened. 

‘Is this your man?’ he demanded, his eyes bright. 

‘No,’ she replied. ‘He is a friend of my family.’ 

‘Good,’ said Groundsel. ‘I look forward to the hunt with your "friend of 
the family".’ 


Llaw tensed, but Arian seized his arm and the two of them left the hall 
and wandered out into the night. The gates of the stockade were once 
more shut, and guards patrolled the wall. 

‘Why did you come here?’ Llaw asked. ‘You want to be bedded by that 
son of a sow?’ 

‘How dare you? I go where I will. I am not your daughter; you have no 
right to question me.’ 

‘True enough,’ he admitted. Just then a piercing scream echoed from 
the woods and Llaw ran to the stockade wall and mounted the rough-
cut ladder to the palisade. ‘Can you see anything?’ he asked the 
sentry. 

‘No,’ replied the man, ‘but Daric slipped out about ten minutes ago. He 
was trying to get back to his family. What is the beast?’ 

‘I do not know,’ replied Llaw, ‘but it’s no damn bear.’ A black shadow 
moved from the trees, halted in the moonlight and looked up at the 
stockade. The sentry stared in horror at the grisly remains it was 
dragging. 

‘Daric did not make it,’ stated Llaw. 

‘I want no part in hunting that thing,’ said the sentry. 

Llaw watched until the beast moved back into the trees, then he 
slapped the sentry on the shoulder. ‘Think of the saga,’ he said. 

The man’s reply was short, foul and to the point, and Llaw chuckled. 

Arian still stood staring into the blackness of the forest. ‘Can such a 
beast be killed by arrows?’ she asked. 

‘It lives and breathes,’ said Llaw. ‘Therefore it can die. Now show me 
this hut.’ 

* 

Llaw Gyffes could not sleep as he lay on the narrow cot bed in the 
small hut. He could hear Arian breathing beside him and yearned to 
reach out and touch her, to draw her to him. Guilt washed over him. 
Lydia had been the love of his life and their few years together had 
filled him with a happiness he could never have known without her. As 
a young apprentice he had courted her for four years, and had worked 
hard to save the money for his own smithy. Lydia’s father had always 
maintained that he was not the man for her, and had dreamed of 
marrying her to a young nobleman. He had disdained their wedding, 
and had not spoken to Llaw again; he died three years after the 
marriage. Lydia’s mother had moved north to be with her family, but 
she at least had always treated Llaw with courtesy, if not with love. 


Through it all Llaw had been filled with a burning desire to make Lydia 
happy. But at the end her father had been right. Lydia died a terrible 
death - one that would have been avoided had she not married the 
giant smith. He would never forget the sight of her lying on the bed, 
her dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. 

Yet now he lay with another woman, and his thoughts were not 
innocent of desire. 

He rolled to his side, facing away from Arian. He could smell the 
perfume of her body and see, without seeing, the oval beauty of her 
face, the sparkling challenge of her eyes and her mocking smile. 

‘Are you awake?’ she whispered, and he heard her body move on the 
bed. He did not reply; there was nothing to say. He was being 
betrayed by his body, which yearned for her, and even his mind was at 
war. It is natural, he told himself, for a man to desire a mate. Tragedy 
could not change that. And yet. . . and yet... If he found peace and 
love with another woman, would not that make him forget Lydia? And 
then she would be truly dead -lost and forgotten, as if she had never 
been. He could not stomach that thought. She had not deserved her 
fate and did not deserve this treachery now. 

Llaw lay silently until the dawn, then rose and watched the rising sun. 
Beside him Arian lay sleeping, her arms tight against her body, her 
long legs curled up like a child. Llaw looked down at her; his fingers 
brushed the hair back from her cheek and he felt the softness of her 
skin. 

Her eyes opened as he touched her. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked, 
yawning and stretching. Her shirt slid up to expose an inch of midriff 
and Llaw moved away to the door. Outside the men were gathering 
and he saw Groundsel, dressed now in hunting leather and carrying a 
bow. The squat outlaw leader was also wearing two short swords with 
curved blades. 

Llaw gathered his double-headed hand-axe and joined the men. Nuada 
waved and approached him. 

‘It should be quite a day,’ said the poet, grinning. ‘The sun is high, the 
sky is clear. Tonight will be a fine time of feasting.’ 

‘You have no idea of what today will be, poet. This is not a stag hunt. 
Are you coming with us?’ 

‘Of course. How can I tell the saga if I do not witness it?’ 

‘That does not seem to have affected your talents thus far,’ observed 
Llaw. 


The group split into three sections and scouts were sent out to search 
for spoor. Llaw went with Groundsel, Arian, Nuada and three others, 
and led them back along the trail to where he had seen the beast 
feeding. They found traces of blood, and a few split bones and several 
enormous tracks, but of the creature there was no sign. They stopped 
at midday by a stream and sat in a circle around a small fire. 

‘It has gone to ground,’ said Arian. ‘I think it must be sleeping in a 
cave somewhere. But the ground to the north is rocky, and we’ll not 
be able to track it.’ 

‘Then we must bring it to us,’ stated Groundsel. ‘Last night it slew one 
of my men, so we know it has a taste for human meat.’ 

‘You keep saying it,’ Llaw remarked. ‘But there are more of them.’ 

‘So you say,’ snapped the outlaw leader. ‘This is my plan: We will 
journey back to the point of its last feeding and wait. It has probably 
buried some meat there and will return after dark.’ 

‘You will fight this creature at night?’ Arian whispered. ‘What if the 
clouds gather? Without a hunter’s moon the archers will be useless.’ 

Groundsel grinned. ‘We will sit by a fire - your friends here, and I. And 
we will talk, swap stories. You and the other archers will be hidden 
nearby in the trees, out of harm’s way. I think the beast will come to 
us.’ 

‘That is madness,’ said Arian. ‘And what will it prove?’ 

Groundsel’s eyes flickered towards Nuada, then he shrugged. ‘Can you 
think of a better plan, Llaw Gyifes?’ 

‘As you wish,’ Llaw muttered. ‘But I think you should gather in all the 
hunters. This creature will withstand many arrows.’ 

After the meal Groundsel ordered one of his men to sound the horn 
and the hunting parties converged to meet at a pre-selected spot, on a 
high hillside overlooking the stockade. Here a change was made to the 
original plan, for the first hunting group had found the remains of 
Daric’s family half-buried in a tree-shrouded hollow. 

‘It will return,’ said Groundsel. ‘Did you leave the bodies where they 
were?’ 

‘We did,’ replied a tall lean hunter named Dubarin, his face still grey 
with the shock of the find. ‘Believe me, Groundsel, the beast is large. 
Its stride length is over seven feet; it is no bear.’ 

‘As the poet said, we will nail its carcass to the hall doors tonight.’ 

Some of the men were sent back to the stockade but Groundsel, Llaw, 


Nuada and Arian journeyed into the hills with twenty bowmen, arriving 
at Daric’s cabin an hour before dusk. They were led to the bodies by 
Dubarin, who stopped short of the grisly grave and waved them on. 

‘I have no need to see it again,’ he said, turning aside. 

‘I don’t want to see it at all,’ declared Nuada, backing away, but Llaw 
Gyffes grabbed his arm and hauled him forward. 

‘Come now, poet, you can’t sing of it if you haven’t seen it!’ 

Nuada struggled, but Llaw’s grip was like iron and he was dragged to 
the shallow grave. An arm jutted from beneath the earth and the half-
eaten corpse of a young woman lay exposed, her entrails covered in 
dirt. Part of a child’s body lay close by. Nuada gagged and twisted 
away to vomit on the ground. Llaw knelt beside him. ‘Now you see,’ he 
said. ‘This is not some song. There are no Elven princes, no flame-
breathing dragons. I shall listen to your tale with interest - if we 
survive this hunt.’ 

‘Leave him be,’ said Arian. ‘It is hardly his fault that he has never seen 
death.’ 

Llaw stood and wandered to where Groundsel was issuing orders to 
the men. There were trees all around the hollow and he ordered the 
archers to climb them and prepare for a long wait. Arian took Nuada 
by the arm and led him to a thick-boled oak, helping him to climb to 
the lower branches. Groundsel moved some twenty paces from the 
bodies and built a fire; Llaw gathered wood and joined him. 

‘You know, of course,’ said Llaw, ‘that there is no need for us to sit out 
here in the open like this? The beast will return anyway.’ 

‘It will smell people. I want it to see there are only two of us.’ 

‘There is no one to hear us, Groundsel. What you want is to impress 
the girl. I am not a fool; I see the way you look at her.’ 

‘And I you,’ snapped the outlaw. ‘How is it you haven’t bedded her?’ 

Llaw sat down and removed his tinder-box from the pouch at his belt. 
Swiftly he lit the fire. ‘Maybe I will — when the time is right.’ 

Groundsel chuckled. ‘You think you’ll survive the night?’ 

‘If I don’t, I will not be alone. You may have ordered one - or more - of 
your archers to cut me down, but I won’t die until my axe is buried in 
what passes for your brain.’ 

‘I have ordered nothing of the kind,’ retorted Groundsel. ‘I need no 
help to kill a man. I was thinking of the beast.’ He strung his bow and 
removed three shafts from his quiver; having checked them for warp, 


he stuck them in the earth beside him. ‘Have you ever heard of a 
beast of ihis size?’ 

Llaw shrugged. ‘No. A merchant once told me of great cats in the east 
that could kill a bull and leap a fence carrying its carcass. But this is no 
cat.’ 

The sun sank slowly behind the mountains and the two men sat 
quietly, Llaw feeding the fire. Neither man stared directly into the 
flames, for the brightness would cause the pupils to contract and leave 
them virtually blind if they needed to scan the undergrowth. After a 
while, Groundsel spoke. 

‘If you deem it unnecessary to sit here, why do you do it?’ 

‘Perhaps for the same reason as you?’ 

‘To impress the lovely Arian? I don’t think so. You worry me, Llaw. 
Could it be that you want to die?’ 

‘You think, perhaps, that if we sit quietly in a safe place we will live for 
ever?’ responded Llaw, removing his axe from his belt and laying it in 
his lap. 

‘Did you really kill your wife?’ 

Llaw swung on Groundsel, his hand curling around the black haft of 
the axe. For some seconds he could not speak. 

‘My wife was . . . strangled by the Duke’s nephew. He raped her and 
killed her. I killed him. Do not -ever - repeat that calumny. You won’t 
understand what I am to say to you, but I’ll say it anyway: I loved 
Lydia. More than life. Much, much more than life.’ 

‘So, you are looking to die here? Not a good end. You think to join 
your Lydia? Believe me, Llaw, there is no one to join. Look in that pit 
over there. That’s death, and that’s all there is. Darkness and 
corruption.’ 

‘When did you become a philosopher?’ hissed Llaw. 

An owl screeched in the night and the two men froze, listening to the 
wind sighing in the leaves. Groundsel glanced up; the clouds were 
gathering. 

‘It will be a dark night,’ he observed. 

‘The night of the beast,’ said Llaw. His words hung in the air. 

Groundsel hawked and spat. ‘Are you frightened?’ he asked. 

‘Of course. And so are you - I can smell your sweat.’ 

Groundsel chuckled and drew his swords. ‘I stole them from a Nomad 


merchant. Silver steel, Llaw, the finest I have ever seen. They are 
from the east.’ 

‘There’s good ore there,’ said Llaw. ‘They make impressive blades and 
horseshoes that will last a year. I’d like to have gone there and 
learned the craft. May I?’ he asked, holding out his hand. Groundsel 
reversed a blade and handed it hilt-first to the former smith. ‘Yes,’ said 
Llaw, running his fingers reverently along the curved blade. ‘Beautiful 
work. Layer upon layer of fine steel, tempered with the blood of the 
craftsman. The hilt is held in place by a tiny sliver of ivory.’ He tapped 
it out and removed the blade. ‘See? Here is the mark of the craftsman. 
Ohei-sen. This sword is over three hundred years old.’ 

‘It’s worth a lot then?’ Groundsel asked. 

Llaw slid the hilt back in place, locking it with the ivory. ‘Worth? 
Tonight you will see what it is worth. But in the east you would receive 
maybe 200 Raq - in gold — for each sword.’ 

‘That much? Then maybe I’ll go there one day.’ 

A movement in the undergrowth caused Groundsel to reach for his 
bow, while Llaw eased himself to his feet, wiped his sweating palms on 
his leggings and took up his axe. 

The undergrowth parted and Arian walked to the fire. ‘I was getting 
cold,’ she said, dropping her bow to squat by the blaze and holding out 
her hands to its warmth. 

‘Perhaps you were missing me?’ suggested Groundsel. 

‘Behind you!’ yelled Nuada and Llaw swung as the beast exploded from 
the undergrowth, charging across the small clearing on all. fours. For a 
moment Llaw froze. The size of the creature was beyond anything he 
had imagined. Groundsel swept up his bow and loosed a shaft which 
glanced from the monster’s skull. As the beast neared, Llaw - realizing 
Arian was behind him -hurled himself forward. Arrows flashed into the 
racing form, but did not check its speed. Llaw’s axe hammered down 
to smash into the creature’s shoulder, but its weight struck him hurling 
him back, the axe torn from his grip. Arian dived to her right 
as the beast turned towards her, its great paws scattering the fire. 

Groundsel had sprinted some yards to the left and hastily he notched 
another arrow, sending it to punch home into the grey fur of the 
beast’s back. More than twenty shafts bristled from the creature. The 
hunter Dubarin leapt from a nearby tree and ran at the wolf-beast with 
a lance. As he approached the creature sprang forward, sweeping 
aside the weapon with a great paw. Talons raked down, ripping 
Dubarin’s face from his skull. Coolly, Arian loosed two shafts and the 


beast turned, its red eyes focusing on the slender bow-woman. 
Groundsel ran forward with his two swords in his hands. The creature 
rose on its hind legs and Groundsel ducked under a vicious sweep of 
its talons and buried his right-hand blade in its belly. Its forelegs 
swept around him, the talons lancing into his back. He bellowed in 
rage and pain and rammed his left-hand sword into the beast’s armpit. 
Then Llaw Gyffes, axe once more in his hand, leapt to the creature’s 
back, hooking his fingers into the shaggy mane of its neck. The axe 
rose and fell, again and again. Finally the wolf-beast released 
Groundsel, who staggered back into the arms of Arian. 

Two men now ran to aid Llaw. The first died as talons ripped into his 
belly, the second plunged a lance into the beast’s breast. It tried to 
retreat back into the undergrowth, but more men ran in to encircle it 
... and all the while Llaw Gyffes clung to its back, hammering his axe 
against the corded muscles of the creature’s throat. At last it grew 
weaker and fell forward. Tearing a lance from the hands of a man near 
him, Groundsel moved in to help Llaw. The beast’s huge head came up 
and Groundsel buried the point of the lance in its mouth, using all his 
weight to drive the weapon through its spine. 

Llaw stepped from the monster’s back just as the clouds cleared and 
moonlight bathed the scene. The creature was dead. 

Snow began to fall as Groundsel pulled the spear clear of the gaping 
mouth and used it to measure the beast’s length. It was over nine feet 
long from taloned toes to gaping maw. 

‘We’ll never drag this back to the stockade,’ said Groundsel. ‘Cut its 
damned head off.’ 

‘We ought to see to those wounds,’ suggested Arian. ‘You’re leaking 
blood badly.’ 

‘There’s no good way to lose blood,’ responded Groundsel and kneeling 
by the creature, he tore one sword loose from its belly. The other was 
snapped just below the hilt; he swore, and looked up at Llaw Gyffes. 
‘You know, before tonight this would just have been a broken sword. 
Now it’s 200 gold Raq lost. There’s a moral there.’ 

‘You can always steal another,’ suggested Llaw. Groundsel’s eyes 
narrowed as in the distance an eerie howl echoed in the forest. 
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we go after the others. I’ll not have these 
creatures in my forest. Now where’s that cursed poet? I want to hear 
my song.’ 


CHAPTER TEN 

Errin opened his eyes and almost wept with joy at the absence of pain. 
By his bed sat an elderly woman in a high-necked dress of blue wool 
edged with silver thread. ‘You are healed, young man. The bone is 
knit.’ 

‘Thank you, lady. Your magic must be very strong.’ 

‘And expensive,’ she told him. ‘But do not thank me — thank the Lord 
Cartain, who has paid handsomely for my services.’ She rose and 
walked from the room and Errin sat up. He was in a small bedchamber 
with two oval windows; a fire was blazing in the hearth and he could 
hear the cries of gulls from the roof above. He lay back on the pillows. 
The ride along the forest road had been a torture beyond his ability to 
endure; his broken leg had swollen and a fever had taken him. 
Vaguely he remembered Ubadai tying him to the saddle. And there 
were people . . . His hazy recollection was of a column of refugees 
snaking their way along the Royal Road as the snow began to fall. And 
weird cries in the night. . . the howls of wolves? It was difficult to 
remember anything but the grinding pain. 

Ubadai entered, bearing a tray on which was a bowl of broth and a 
plate of fruit. ‘Better you eat,’ he said. ‘You still look bad.’ 

‘Where are we?’ Errin asked the stocky tribesman. 

Ubadai set the tray on the bed and wandered to the window, pushing 
it open against the snow on the sill. ‘Pertia Port,’ he answered. ‘Our 
ship leaves tomorrow for Cithaeron.’ 

Errin finished the broth, which carried just a hint of the flavour of beef, 
and ate two of the apples on the side plate. With the window open he 
could smell the sea. He smiled and felt good to be alive. 

Alive? 

Suddenly he saw again Dianu tied to the stake . . . the flames curling 
up beneath her, the look in her eyes as he rode through the mob, the 
hope dying as he bent his bow, the flight of the arrow as it ended her 
life. 

He groaned and Ubadai strode to him, his dark slanted eyes full of 
concern. ‘Old witch said all pain gone.’ 

‘I am all right,’ Errin told him, blinking back the tears from his eyes- 

Then why cry? Not good for a man.’ 

‘Tears for the dead, Ubadai. That’s all.’ 


The Nomad tribesman grunted. ‘Leg healed; you should stand. Test it 
before the witch leaves.’ 

‘It’s fine. I’ll get up in a while. Who is this Lord Cartain?’ 

‘No Lord,’ replied Ubadai. ‘Nomad merchant. He is waiting downstairs. 
Shall I send him away?’ 

Errin chuckled. ‘The man has just seen to my health. Why on earth 
would I send him away?’ 

Ubadai sniffed- ‘Nothing for nothing,’ he said, returning to the window. 
‘Good ship. Makes Cithaeron trip three . . . four times a year. Good 
time to sail. No storms.’ 

‘What is bothering you?’ 

Ubadai swung to face his young lord, but Errin could read nothing in 
the flat, expressionless face. ‘You want me to bring him to you?’ 

‘Yes, I would like to thank him.’ 

Ubadai shook his head. ‘I think, maybe, we miss 

that ship.’ 

‘Nonsense. Bring him up.’ Errin swung from the bed and moved to the 
chair by the window, where his clothes lay neatly folded; they had 
been cleaned and perfumed. He dressed swiftly and was pulling on his 
thigh-length riding boots when Ubadai returned. Behind the tribesman 
was a tall hawk-faced man, dark-eyed and wearing a gold circlet on his 
brow. The man bowed. 

‘It is a privilege to meet you, Lord Errin,’ said Cartain. 

‘I cannot see that it should be a privilege,’ answered Errin, offering his 
hand. 

Cartain shook it briefly. ‘You risked your life to save the Lady Dianu - 
and fought one of the dread Knights. You are a man of courage.’ 

‘I failed,’ said Errin. ‘Let that be an end to it.’ 

Cartain smiled. ‘May I sit?’ Errin nodded and the merchant arranged 
his flowing purple robes and sat in a high-backed chair. 

‘Why have you helped me? Were you a friend to Dianu?’ 

‘Not a friend exactly. I arranged her . . . escape. I was retained to 
organize the removal of the family wealth and saw to it that Dianu’s 
sister was safely escorted here. I was waiting for the Lady Dianu 
herself to follow us, but then word came that she was delayed . . . 
hoping, I think, that you would join her. And then . . .’ He spread his 
hands. 


‘Still you have not explained why you helped me?’ 

‘There is nothing sinister in my actions, Lord Errin. I am now the . . . 
trustee, if you will, of the lady’s estate. I take my duties seriously. The 
Lady Sheera is now the beneficiary and I had hoped to deliver her to 
Cithaeron.’ 

‘Had hoped?’ 

‘She is not here,’ said Cartain, his dark eyes locking to ErrirFs own. 
‘She has it in her mind to avenge her sister and unbeknownst to me or 
my people, she engaged two men to lead her back through the forest. 
I believe she plans to kill Okessa.’ 

‘She is a child,’ said Errin. ‘Her scheme is madness.’ 

‘I know she has spent a number of years in Furbolg, Lord Errin, but to 
be seventeen is hardly a child. She is tall, well-formed and remarkably 
headstrong. I fear she has betrayed herself. Here in Pertia - though we 
are mercifully free from the terrors of the Realm proper — there are 
spies and assassins aplenty. And I had word yesterday that the King 
has ordered the fleet to Pertia; they will arrive in around ten days, and 
from then on the port will be closed to Nomad refugees.’ 

‘You said you feared Sheera had betrayed herself? Explain.’ 

‘One of the men she hired is known to be a King’s man. He is a spy 
and a killer; his reputation is loathsome.’ 

‘I do not see what I can do for you?’ 

‘Who else is there to bring her back? Your man here is said to be one 
of the finest trackers in the western lands. And there is something 
else, my Lord. There are strange tales of monsters loose in the woods. 
I would not like the Lady Sheera to suffer the fate of her sister.’ 

Errin sat back on the bed. ‘Nor would I, sir. But I am no warrior. 
Violence sickens me and I have no skill with weapons. Could you not 
find a more .worthy rescuer?’ 

‘It is my experience, Lord Errin, that you can rarely measure a man’s 
worth by his ability to deal injury to his fellows. But in that, at least, I 
can help you.’ With his left hand he lifted an apple from the discarded 
tray and, with his right, drew a dagger from his belt. With a flick of the 
wrist he tossed the apple in the air. His dagger flashed in a blur of 
movement and the fruit dropped neatly into his left hand. When he 
opened his fingers, the apple fell into four pieces. 

‘A splendid trick, sir, but how does it help me?’ Errin asked. 

Cartain stood and unbuckled the silver-edged leather belt he wore, 
passing it to Errin. ‘Please put it on, my Lord.’ 


‘I have a belt.’ 

‘Not like this. This was made by Ollathair, greatest of Craftsmen. 
Merely touch the buckle and whisper his name, and you will find your 
speed of hand and eye increased. It has saved my life on three 
occasions.’ 

Errin buckled the belt in place. ‘Now go to the far wall and say the 
name, my Lord.’ He did as he was bid. The buckle felt warm as his 
fingers touched it. ‘Ollathair,’ he whispered. 

He watched as Cartain slowly rose. The merchant’s arm drew back and 
his dagger sailed towards Errin, who reached up and caught it easily. 
Ubadai, with uncharacteristic lack of speed, drew his own dagger and 
made his way on leaden feet towards the merchant. 

Errin touched the belt once more. ‘Stop!’ he shouted, as Ubadai leapt 
for Cartain. 

‘He tried to kill you!’ the tribesman stormed. 

‘No,’ said Errin. ‘He was proving a point. I take it you hurled that 
dagger with all your might?’ 

‘I did indeed.’ 

‘This is a precious gift, Cartain; I have never seen the like. Why would 
you do this? It is more than merely a duty to a client.’ 

‘Yes. I fled Furbolg when the killings began, but even I did not realize 
how far the slaughter would go. I am now actively involved in 
financing an army to destroy Ahak - and hopefully all that he stands 
for. But it will take time. I need men like you, Errin - good men, loyal 
men, men of good family. No one will flock to the banner of a Nomad 
merchant, but they will to men like yourself. Fetch Sheera back within 
ten days and we will sail for Cithaeron and raise a force to free Gabala. 
Will you do it?’ 

Errin grinned as he heard Ubadai curse. ‘Of course I will do it. Tell me 
all you can about the men with Sheera.’ 

Cartain did so and they spoke until dusk. Then the merchant rose to 
leave. ‘I will have horses and provisions ready for you at dawn. There 
are snowstorms over the forest, and I understand the Royal Road is 
blocked. And there is one other thing you should know, Errin.’ 

‘What is that?’ 

‘Sheera hates you. She sees you as the reason her sister stayed 
behind, and she knows it was your arrow that killed Dianu. It is not 
just Okessa that she seeks to kill - you understand?’ 


Errin nodded. ‘I understand very well.’ 

Manannan waited in a grove outside the village while Ruad Ro-fhessa, 
the Armourer Ollathair, worked his magic in a granite cave hidden by 
the trees. Kuan cropped grass nearby. The Once-Knight had shaved 
and the wind felt good on his skin. 

As dusk approached the wizard stepped from the cave and stretched. 
His face was grey with exhaustion as he walked wearily to Manannan 
and sat beside him on the grass. 

‘It is ready,’ said Ruad. ‘One Word of Power will open the Gate. But I 
am too tired; give me a few moments to gather my strength.’ 

‘Take all the time you need. I am in no hurry.’ 

‘I am sorry for all that I have caused,’ said Ruad. ‘I hope you can 
believe that. I wanted only what was good -for the Knights and the 
Realm.’ 

‘I know. I should have gone with them at the first. I too carry guilt, 
Ollathair. And I wonder what became of Morrigan. I should have gone 
to her; I know she never loved me in the way she cared for 
Samildanach, but I owed it to her to go.’ 

‘You would not have found her. I went to her home and she was gone. 
Her parents told me she had run off in the night, taking no clothing nor 
money. They think she took her own life.’ 

‘Poor Morrigan,’ Manannan whispered. ‘To fall in love with a Knight 
pledged to celibacy and then to watch him ride into Hell. Are we fools, 
Ollathair? We rode to the Nine Duchies. We strove to bring justice. And 
what did we achieve? Look at the world!’ 

‘The Knights of the Gabala were a force for Harmony for centuries,’ 
said Ruad. ‘What did we achieve? I ask your own question of you. Look 
at the world now the Knights are gone! Now come with me, I have a 
gift.’ 

Ruad pushed himself to his feet and led the way inside the cave, 
where two candles were burning. On a wooden tree, shining like 
ghostly silver, was Manan-nan’s armour restored to shimmering 
beauty. A new white plume had been added to the helm. 

‘Put it on. I will help you.’ 

‘How did you do this?’ 

‘I made another Gate to the Citadel and retrieved it. Come, wear it, in 
pride and honour.’ 

Manannan stripped his clothing and donned the leather under-tunic, 


adding the mail habergeon. Slowly he buckled on the breastplate, 
fastened the shoulder-plates and stood while Ruad settled the greaves 
into place. He pulled on the silver gauntlets and lastly lifted the dread 
helm. 

‘This held me prisoner for six lonely years. Will it do so again?’ 

‘No. There are no special spells, but the armour is still magic and will 
protect you against most weapons of evil.’ 

Manannan lowered the helm into place and twisted the neck-plates 
into the grooves at the base of the helmet. He lifted the visor. ‘It feels 
larger.’ 

‘You have no beard, Manannan. You are as you were on that night six 
years ago. Have you prayed?’ 

The Once-Knight smiled grimly. ‘Not for a very long time.’ 

‘Then do it now - Knight of the Gabala.’ 

‘To do so now would be hypocrisy. Come, Ollathair, open the Gate.’ 

They walked out into the waning light and Manannan called Kuan to 
him. He stepped into the saddle and waited. Ollathair knelt in prayer 
for several minutes, then lifted his arm and spoke two Words of Power. 

Before the horseman the darkness gathered, forming into a great 
square. A hiss of escaping air came from the centre of the blackness 
and a long tunnel appeared, from which blew an icy wind. 

Kuan backed away, but Manannan whispered words of comfort. 

‘Ride now!’ shouted Ollathair. ‘I can hold it for but a few moments 
more.’ 

Fear rose in Manannan’s heart, colder than the wind from the tunnel. 
His body began to tremble and his heart pounded erratically. ‘Dear 
Gods,’ he whispered. Kuan reared as unearthly screams came from the 
tunnel and Manannan dragged his blade from its scabbard. 

‘In the name of All Holiness - ride!’ screamed Ollathair. 

Lifting a gauntleted hand to his helm, Manannan pulled shut the visor. 
Then, with a bellowed battle-cry, he kicked Kuan into a run and rode, 
sword in hand, beyond the Gate. 

Lamfhada groaned in his sleep and began to shiver. Across the hut, 
Elodan stirred and sat up; he moved across to the youth, who was 
now rolling his head and moaning. 

Elodan touched Lamfhada’s shoulder. ‘Wake up, you are dreaming.’ 

Suddenly Lamfhada screamed. His hand rose and a golden flash of 


light exploded from his fingers to hurl Elodan across the floor. The 
Knight struggled to his knees, gasping for breath, as Lamfhada awoke 
and swung his legs from the bed. 

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, seeing the Knight crouched on the floor. 
‘What the Hell did you do, boy?’ 
‘Nothing. I heard a noise and woke,’ answered Lamfhada, mystified. 
Elodan rose. He lit a lantern and held it in front of his chest; the skin 


was red and burned in a wide circle from his neck to his belly. 
‘What is that? How did you do it?’ Lamfhada asked. 
‘I didn’t. You did. You were dreaming; I tried to wake you, then 


lightning flashed from your hand.’ 
‘I don’t remember anything - except the hooded man. It was a 
nightmare - I have had it often: A man chanting on a hillside; then he 


turns into a giant wolf. And there is a mist and a sword. But it is all 
hazy now.’ 
‘Well, the lightning was real, Lamfhada. You have a magic in you.’ 
Elodan moved back to his bed and sat down, while Lamfhada added 


fuel to the dying fire in the brazier and stoked it to life. The Knight sat 
in silence for some moments, lost in thought, then he glanced up at 
the blond youth. ‘A traveller came to the village today. He talked of a 
wizard and a Healer in the forest to the east of us; a one-eyed wizard, 
Lamfhada. I think it must be the man you spoke of.’ 


‘It is,’ said Lamfhada softly. ‘I sense his presence in the forest when I 
fly the Yellow. I wish I could go to him.’ 
‘Why should you not?’ 
‘I would be lost as soon as I passed out of sight of the village.’ 
‘Does he have a great power?’ asked the Knight. 
‘Yes.’ 


‘Could he ... heal this?’ Elodan raised the stump of his right arm. 
‘I do not know. I think that he could ... I think he can do anything he 
wishes.’ 


‘Then I will help you to find him.’ Lamfhada looked away. ‘He may not 
be able - or willing - to help you, Elodan. He can be a hard man.’ The 
Knight shrugged. ‘Then I will be no worse off than I am. We will leave 
in the morning.’ 


‘I don’t know . . .’ 



Elodan smiled grimly. ‘You are thinking of the stories of the beasts in 
the greenwood. Have you seen any?’ 

‘No, but old Tomar saw one and he said it was ten feet tall. And the 
howling . . .’ 

‘You think these village huts would stop such a creature? Well, they 
would not. You are no safer here than out in the forest. Will you travel 
with me?’ 

‘Yes, I will. I need to see Ruad again.’ 

‘Good.’ 

They set off into the snow-shrouded forest at first light. Elodan had 
borrowed a thick sheepskin jerkin and a cloak of white wool. He wore a 
small canvas pack filled with oats and dried meat, and carried a 
hatchet with a large curved blade. Lamfhada had cut slits in two 
blankets and wore them both like capes, belted at the waist. He took 
Arian’s spare bow and a quiver of arrows. By mid-afternoon the 
walkers had travelled some eight miles to the east. 

Twice they had seen large tracks, and once had heard a weird howling 
to the north. 

Just before dusk they arrived at the banks of a wide river. A thin sheet 
of ice had formed on the surface. 

‘How do we cross it?’ asked Lamfhada. 

‘We’ll search for some narrows,’ said Elodan, setting off towards the 
south. They walked for another hour, but found nowhere to cross. At 
last they came to an abandoned hut; inside Elodan built a fire and they 
ate some oats and meat. 

In the night Lamfhada awoke to the sounds of bestial screams. He 
walked to the door and looked out into the darkness, but could see 
nothing. He built up the fire and settled down once more. 

At dawn the travellers emerged into the cold air. Elodan stopped and 
pointed at the ground before the hut where huge paw-marks could be 
seen in the snow. 

The Knight stood and examined the hut walls. They were made of thin 
timbers, crudely nailed into place. ‘Help me,’ he said. Then he walked 
to the corner of the building and wedged his hatchet-blade between 
two timbers, levering an edge loose. Lamfhada took hold of the wood 
and between them they ripped out a plank some ten feet long and two 
feet wide. ‘One more,’ said Elodan. They carried the planks to the 
river’s edge and Elodan moved up and down the bank, seeking out a 
place where; the ice seemed thickest. Then he slid one plank out on to 


the ice and, lifting the other plank to his shoulder, carefully stepped on 
to the wood. The ice crunched and crackled, but did not give. He 
walked slowly out on to the river, then laid the other plank in front of 
the first and stepped on to it. ‘Now you,’ called Elodan. Black cracks 
snaked out from the ice and Lamfhada moved swiftly forward. 

Together they eased the first plank round and pushed it to the front. 

Slowly, and with great care, they inched their way across the frozen 
water. With the opposite shore close they heard a hideous growl and 
Elodan turned. 

Behind them on the bank stood a towering creature with black scaled 
skin, grey-furred at the shoulder. It dropped to all fours and charged 
across the ice towards them. 

‘Run!’ Elodan ordered Lamfhada. 

‘But the ice!’ 

‘Damn the ice! Run!’ Lamfhada leapt from the plank, slithered and 
almost fell, but then began to run. The ice crunched beneath his feet, 
but did not give until he was almost at the bank. He dropped into a 
few inches of water and pulled himself to solid ground. Swinging 
round, he saw Elodan standing on the plank, axe in hand. Then the 
Knight leapt from the platform and moved to his right where the ice 
was weakest. Lamfhada saw him dive forward, his arms and legs 
spread, and watched his body slide further out on to the ice. The beast 
changed direction - and charged Elodan. The Knight rolled to his belly 
and lifted the hatchet smashing it to the ice again and again. Great 
cracks rippled out. A sheet of ice tipped Elodan into the water. The 
beast tried to stop, but another sheet gave way and with a great 
splash it toppled into the river. For a moment only its head came clear, 
then it was sucked away below the surface. Lamfhada saw Elodan 
holding on to the ice. The youth stood and ran along the bank, seeking 
a way through to the knight. 

Elodan saw him. ‘Stay back,’ he shouted and tried to pull himself up on 
to the ice, but with only one hand he could not gain purchase. The ice 
gave once more . . . and Elodan slid from sight. ‘No!’ Lamfhada 
screamed. 

He scrambled along the river bank for almost a mile, for he could see 
the dark form of his friend floating beneath the ice. But after almost 
half an hour he knew it was hopeless. 

Lamfhada sat down on a fallen tree. Fatigue and shock hit him and he 
began to weep, but at last his tears ran dry and wearily he stood and 
looked out over the river. Some thirty paces downstream he could see 


the black shape he knew to be the body of Elodan under the ice near 
the bank. He moved closer to it. The current created the sensation of 
movement in his friend, the arm appearing to thud against the ice. 
Lamfhada took up a heavy branch and smashed it against the surface. 
Twice more he struck - and the ice parted. Reaching down, he grabbed 
Elodan’s jerkin and hauled the body clear. 

‘Get a ... fire . . . going, for . . . pity’s sake,’ whispered Elodan. 
Lamfhada dragged the Knight back from the bank and into a small 
hollow shielded by trees. He cleared snow from the ground for a fire 
and gathered wood and tinder, but his fingers were too cold to hold 
the fire flints. He rubbed them furiously and tried again and at last a 
small flame began to flicker. Carefully he blew it to life and added 
small twigs and branches. After what seemed an eternity, a bright 
blaze burned. He helped Elodan from his frozen clothes and rubbed life 
into his arms and chest. Then he removed one of his blanket capes 
and lifted it over Elodan’s head. He built up the fire until the flames 
were over three feet high. 

‘I would not want to go through that again,’ said Elodan at last, some 
colour back in his features. 

‘How did you survive so long below the water?’ Lamfhada asked. ‘Are 
you also a magician?’ 

‘No - but I know nature. Between the ice and the water there is a gap 
of around two inches. I swam on my back, cutting across the current, 
looking for a place near the bank where the ice was thin. But it was 
the cold that almost beat me; I did not have the strength to break 
through.’ 

‘It was brave of you to risk your life against the beast.’ 

Elodan shook his head. ‘Do not confuse courage with necessity. When 
a man has only one choice, it is not a question of bravery.’ 

‘You could have run.’ 

‘The ice would not have supported me.’ 

‘You do not know that, sir Knight,’ said Lamfhada. 

‘No, I do not. Now let us speak no more of it. Tomorrow we will seek 
out your wizard. But for now - I must sleep.’ 

The wounds in Groundsel’s back required more than forty stitches, yet 
still he was sitting in his chair when Nuada stood on the central table 
to tell the gathering of the fight with the beast. Llaw Gyffes and Arian 
sat beside Groundsel and the hall was silent as the poet began. 

He spoke first of the heroes of the past — his words lyrical, almost 


hypnotic. Then gradually, imperceptibly, the tone changed. He talked 
of blood and death, and the horrors of the damned. Men shivered 
despite the blazing fires. He spoke of evil, and the works of evil. 

‘Nothing is untouched by it,’ he said. ‘For it is like a plague, spreading 
through the hearts of men. Some it touches and corrupts instantly, 
others carry the seed within themselves. Only the very strong can 
withstand it.’ He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd. There were 
more than one hundred and fifty men gathered here, many having 
arrived that morning with their families to escape the beasts roaming 
the forest. ‘Only the very strong,’ he repeated. ‘Now we have heard 
how these Demon-beasts came among us. One was seen by a boy; he 
watched it appear in a flash of lightning on a hillside. Perhaps it was 
that very creature,’ said Nuada, pointing to the giant head impaled on 
a lance at the back of the hall. ‘Now in the Elder times such beasts 
were well known, and knights and heroes rode out to slay them, 
armed with magic swords or lances, their bodies encased in armour 
strengthened by spells. Yet last night a group of men, ordinary men, 
walked the same perilous path as those legendary heroes. But there 
were no magic swords, no sorcery -only strength, and courage. Two 
of those men are not here in the flesh; they gave their lives to end the 
terror. But they are here in spirit, honoured guests among their 
comrades. They stand proud. No matter what deeds they may have 
committed in life, in death they are forgiven and exalted. Their names, 
which will live for ever in song, are Askard and Dubarin. There they 
stand, by the fire. Let them know how much you value them.’ 

All around the hall men raised their weapons -swords, lances, knives 
and axes - and a great cheer went up. 

Nuada waited for several moments, then raised his arms for silence. 

‘And now my friends, my heroes of the forest, Askard and Dubarin, will 
hear their tale for the first time. And then they will rejoin the other 
heroes of history in the fabled Halls of Heaven, to drink of the Wine of 
Life, to savour the joys of glory.’ 

Groundsel leaned forward and winced as the stitches pulled at his 
flesh, but his eyes shone as the events of the night before came to life. 
The tracking and the grisly find, the bowmen in the trees, the leader 
and Llaw Gyffes sitting in the open by the fire. The nerves, the fear, 
the dread anticipation -all were recaptured by the poet, and 
Groundsel felt himself back by the fire waiting, waiting . . . saw again 
the massive jaws of the Demon-beast as it bore silently down upon 
him, felt the stomach-wrenching panic as its forepaws closed around 
him. 


‘And seeing the lovely bow-woman in mortal danger, Groundsel flung 
himself at the towering monster. Look! Look at the fangs, and picture 
it in life with its dreadful talons. But Groundsel did not flinch from the 
danger. With two short swords he charged, burying them deep into the 
belly of the beast. Its talons ripped into him . . . as he knew they 
would. But other heroes were close by.’ 

The story moved to its climax and Groundsel tore his eyes from the 
poet and gazed at the men in the room. Their faces were shining, their 
eyes fixed as the tale neared its end. Askard and Dubarin had given 
their lives. Llaw Gyffes had clung to the monster’s back. And every 
man had followed Groundsel, conquering their fears, to slay the 
Demon-beast. 

Each feverish, horrific moment blazed into life. Sweat dripped from 
Groundsel’s face and his heart hammered wildly within him. He felt he 
could take no more, wanting to run from the hall. But the tale ended, 
with Nuada swinging to point at Groundsel and his companions. ‘And 
there, my friends, are the leading heroes of the tale. The warrior 
maiden who stood so recklessly before the beast, the man of the axe 
who rode the demon, and the Forest Lord who stepped into its deadly 
embrace and lived. Let them hear your cheers.’ 

A mighty roar went up and Arian could feel the timbers vibrating 
beneath her feet as men stamped and cheered. Groundsel stood, but 
his legs were weak and he staggered. Llaw Gyffes rose beside him, 
supporting his arm. The crowd surged forward, knocking over tables 
and chairs; seizing Groundsel, they lifted him high as the applause 
thundered around the hall. Arian took Llaw’s arm and led him out into 
the open air. 

‘He told it well,’ she said, ‘but not like it was.’ 

‘Where was he wrong?’ 

‘Groundsel did none of it for pure motives. He wanted to be in another 
tale of heroes - and he wanted to show me how brave he was.’ 

‘Is that so terrible? Did he not save you from the creature?’ 

She hooked her arm in his and led him to the stockade wall. The forest 
was dark and menacing, but there was no howling to be heard. ‘Yes,’ 
she admitted, ‘he saved me. So did you. What I did was foolish, and I 
too enjoyed being part of the new forest legends. Will we have some 
peace now, do you think?’ 

‘Peace? We will kill all the beasts, but that will not bring us peace. Why 
are they here? What force sent them? No, we will have no peace, 
Arian. I think this is the beginning of a war.’ 


‘You believe the King is sending these demons to the forest?’ 
‘No, not the King. One of his sorcerers.’ 
‘Then maybe you are right. Maybe we should leave the forest and head 


for Cithaeron.’ 
‘We?’ he asked, drawing back. 
‘I want to be where you are, Llaw. You must know that I love you.’ 
He took her by the shoulders, holding her from him. Her eyes were 


bright with tears, and her hair shone silver in the moonlight. 


‘The last woman I loved was brutally murdered. I am not ready, Arian, 
to suffer such pain again. I think I will never be ready.’ 
And he left her there, alone on the ramparts. 



CHAPTER TEN 

As she sat in the cave, feeding the fire, Sheera knew she had made a 
terrible mistake. The two men had been courteous and respectful 
when the innkeeper introduced them, but once into the forest they had 
changed subtly. Strad, the taller and more gregarious of the two, had 
become silent and almost sinister, while Givan had taken to openly 
staring at her, letting his eyes linger on her breasts and hips. Neither 
of them had touched her, and outwardly they remained eager to 
please, but the journey through the winter forest had begun to worry 
Sheera. They had sheltered through two blizzards, yet when the skies 
cleared she had seen from the sun, and the later stars, that their route 
was curving like a crescent moon back towards the sea. 

Last night she had wrapped herself in her blankets and pretended to 
sleep, straining to hear their conversation. After a while Strad moved 
over to her and softly asked if she was comfortable. She did not stir 
and he returned to Givan. 

‘Only a couple more days of this foul weather,’ said Givan. ‘Then it is 
warm beds and warm women. By the Gods, I’ll be glad to see the back 
of this forest.’ 

‘You and I both,’ agreed his friend. 

Sheera’s mind raced. A couple of days? How could that be? It was at 
least a ten-day march in good weather! She should have listened to 
Cartain, who had urged her to come to Cithaeron and aid him in 
gathering the exiles together to form an army. But her anger was 
great, and the thought of leaving Okessa and the others unpunished 
could not be tolerated. 

Now, stretching her long legs out before her, she pushed her back 
against the wall. She was a tall girl, with close-cropped, tightly curled 
black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth was too wide to 
be considered beautiful, but her lips were full and her teeth white and 
even. 

‘Thinking of some man, are you, princess?’ asked Givan, moving to sit 
near her. He was short and fat, and a widening bald patch on the 
crown of his head gave him the look of a lustful monk. 

‘I was thinking about my sister.’ 

‘Yes? Sad business. Very sad. I saw her once in Mactha, riding to the 
hunt. A well-made woman. You remind me of her, save I think you are 
taller and maybe a shade slimmer.’ 


‘How soon will we reach the southern valleys?’ she asked. 

‘Oh, about eight days, more or less. Do not worry, we have plenty of 
provisions.’ 

‘The provisions do not concern me, Givan; they are your responsibility. 
I understand there are outlaws in the forest?’ 

‘Don’t worry your head about them; they’ll not be out in this blizzard. 
And anyway we’ve got nothing worth stealing -though I dare say 
there are those who would consider you a prize worth taking.’ 

She forced a smile. ‘How sweet of you to say so, but then I have you 
and Strad to protect me. It is a very comforting thought.’ 

‘Oh, we’ll protect you, princess, don’t have no worries on that score. I 
wouldn’t like to see nothing happen to you; I’ve grown quite fond of 
you, I have.’ 

‘I think I will sleep now,’ she said, turning her back on him and pulling 
her blankets over her. For a moment she could feel his presence close 
to her, but then he moved back to where Strad was sitting in the cave-
mouth. 

‘Best forget that sort of stuff,’ whispered Strad. 

‘There’s plenty of women available in Pertia -especially after we get 
paid.’ 

‘She’s in my blood, boy. I’ve got to have her. Will they care that she’s 
soiled? All they’ll see is another filthy Nomad. No, I want her worse 
than anything I can remember.’ 

‘She doesn’t want you,’ Strad pointed out. 

‘That’s what makes it sweet, boy.’ 

Sheera waited until both men were sound asleep and then slipped 
from her blankets. Swiftly she rolled them into a bundle and moved 
through the cave to the entrance. Outside the blizzard had died, but 
the wind was bitterly cold. She wrapped herself in a sheepskin cloak 
and pulled on a second set of woollen leggings. Glancing back at the 
sleeping men she hooked her pack to her shoulders, gathered her bow 
and quiver of arrows and stepped out into the night. 

The stars were bright and she headed along the line of the Spear 
Carrier. 

She walked for almost an hour, then searched for a camping place, 
finding a small hollow out of the wind. There were several fallen trees 
and one of them had crashed down upon a group of boulders. Sheera 
clam--bered under the snow-covered branches and found herself in a 


snug, shallow shelter — the foliage making a thick roof and the 
boulders a wall around her, save to the west. She gathered tinder and 
cleared a space for a small fire, which she lit at the first attempt with 
the tinder-box her sister had given her at the last Solstice feast. With 
a tiny blaze giving warmth, she settled back in her blankets to sleep. 

Awaking to the sound of curses, she cast an anxious look at her little 
fire. It seemed completely dead. 

‘Damn that last snow shower,’ snapped Givan. ‘But she cannot be far 
away.’ 

‘I don’t know why she ran in the first place,’ complained Strad. ‘You 
think she knew . . .’ 

‘Shut up you fool, she might be close.’ 

‘More likely died in a drift. We’ve lost a fortune -and all because you 
couldn’t keep the lust from your eyes.’ 

‘It was nothing to do with me. I think she knew more about the 
direction than we gave her credit for. Twice I saw her checking the 
stars.’ 

Sheera edged her way to the west of her shelter and bellied down to 
peer under the branches. The first man she saw was Strad; he was 
searching the ground. 

‘Found anything?’ asked Givan. 

‘No. But I can smell smoke. Can you?’ 

Sheera swivelled. The fire she had thought was dead was beginning to 
smoulder. 

Just as she prepared to turn and deal with it, a terrifying scream came 
from outside and she pressed her face to the branches in time to see a 
huge shape bearing down on Strad. It seemed to be covered in white-
grey fur, but she could see only the thick legs and a part of its hide. 
Something splashed on her face and hands and looking down, she saw 
that it was blood. Strad’s body fell close to her, the head torn from the 
shoulders. 

She could hear Givan shouting, ‘No! No!’ But this was followed by a 
low snarling growl and the sound of bones being crunched and split. 

Sheera eased her way back into her shelter and, as silently as she 
could, fed twigs to the smouldering fire, blowing it to life. The 
branches to her left quivered, and she heard the beast snuffling 
beyond them. Forcing herself to stay calm, she continued to work at 
the fire. A small finger of flame licked at the wood, then gathered 
itself; she picked up a dry branch and held it to the flame. Snow 


tipped into her shelter as the beast beyond pushed its snout forward. 
With great care Sheera took the smoking branch from the fire and 
turned, lifting it to where she could almost see the beast’s head. Acrid 
smoke curled into the creature’s nostrils and it snorted hard, pulling 
back abruptly. 

Sheera returned the branch to the fire and waited. She could hear it 
feeding beyond the shelter. 

But would it return? 

Nuada was awakened close to dawn by a rough hand shaking his 
shoulder. He sat up, his eyes bleary, his body aching from the intake 
of ale. A lantern had been placed on the table by the bed and he 
recognized Groundsel’s squat figure sitting beside it. 

‘What . . . why are you here?’ asked Nuada. His mouth was dry and he 
reached for the tankard beside his bed; it contained flat beer, but even 
this was welcome. He shivered. Outside the snow was falling fast and 
a cold wind blew through the gaps in the rough-hewn door-frame. He 
pulled a blanket around his shoulders. ‘Is something wrong, Lord 
Groundsel?’ 

‘No,’ answered the man. ‘At least, I do not believe so. You spoke well 
this evening. I could not sleep, so I thought we could talk.’ 

Nuada swung from the bed and moved to an iron brazier in which the 
fire was dying. He stoked it with sticks and twigs until a flicker of flame 
began at the centre, then he added larger chunks of wood. 

Groundsel sat quietly, his eyes unfocused. Nuada returned to his bed 
and waited. The outlaw leader had discarded his silken shirt and now 
wore the familiar thrown leather jerkin of the forester. 

‘What troubles you, my Lord?’ 

‘Nothing. I fear nothing. I want for nothing. I am no fool, Nuada. I 
know that -had you chosen to - you could have made me a villain, a 
swine or a murdering dog. Those men who cheered me could just as 
easily have been persuaded to hang me. I know this . . . and I know I 
am not a hero. I know . . .’ 

Nuada remained silent while Groundsel scratched his short-cropped 
hair and rubbed at his round ugly face. ‘You know what I am saying?’ 

Nuada nodded, but still he did not speak. ‘I enjoyed your tale,’ said 
Groundsel, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ‘I enjoyed being 
cheered. And now I feel . . . I don’t know how I feel. A little sad, 
maybe. You understand?’ His dark button eyes fixed on Nuada. 

‘Is it still a good feeling?’ asked the poet. 


‘Yes and no. I’ve killed a lot of people, Nuada; I’ve robbed and I’ve 
cheated; I’ve lied. I am not a hero; that fire threatened to destroy all 
I’ve built. And the monster? I wanted to impress the girl. I am not a 
hero.’ 

‘A man is whatever he wishes to be,’ said Nuada softly. ‘There are no 
rigid patterns, no iron moulds. We are not cast from bronze. The hero 
Petric once headed an army which looted three cities. I have read the 
histories -his men raped and slaughtered thousands. But at the end 
he chose a different road.’ 

‘I cannot change. I am what I am: a runaway slave who murdered his 
master. I am the Ape. I am Groundsel. And I have never had cause to 
regret what I have become.’ 

‘Then why are you troubled?’ 

Groundsel leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. ‘Your tale 
was a lie. A flattery. And yet it touched me . . . because it ought to 
have been true. I have never cared about being loved. But tonight 
they cheered me, they lifted me high. And that, poet, was the finest 
moment of my life. It does not matter that I didn’t deserve it — but I 
wish I had.’ 

‘Let me ask you something, my Lord. When you stood before the beast 
and you saw its awesome power, were you not frightened?’ 

‘I was,’ Groundsel admitted. 

‘And when it bore down on Arian, did it not occur to you that you could 
be killed as you charged to rescue her?’ 

‘I did not think of rescue.’ 

‘But you saw that it was about to slay her?’ 

‘Yes, that is true.’ 

‘And you charged the beast - and almost died. Every man there saw 
the deed. You are too hard on yourself. It was heroic, and it touched 
all who saw it.’ 

‘You confuse me,’ said Groundsel. ‘Tell me, does Arian love Llaw 
Gyffes?’ 

‘I think that she does,’ answered Nuada. 

The outlaw leader stood. ‘I was going to have him killed. I was going 
to take her - willing or unwilling. But now I owe him, for if he had not 
leapt upon the beast, I would now be dead and I would have missed 
the only moment of magic in my life. Gods, I am tired. And there’s too 
much ale in this fat belly.’ He walked to the doorway but Nuada’s voice 


halted him. 

‘My Lord!’ 

‘Yes,’ answered Groundsel, without turning. 

‘You are a better man than you know. And I am glad I told the tale 
well.’ 

Groundsel walked out into the snow and Nuada settled back on his 
bed. 

For five days a blizzard raged over the forest. Teams of hunters 
roamed the western wood, seeking signs of the were-beasts. One 
gigantic wolf creature was found dead in a drift and the howling was 
heard no more. The winter tore at the forest and the mountains, 
temperatures dropping tb forty below zero. In the stockaded village 
families stayed inside for much of the day, only emerging to gather 
wood for their fires. Of Groundsel himself little was seen; he took to 
walking the hills, avoiding his men. Nuada spent time with Arian and 
Llaw, and soon began to feel that boredom would kill him before the 
winter ended. There were few unattached women in the village, and 
those there were plied a trade he felt loath to patronize. 

As the days passed, the lure of Cithaeron grew. He had the gold pieces 
Groundsel had given him — more than enough to pay for his passage. 
And he imagined the marble palaces, the beautiful nubile women and most 
of all - the warm golden sunshine. Soft beds, good food - cooked 
with spices, or in wine - clean clothes and hot baths. He pictured 
himself swimming in a blue sea, the sun on his back. 

He talked to Groundsel’s men. Apparently the Royal Road to Pertia 
Port was less than half a day’s walk away; once on the road it was two 
days to Pertia. 

Even so, Nuada did not relish the journey. 

But then Groundsel ceased his lonely walks and took to sitting in the 
hall, gloomy and sullen, his eyes on Arian. If Llaw noticed he gave no 
sign of it, but the outlaw leader tried to goad him on several occasions. 
The former blacksmith would have none of it. But Nuada knew it was 
only a matter of time before the two men came to blows, and he did 
not want to be in the village when the violence came. 

He liked Llaw, and in a curious way Groundsel also. 

On the morning of the sixth day Nuada slipped away from the village, 
continuing his way west through the frozen forest, seeking the 
sanctuary of the Royal Road with its inns and taverns. He walked for 
most of the day and made his camp in a shallow cave out of the wind. 


There he lit a fire and berated himself for his stupidity. The village had 
at least been warm and welcoming; out here death stalked him with 
icy fingers. The following morning, cold and frightened, he continued 
on his way, but the paths he had been told of were disguised by 
snowfall and the grey, lowering sky offered no clue to direction. He 
stumbled on, his feet numb, his body trembling, and by noon he was 
hopelessly lost. 

There was no cave to help him here and he made a camp behind some 
boulders where he struggled to light a fire, but the wind blew it out. A 
great weariness settled on him and the cold seemed to lessen. He was 
filled with the desire to lie down in the snow and sleep. 

Don’t be a fool! he told himself and rising, he forced himself to move 
on slowly. His foot sank into a snowdrift and he almost fell. Reaching 
out, he took hold of a snow-covered branch jutting from the ground. 
The branch gave, the snow falling from it. Nuada screamed — what he 
was holding was no branch but an arm, frozen and black. He threw 
himself to his left and his body struck something solid beneath the 
snow. He scrambled to his feet as the snow fell away to show a man’s 
upper body - the face grey, the teeth exposed in a sickening parody of 
a grin. 

Nuada looked around him. Everywhere there were signs of death. 
Panic swept through him as he backed away from the icy graveyard. 

I won’t die here! I won’t! 

The smell of woodsmoke came to him. Somewhere, someone had built 
a fire. The wind was in his face so he headed into it, calling out. He 
staggered on, falling into a drift and pulling himself clear. The smell 
was stronger now. He called again . . . and fell. He began to crawl. 

‘Over here!’ he heard someone call and hands pulled at his arms. 

Nuada awoke in a deep cave, where a huge fire was blazing. He sat 
up, pushing back the sheepskin-lined cloak that covered him. Seven 
men and four women were sitting round the fire, their faces thin and 
gaunt. 

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’ The men ignored him, but a 
young woman with raven-dark hair moved to sit beside him. 

‘It is a temporary rescue, I am afraid,’ she said. ‘There is no food and 
the roads are blocked.’ 

‘Where are you from?’ 

‘We are from nowhere,’ she told him. ‘We are non-people now, trying 
to reach Cithaeron. We left the realm four days ago and joined with a 


caravan of refugees. Then the snows came.’ 

‘Where are the others?’ he asked. 

She waved her arm towards the cave entrance. ‘They are out there. 
Some have built wind walls; others have tried to force a path through 
to the coast. They are dying.’ 

‘How many are you?’ 

‘Two hundred started out. I don’t know how many have died.’ 

Nuada stood and fastened the cloak around his shoulders. He walked 
to the cave entrance and looked up at the sky. There were no clouds 
and the stars were shining like diamonds. ‘I will fetch help.’ 

‘You almost died out there. Do not go back. Even if you conquer the 
winter, there is still the killer Groundsel.’ 

‘Let me borrow the cloak,’ he said, ‘and I shall return with food. Gather 
as many of your people here as you can; tell the others not to 
wander.’ 

‘Why would you do this for Nomads?’ she asked him. 

‘Because I am a fool,’ he told her. ‘Gather your people.’ 

He stepped out into the night and began to climb towards the east, 
following the pointing finger of the Star Warrior and lining his path 
with the Great Spear. 

On the point of exhaustion he found a cave where he rested for two 
hours, warmed by a small fire. Then he pushed on. 

By the middle of the following afternoon he found himself on the hill 
overlooking the stockade. Weak from hunger and cold, he slipped and 
slithered down the hill. Llaw Gyffes saw him from the parapet and 
climbed down to meet him. 

‘Welcome back,’ said Llaw. ‘Was it an enjoyable stroll?’ 

‘There are people dying back there, Llaw, starving to death. We must 
help them.’ 

‘First let us help you, poet. Your face is chalk white.’ He led him to 
Arian’s hut, where the girl was sitting by the brazier. She rose as he 
entered and laughed at him. 

‘Ah, the mighty hunter is home! Did you catch anything? Apart from 
frostbite?’ 

Llaw helped Nuada from his frozen clothes and began to rub at the 
poet’s skin, forcing circulation back to the surface. Arian warmed a 
towel by the fire, then held it to Nuada’s face. He lay back as they 


tended him and his eyes closed . . . When he awoke, Llaw was sitting 
by his bed. 

‘There are two hundred people trapped in the forest,’ Nuada told him. 
‘They are Nomads. They have no food, and there is no way out to 
Cithaeron.’ 

‘A stupid time to try and escape,’ commented Llaw. 

‘I would imagine it was that or die,’ said the poet. ‘We must help 
them.’ 

‘Why? I do not know any of them.’ 

‘Why? What do you mean why? They are people, Llaw, like you and 
me.’ 

‘No, they are not. I am safe and warm in a hut, and I have food. I am 
not trapped.’ 

‘I shall go to Groundsel,’ snapped Nuada, swinging from the bed. He 
stood and moved naked to the fire where his clothes were drying. 

‘A pretty sight,’ said Arian. ‘Such fine, pert buttocks.’ He turned slowly 
to face her. 

‘Make your jests, Arian. Laugh while babies die of cold. Laugh while 
women sob at their loss.’ 

Her smile faded. ‘I do not laugh at them,’ she said. 

‘No, you do not even think of them. You disgust me — the pair of you. 
You are no better than the King; in fact you are worse. He condemns 
them to death in order to steal their wealth, but you condemn them 
for no reason at all.’ 

He dressed and tramped across the snow to the hall where some forty 
men were present - drinking, eating, telling stories. His arrival was 
greeted by a cheer and he waved to the men and moved on to stand 
before Groundsel. 

‘I am glad you are alive,’ said the outlaw. ‘I missed you.’ 

He told Groundsel of the Nomads dying in the forest and the man 
shrugged. ‘They chose a poor time to run. Still, the snow might clear 
in a few days. Some of them will get through.’ 

‘Will you not help them, my Lord?’ 

‘Is there a reason why I should? Can they pay me?’ 

‘I do not know. But tell me - that magic moment we spoke of, how 
much was it worth?’ 

Groundsel’s eyes narrowed. ‘What has that to do with this?’ he 


whispered. ‘I was drunk . . . soft in the head. I regret what I said.’ 

‘Then put a price on your drunken words. How much gold is such a 
memory worth? Ten Raq? Twenty? A thousand?’ 

‘You know the answer,’ hissed Groundsel. ‘It is priceless.’ 

‘And that, my Lord, is how those people can pay you. No monsters to 
slay. No acts of courage. Just a gift to those who need it.’ 

‘And you, Nuada, what do you give?’ 

‘I have nothing.’ 

‘You have the twenty gold Raq I gave you, for your passage to 
Cithaeron. Will you pay that for grain?’ 

‘Yes, of course, but. . .’ Nuada blinked as Groundsel held out his hand, 
then opened his leather hip-pouch and counted out the coin. 

Groundsel put the gold to one side and leaned forward. ‘And will you 
stay in the forest until I give you leave to go?’ 

‘Stay? I . . .’ He saw the look of dark triumph in Groundsel’s eyes and 
swallowed hard. In Cithaeron he could be rich again and live in a 
palace, with beautiful women to wait on him. The sun was bright and 
warm, the climate temperate. But here, amid the towering boredom? 

‘Well?’ insisted Groundsel. 

‘I will stay. But I too have a condition, my Lord. No more thefts from 
Nomads. I’ll stay for the hero Groundsel, not the robber killer.’ 

Groundsel chuckled and slapped Nuada’s shoulder. ‘I agree to your 
condition. Groundsel, the lying oath-breaker, the thief and the killer, 
gives you his word. For what it is worth.’ 

Despite the heavy cloak and the sheepskin gloves, two pairs of woollen 
leggings and fur-lined boots, Errin was bitterly cold. For two days he 
had followed Ubadai through the frozen forest, riding at a snail’s pace 
for fear of injuries to their mounts. Some trails, simple in summer, had 
become death-traps for riders, with ice-covered stones, holes part 
covered by snow, and trees heavy laden and ready to fall at a breath 
of wind. Ubadai had said nothing for the whole of the first day and 
when they had camped he had built a good fire, rolled into his blankets 
and slept until the dawn. Errin knew the tribesman was angry, and the 
Gabalan lord felt a large measure of guilt over it. He had freed Ubadai 
and the Nomad had no reason to follow him back into danger. But then 
he had had no reason to ride into Mactha fortress in order to rescue 
his former master either. It was baffling. 

On the third morning, as the sky cleared, Errin gazed up at the rising 


sun. 

‘Which way are we heading today?’ he asked Ubadai, as the tribesman 
rolled his blankets and strapped them to the saddle of his horse. 
Ubadai pointed to a trail through the trees. 

‘But that’s east, isn’t it?’ asked Errin. Ubadai nodded, but said nothing. 
‘Oh, come on, Ubadai, speak to me. Why are we heading east?’ 

The tribesman grunted something inaudible, then turned to face Errin. 
‘No tracks, yes? Everywhere fresh snow. No chance to find woman. We 
go back.’ 

‘We ought to search a little longer - we’ve only been here two days.’ 

‘This is search. Two choices. The men either good or bad, yes. If good 
they walk through near Royal Road, to the south. If bad they swing 
back. Wait till Cartain is gone, deliver woman to Pertia Port when fleet 
comes in, yes? If they are good men, we have lost them. If bad, I 
think they come this way.’ 

‘That’s just a guess,’ said Errin. 

‘Yes. But I am tracker, not wizard. They travel eastwards on first day 

— not very good reason for that.’ 
‘How do you know that?’ 

‘The cave yesterday where we rested? There were remains of two 
fires, and tracks to show three people -one with small feet but long 
stride. Only three people? Then why two fires? Woman sits apart.’ 

Errin shrugged. It was little to go on, but Ubadai was the masier in this 
venture. ‘You do not want to be here, do you?’ he said as he climbed 
into the saddle. 

Ubadai mounted his horse and gave a sour grin, gesturing to the ice-
covered trail. ‘You want to be here?’ 

‘That’s not what I meant; it is a duty for me. But why did you agree to 
come? Why did you come back for me in Mactha?’ 

‘Plenty stupid, maybe,’ muttered Ubadai, edging his mount forward. 

For two hours they rode until they slithered down a steep slope 
towards a small grove of pine trees. Ubadai drew his mount to a halt 
and slipped his bow from under his saddlebags. He strung it, then blew 
on his fingers to warm them. 

‘What is it?’ asked Errin, coming alongside. ‘Smell the air,’ ordered 
Ubadai and Errin lifted his head but could detect little, save perhaps a 
hint of woodsmoke and a subtle, faintly unpleasant odour reminiscent 
of the farmyard. 


‘What do you make of it?’ asked Errin. ‘Death,’ whispered Ubadai. ‘And 
something else. Animal - wolf, maybe.’ 

‘Why are we whispering?’ 

‘We are downwind. It will not know we are here. Better ride back, 
maybe.’ 

‘If it is a wolf pack, we will scare them away. It might be Sheera ... in 
trouble,’ he added swiftly. 

‘I do not like the feel of this,’ said Ubadai. ‘My skin crawls. I have good 
skin and it knows where it wants to be ... and it doesn’t want to go in 
there.’ 

Errin grinned. ‘You’ve hunted wolves before. And bears -even a lion, if 
I recall. We’re both fine archers.’ An eerie howling came from the 
grove, the sound magnified beyond any wolf call Errin had ever heard. 
‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘you might be right. I think this is a case 
for discretion.’ But just as he was about to wheel his horse back to the 
slope, another sound broke the silence - a woman’s scream. 

Errin cursed and spurred his horse into the trees. ‘You have no bow!’ 
shouted Ubadai, galloping after him. 

Errin’s mount thundered into the clearing, saw the giant wolf creature 
with its sabre talons and huge snarling jaws and desperately tried to 
swerve. But the ice under its hooves offered no purchase and it slid to 
its haunches. Errin hurled himself from the saddle as the stallion 
cannoned into the beast and both animals went down, the beast 
slashing its talons through the horse’s neck. Blood fountained over the 
monster’s grey-white fur. The dying horse lashed out with its hooves, 
hurling the beast to the snow. The stallion struggled to rise, but the 
beast was upon it once more, rending and slashing. Errin climbed to 
his feet and drew the curved short sword given to him by Cartain; it 
was razor-sharp and beautifully made, but it seemed like a child’s toy 
now, as he stared at the enraged beast. Errin swung his head - Sheera 
stood nearby, white-faced, holding a smouldering branch. He ran to 
her. The beast looked up from the dead stallion and climbed slowly 
across its carcass, staggering and almost falling. Rising to its hind 
legs, it moved towards the man and woman. Errin stepped in front of 
Sheera, placed his hand over his buckle and whispered, ‘Ollathair.’ 

Instantly the advance of the beast seemed to slow. Errin waited until 
the creature was almost upon him, then ducked under a slowly moving 
sweep of the taloned arm and rammed his sword into the beast’s belly. 

Sheera appeared alongside him, thrusting the branch into the 
creature’s mouth. In that instant Errin could see the talons moving 


towards the girl and he let go of his sword and dived at her, dragging 
her clear. 

Behind them Ubadai leapt from the saddle, notched an arrow to his 
bow, dre\V and loosed his shaft which sped through the air to punch 
into the beast’s neck. The creature staggered and fell on all fours; 
then it rolled to its side and died. 

Errin climbed to his feet, his eyes scanning the clearing for any further 
monsters. To his right there was a human leg and across the clearing 
lay the grisly remains of another victim. Satisfied there were no other 
beasts, he once more touched the buckle of his belt and turned to 
Sheera. 

‘Are you all right?’ 

‘Yes, I . . .’ Recognition showed in her eyes and she stepped back from 
him. 

‘Errin? What are you doing here?’ 

‘I was looking for you. Cartain was worried; he said the men you were 
with were probably in the employ of Okessa.’ 

‘I think they were. But of all the men to rescue me - why did it have to 
be you?’ 

He shrugged. ‘It is pleasant, lady, to have succeeded in something.’ 

Her face darkened. ‘Do not think it absolves you from blame over my 
sister’s murder. It does not! Nothing ever will.’ 

‘I loved Dianu and I would have done anything to save her. But I did 
not ask her to stay for me, nor did I know she was in danger. I do not 
much care whether you believe that; it is immaterial to me.’ He moved 
to the beast and dragged his sword clear, wiping it clean of blood on 
the creature’s fur. Reversing the sword, he pushed it at Sheera. ‘You 
want to kill me, lady? Do it! Go on, take the sword and push it home.’ 

She turned away. ‘I was angry when I told Cartain I wanted you dead. 
I do not desire that - but neither do I desire your company.’ 

‘You have little choice in that, Sheera. I am here to escort you to 
Pertia Port and then to Cithaeron. Once there you can do as you 
please.’ 

‘I am not going to Cithaeron. I will find Okessa and see him dead. And 
if there was any sense of honour in you, you would do the same. You 
say you loved Dianu? What a way to prove it - running to Cithaeron.’ 

Errin took a deep breath, pushing back his anger. 

‘In Cithaeron we can raise an army. Here we can do little save run 


around a winter forest hoping we do not get lost, which may be all 
right for spoilt little girls but it doesn’t suit me. Now gather your 
things.’ As he turned away from her she grabbed his arm to swing him 
round and her fist cracked into his jaw. Ubadai winced as he watched 
the blow crash home. Most women did not know how to punch, but he 
had to admire the smooth swing and the explosive contact. Errin was 
unconscious before he hit the snow. 

Ubadai strolled across and knelt by the unconscious nobleman, then he 
looked up at the astonished Sheera. 

‘I like you, girl,’ said Ubadai. ‘You plenty stupid.’ 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Nuada was furious when Groundsel told him bluntly that he would not 
be allowed to accompany the rescue party. The outlaw leader had 
gathered thirty men together and each was carrying food - bread, 
dried meat and fruit. 

‘You need me to show you the way,’ protested Nuada. ‘You need me!’ 

‘I can find the Royal Road, Nuada, without any help. But look at you you 
are on the verge of collapse. You could not stand the journey.’ 

‘I’ll get him there - and back,’ said Llaw Gyffes. The snow had begun 
to fall thickly once more and Llaw, like the rest of the men, was 
warmly clad in oiled sheepskin and high wool-lined walking boots. A 
hood covered his blond hair and a long scarf was wound around his 
neck. 

Groundsel walked over to Nuada and placed a hand upon his shoulder. 
‘Every step that you slow us. down could mean a death on the Royal 
Road. You understand that?’ 

‘I won’t slow you down, I promise you.’ 

Llaw pulled Nuada aside and offered him a drink from his canteen. 
Nuada accepted it - and choked. 

‘Gods of chaos!’ he spluttered. ‘What is it?’ 

‘It is a raw spirit distilled from grain -a little goes a long way. You feel 
warmer?’ 

‘I feel as if someone just lit a fire in my belly.’ 

‘Good. Now, let’s go.’ 

Groundsel set off at a good pace, feeling his way through the snow 
with a staff, thrusting it deep into drifts to test the footing. The men 
behind moved without a sound. There was no conversation and Nuada 
knew that most of them could not understand the nature of their 
mission. 

‘Why did you want to come?’ asked Llaw, as they walked some way 
behind the rescue party. 

‘I told them I would - but also they fear Groundsel.’ 

‘They are right so to do. You are leading the wolf into the lamb-pen; 
do not be surprised if he behaves like a wolf.’ 

‘I will not be surprised, Llaw. Now tell me why you came with us?’ 


Llaw chuckled and helped Nuada to climb a sloping drift. The wind 
picked up, howling ice and snow into their faces, and further 
conversation became impossible. A journey which had taken Nuada a 
day and a half was made in less than four hours by the rescue party. 

They came across the first bodies lying huddled by a dead fire. There 
were two women, an old man and a child. All were frozen stiff. 

Groundsel hawked and spat. Ice had formed on his dark brows and 
short beard. ‘Stupid!’ he said. ‘Had they built the fire twenty paces 
over there, by those rocks, they would still be alive. How could they 
think a fire in the open would warm them?’ 

Leaving the bodies where they lay the men pushed on, coming to the 
cave at mid-afternoon. Some forty people were crowded there; four 
were dead. Groundsel led the men inside and they broke out the 
rations. The two fires were dying down and Llaw Gyffes returned to the 
forest for fuel. Nuada scanned the gaunt, weary faces, glimpsing the 
girl at the back of the cave. She was squatting beside an elderly 
woman and he pushed his way through to her. 

‘I came back,’ he said simply. 

‘She is dead,’ replied the girl. ‘She died an hour ago.’ 

Nuada gazed down on the serene face. The woman was in her late 
sixties, he guessed, and she had the look of the patrician. ‘Then 
nothing can harm her now,’ he said. ‘Come, there is food.’ 

‘I am not hungry.’ He put his arm around her slender shoulders and 
pulled her to him. 

‘Would she want you to die also?.’ he asked. ‘Follow me.’ Taking her 
by the arm he led her to Groundsel, who gave her some bread and a 
canteen of water. 

‘The cave could not take all of us; there are others still outside,’ the 
girl told them. Groundsel turned away and sent three groups to search 
the forest. Llaw Gyffes went with them. In the cave a woman fell at 
Groundsel’s feet, hugging his legs and crying quietly. Embarrassed, he 
pulled away. A man came to him, seizing his hand and pumping it; 
others joined him. Groundsel accepted their gratitude with ill grace 
and pushed his way out into the blizzard. He walked alone for a while 
and watched the men searching the snow; there were bodies 
everywhere. 

He was about to return to the cave when he heard a whimper from 
close by and looked around, but there was no one to be seen and the 
sound ceased. Taking his staff he probed the bushes, but could find 
nothing. He stopped and listened, but the howling wind obscured any 


lesser sounds. He crouched closer to the ground . . . still nothing. To 
his left there was a small drift of snow. As he looked, the wind caused 
it to flurry and he caught sight of an edge of cloth. Moving to it, he 
dug away at the snow. Buried here were a man and a woman, huddled 
together, frozen in death, but they had curled themselves around a 
small child wrapped in a woollen blanket. Grdundsel could imagine 
their last thoughts: protect the child until the end, their bodies 
shielding it from the wind and the snow. The child’s head moved and 
its mouth opened. Groundsel swiftly lifted it clear of the snow and ran 
for the cave. Inside he forced his way to the fire and pulled away the 
frozen blanket, rubbing at the little girl’s slender limbs. Her hair was 
short, but tightly curled and golden, and she was thin, terribly thin. 

‘Akis!’ he called. ‘Where the Hell are you?’ 

A stocky man came forward. ‘Did you bring the milk?’ asked 
Groundsel. 

‘It’s mostly gone, my Lord,’ replied the man. Ever since Nuada’s saga 
of the beast, men had begun to echo the poet’s style of address. 

‘Get some here. Now! And warm it.’ 

‘Yes, my Lord.’ 

The girl’s head sagged against Groundsel’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you die on 
me!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you dare die on me!’ He shook her and rubbed 
her back and she began to whimper. ‘That’s it,’ said Groundsel. ‘Cry! 
Cry and live!’ 

‘Shall I take her?’ asked a woman. 

‘Leave me alone,’ snapped Groundsel as Akis returned with some milk, 
warmed in a wooden bowl. The outlaw leader lifted the girl’s head and 
held the bowl to her lips; the milk dribbled to her chin, as she shut her 
mouth against it. ‘Pinch her nostrils,’ said Groundsel and a woman 
crouched down beside them and followed his bidding. The child’s 
mouth opened. At first she choked on the milk, but then she began to 
swallow. When the milk was finished her head sagged again to his 
shoulder. He was about to shake her when the woman touched his 
arm. 

‘She is asleep,’ she said. ‘Just asleep. She will be fine. Wrap her in a 
warm blanket and leave her with me. I’ll take care of her.’ 

Groundsel was reluctant to part with the child, but he did so, brushing 
the hair back from her brow. ‘She is pretty,’ he said, ‘and tough. I like 
that in a child. How old is she? I am not good at judging ages in 
babes.’ 


‘I would say around two years old. She might be a little more, but she 
is very thin and small.’ 

‘You look after her,’ said Groundsel, rising. 

‘Yes, my Lord.’ 

‘I am not a Lord! See to her.’ He saw Llaw Gyffes helping a young 
couple into the cave, which was now becoming seriously overcrowded. 

‘It’s a nightmare out there,’ said Llaw. ‘There are bodies everywhere, 
must be close to a hundred.’ 

‘How many survivors?’ Groundsel asked. 

‘I’ve seen around thirty. There’s no room for them here and if we don’t 
find shelter of some kind, many more will die.’ 

‘There are deeper caves about three miles from here,’ said Groundsel, 
‘but bears inhabit some of them.’ 

‘At least you can kill a bear,’ muttered Llaw, ‘but we can’t beat this 
cold.’ Other survivors began to crowd into the cave entrance, shouting 
for room to be made. Those at the centre were being pushed too close 
to the fires and arguments broke out. 

Groundsel stepped on to a boulder so that he could see over the heads 
of the milling refugees. 

‘Silence!’ he bellowed. All movement ceased. ‘We will need to march 
out into the blizzard. I want the strongest among you ready to move in 
the next hour. The rest can stay here; I will leave men and food and 
we will come back for you when the blizzard dies down.’ 

Some of the refugees began to shout, refusing to leave the sanctuary 
of the cave. ‘You will do as you are damn well told!’ Groundsel roared. 
‘Or else I’ll leave you all to starve! Now, there are deeper caves 
around an hour’s march from here. There we can build fires to keep 
you alive. Anyone who believes they can make the journey, move to 
the left of the cave. Those who wish to remain, move to the right.’ 

Slowly the refugees began to shuffle into place. 

Groundsel stepped down and an elderly man approached him. 

‘I thank you, sir, for your help. Tell me, are you the hero, Llaw 
Gyffes?’ 

‘No, I am the devil Groundsel.’ The man’s eyes widened and he backed 
away. 

‘Those on the left, move out of the cave. Now!’ shouted Llaw Gyffes. 
‘Come on, make room.’ 


Groundsel found the woman nursing the child he had saved and 
leaning down, he took the sleeping girl. ‘You are going to take her out 
into the cold?’ said the woman. ‘Is that wise?’ 

‘I’ll keep her safe,’ promised Groundsel, opening his sheepskin jerkin 
and closing it around the child. 

Outside, the blizzard had eased and the snow was falling less thickly 
as Groundsel took the lead and the thin column set off. Akis, Nuada 
and four others remained in the cave, distributing food and building up 
the fires. There was more room now, and the group was mostly made 
up of the elderly or the young. Nuada was tired, more weary than at 
any other time in his young life. But he felt curiously lifted and filled 
with a sense of quiet joy. He sat back against the cave wall and looked 
at the people sleeping by the fifes. His people. His by blood, and by 
deed. The raven-haired girl sat beside him; her mother’s body lay at 
the back of the cave, a thin linen sheet over her face. 

‘My name is Kartia,’ said the girl. She was still cold and he lifted the 
blanket from his shoulder and drew her in. He said nothing and leaned 
his head back against the rock wall; it felt like a feather pillow. 

And he slept, without dreams. 

The journey to the deep caves took more than four hours, but the 
snows held off and the temperature rose marginally. Even so many of 
the weaker refugees needed assistance, and Llaw Gyffes and two 
others followed some way behind the column, watching out for those 
who fell by the wayside. Llaw gave some of them a mouthful of the 
fiery spirit, hauling them to their feet. Only one man died during the 
trip, his heart giving out as he struggled to climb the last hill. 

Once at the caves huge fires were lit and the refugees gathered 
gratefully around them. The child Groundsel was carrying awoke, and 
he fed her with the last of the milk. Llaw Gyffes watched him with the 
girl, his pale eyes betraying no emotion. Feeling himself observed, 
Groundsel passed the child to a middle-aged woman and walked back 
to the cave mouth where he sat down opposite the tall warrior. 

‘I like children,’ Groundsel remarked, his dark eyes staring 
challengingly at Llaw. 

‘So do I. I think the blizzard has passed - the worst should be over for 
now.’ 

Groundsel gazed at the sky. ‘No clouds. It will get colder yet.’ 

‘What will you do with them all?’ asked Llaw. ‘How will you feed them, 
take care of them? And how did Nuada talk you into it?’ 


Groundsel shrugged. ‘I have a full granary and they can work for their 
food. They can fell trees, gather wood. The younger women can whore 
for my men; we’ve not enough women as it is. Three men were killed 
recently in a fight over a woman.’ 

Llaw nodded. ‘And the last question? Why?’ 

‘I don’t answer to you, Llaw Gyffes; I answer to no one. If I choose to 
do a thing, I do it. I may choose to kill them all tomorrow. My choice. 
Why did you come?’ 

Llaw shrugged. ‘I needed the exercise. I felt like a dog in a cage. 
How’s your back?’ 

‘I heal fast.’ 

‘You’d better watch for infection. I’ve seen animal scratches turn bad, 
very bad.’ 

‘Not here,’ said Groundsel. ‘The air is good for wounds. Not one case of 
gangrene have I seen since I came to the forest.’ He was silent for a 
moment, remembering the pain and the fear when the talons sliced 
home. ‘That was a mighty beast, was it not?’ 

‘Damn near broke my axe,’ said Llaw. ‘Has it occurred to you what 
fools we were to sit in the open?’ 

‘Once or twice,’ Groundsel admitted. ‘So far my hunters have found six 
more of them, dead in the snow. But there is no clue as to their 
origins. No one has ever heard of anything like them before. I have 
even sent men to seek the Dagda and ask for his counsel.’ 

‘You know where he lives?’ 

‘No, but the men will go to all the settlements seeking news of him,’ 
said Groundsel. ‘He will hear of it -wherever he is.’ 

‘Tke important question,’ said Llaw, ‘has to be: Who sent the 
creatures? And why?’ 

‘Sent them?’ responded Groundsel. ‘They were not a hunting pack of 
hounds. I saw no leashes. And no man alive could train those 
creatures.’ 

‘Remember the boy? He said he watched it appear from the air, in a 
flash of lightning. Our own hunters found tracks that just appeared on 
a hillside. No. Someone wants to bring death into the forest - we need 
to know who.’ 

‘We do indeed,’ Groundsel agreed, ‘if you are correct. But I am not 
convinced. There are parts of the forest that have never been explored 

-high valleys, lonely canyons. The beasts could have been driven 

down by’lack of game - or even curiosity.’ 

‘Maybe,’ said Llaw, ‘but you saw the wolf creature. It was not 
completely covered in hair; its chest and belly were dark-skinned. 
Such a beast would be unlikely to live high where the air is cold. And 
the other creature that was found dead in the drift? The cold killed it. 
What forest beast have you heard of that does not prepare for winter?’ 

‘It’s a compelling argument, but where does it take us? Some 
sorcerous animal trainer releases his pack in the mountains? How 
would we find him? Or recognize him if we did?’ 

‘Find him? We cannot,’ admitted Llaw. ‘But another wizard could.’ 

‘I take it this is leading somewhere?’ Groundsel snapped. ‘You don’t 
exactly find yourself surrounded by wizards about here.’ 

‘There is a lad at my village who claims he was an apprentice to a man 
of magic named Ruad Ro-fhessa. When the snow clears, I will seek 
him out.’ 

Groundsel stood and stretched. ‘That means leaving the sanctuary of 
the forest. A risky venture, Strong-hand. With that red-gold beard and 
that pale hair you are an easy man to recognize. And how would we 
poor forest folk fare if our great hero was taken from us before he 
could raise his army?’ 

‘I think you would manage, my Lord Groundsel -Great Slayer of Beasts 
and rescuer of small babes.’ 

Llaw stood and gazed down at the smaller man. Groundsel smiled, but 
it did not reach his eyes. ‘I think I like you, Llaw. I really do.’ 

‘That’s good - and very reassuring.’ 

‘Don’t be too reassured. I’ve killed men I’ve liked before.’ 

‘I’ll remember that.’ 

For five days Ruad waited, opening the Black Gate each evening and 
holding it for an hour. Once a giant lizard with serrated teeth tried to 
force its way through and he sent it scurrying back with a burst of 
white fire. On the sixth day he was too weak to attempt the Power 
spell and walked wearily back to the village. 

Gwydion said nothing as he entered the small cabin that had been 
cleared for them. The old man merely put his hand on his friend’s 
shoulder. Ruad shook it loose. 

‘I’ve lost him,’ he said, slumping to a chair. Gwydion sat beside the 
Armourer, staring into the broad ugly face and seeing his own 
reflection in the bronze eye-patch. Ruad cursed. ‘I sent him to his 


death, just like all the others.’ 

‘He was a man, he made his own decisions,’ said Gwydion. ‘And Gods, 
Ruad, it was worth the risk. If the Knights of the Gabala could 
assemble once more, we could sweep the land clean of this evil - we 
could raise a rebel army.’ 

‘They are all dead, Gwydion. Let me rest.’ Ruad stumbled to a straw-
filled mattress set against the wall and stretched himself out. 

Gwydion moved to him. ‘I will give you sleep,’ he said, touching his 
finger to the wizard’s brow. Ruad’s eye closed, his breathing 
deepening. Gwydion reached effortlessly into the Colours, marvelling 
at the strength of the Green, feeling the power flowing from the 
millions of trees and the birds and animals drawn to them. He 
replenished his strength and opened his eyes. The candle was burning 
low and guttering, so he lit another from the stub of the first. 

A light tapping disturbed his thoughts and he moved i to the door and 
opened it. A youth stood there, pale hair glistening in the moonlight. 
Behind him stood a taller man, dark-haired and dark-eyed. 

‘Yes?’ asked Gwydion. ‘Is someone sick?’ 

‘No, sir,’ said the youth. ‘I am seeking Ruad Ro-fhessa. I was his 
apprentice; my name is Lamfhada.’ 

Gwydion reached out and touched the youth on the shoulder. There 
was no evil in him. ‘Enter,’ said the old man, ‘but talk softly, for Ruad 
is asleep - and he needs his rest.’ 

The newcomers entered the cabin and Gwydion stoked the fire, 
hanging a kettle over the coals. ‘Would you like some herb tea? It is 
sweet and aids gentle dreams.’ 

‘You do not remember me, do you?’ said the hard-faced man. He 
thrust out his right arm, exposing the leather-covered stump. 

‘Elodan? I heard you were dead. I am glad to see the story was 
untrue. You must forgive me; I am growing old and forgetful. When 
last I saw you it was as a Knight arrayed in silver armour, a black-
plumed helm on your head.’ 

‘Long ago, Gwydion. Another age. The world has changed since then and 
not for the better.’ 

Gwydion poured boiling water into a copper pot and added dried 
leaves, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon. He let it stand for 
several minutes and then transferred it to three round-bottomed 
mugs. 

‘Why are you here?’ asked the old man. 


‘I have hopes that the wizard can mend my arm,’ said Elodan. 
‘Lamfhada tells me he can do anything.’ 

‘How did you find us?’ 

Lamfhada grinned. ‘I have been practising with the Colours. I cannot 
master the majors, but I can now fly the Yellow. And I sensed Ruad 
was in the forest, though I could not tell where except that it was to 
the east of where I was. Then we heard of a healer and a wizard, and 
men were speaking about the three golden hounds. I was there when 
Ruad was working on the last of them, so I knew it was him. Do you 
think he will be angry that I sought him out?’ 

‘I do not believe so,’ said Gwydion, ‘but he has suffered a terrible loss 
and you may find him . . . changed. Have patience, Lamfhada. And 
you, Elodan, do not expect overmuch. Ruad is a wizard of great power, 
but some things are beyond mere men.’ 

‘My hopes were never high, Gwydion. But we will see.’ 

Gwydion turned his attention back to the youth. ‘The Yellow,’ he said, 
‘is a wondrous colour. I too learned my skills in such a way. It is the 
Colour of Dreams.’ 

‘And yet it has no power,’ said Lamfhada. 

‘No, no, you are wrong. The Yellow leads us to all the other Colours. It 
is a guide. Without it there would be no wizards, no healers, no 
mystics, no seers. Tell me, as you ride the Yellow, what Colour do you 
find pushing at the edge of your mind?’ 

‘None, sir.’ 

‘In time you will find yourself drawn to another Colour, which will 
intrude as you fly the Yellow. For me it was Green and I became a 
healer; for others, like Ruad, it is Black. For some, sadly, it is the Red. 
But the Yellow will lead you to the Colour of your life, for good or ill.’ 

‘Are all men governed by Colours, then, even when they are not 
sorcerers?’ Lamfhada asked. 

‘Of course. The Colours are life. Look at Elodan -what Colour does his 
soul wear?’ 

The warrior said nothing, but Lamfhada swung to look at him. ‘I do not 
know,’ said the youth. ‘How does one tell?’ 

‘It takes little magic, my boy,’ said Gwydion. ‘A farmer is a man who 
loves the land and the yield of the land. His is the Green of growth. 
But a warrior? What other Colour is there for a man who lives to strike 
his fellows with a razored blade, or a deadly mace, or a flashing lance? 
Elodan’s Colour is Red, and he knows it. He has always known it. Am I 


right, King’s champion?’ 

Elodan shrugged. ‘There will always be a need for warriors. I feel no 
shame at what I ... was.’ 

‘Ah, but then you were not a warrior because of that need. You chose 
the path because you enjoyed the fight.’ 

‘That is true. Does it make me evil?’ 

‘No, but neither does it bring you close to sainthood,’ said Gwydion, 
reddening. He took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, Elodan. I have no right 
to berate you. But much of my life has been spent healing wounds 
caused by swords or arrows or axes; dealing with the result of hatred, 
lust or greed. I know you are not evil — but I loathe the men of 
swords. Come, it is late. Rest here, and we will speak to Ruad in the 
morning.’ 

Errin regained consciousness after a few moments and sat up groggily. 
Ubadai helped him to his feet. ‘Bad chin,’ said the tribesman, grinning. 
Errin staggered. 

‘I’m sorry,’ apologized Sheera. ‘I thought you’d move or something. I 
mean, the speed with which you tackled the beast . . . Are you all 
right?’ 

‘Only my pride suffered lasting damage,’ said Errin. ‘Can I sit down 
somewhere?’ 

‘Not here,’ replied Ubadai, gesturing at the bodies. ‘Blood will bring 
many creatures - wolves, lions, who knows? You can sit on my horse.’ 

‘No, he can’t,’ said Sheera. ‘It ran as soon as you dismounted.’ 

‘Better and better,’ Ubadai grunted. The tribesman scanned the area, 
then pointed to a nearby hill. ‘There should be caves - with our luck, 
many beasts there. Hip-deep in beasts. Still. . .’ He gathered the 
saddlebags and provisions from Errin’s dead mount, and waited while 
Sheera fetched her meagre pack from the shelter beneath the tree. 
Then he supported Errin as they moved slowly uphill. The fresh 
mountain air soon revived the nobleman. As Ubadai had predicted, 
there were many shallow caves. He entered one on the south of the 
hill, but backed out swiftly. ‘Bear,’ he said. The second cave was 
empty and the Nomad gathered wood and built a fire. 

Sheera settled down beside the fire, grateful for the warmth, and sat 
watching Errin. ‘I really am sorry,’ she said. 

He shrugged. ‘Don’t be. I never was very good at defending myself. 
My old sword tutor said my wrists were as strong as damp lettuce.’ 

‘You moved well enough against the beast, and that sword-thrust all 


but disembowelled it.’ 


‘Beast was dying anyway,’ Ubadai told Sheera. ‘You could have killed it 
with that branch.’ 
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Errin asked. 
Ubadai shrugged. ‘Sick, maybe. But when it killed horse it nearly fell. 


It did not charge - it staggered.’ 


‘That’s a nice thought,’ snapped Errin. ‘The conquering Knight kills a 
sick beast - hardly the basis for a great saga. It didn’t look ill to me.’ 
‘Yes, it did,’ said Sheera. ‘Its chest was almost blue. And it did fall 


before attacking.’ 
‘It had thin skin,’ said Ubadai. ‘Not good for cold.’ 
‘Can we stop feeling sorry for the creature?’ asked Errin. ‘It wasn’t 


exactly a wounded rabbit.’ 
‘You wait here,’ said the Nomad. ‘I’ll find horse.’ 
After the tribesman had gone, Sheera built up the fire. ‘It doesn’t 


matter that the beast was not at full strength, Errin. You still tackled it 


- and you pulled me clear of the talons with astonishing speed.’ 
He grinned at her. ‘I was rather pleased with that.’ He wanted to tell 
her about the belt, but thought better of it; it was pleasant to be seen 
in an heroic role. Looking at Sheera, he was struck by her similarity to 
her sister: the same wide eyes and full lips, the same piercing gaze. 
Sheera was taller, her hair shorter and more tightly curled, but there 
was no doubting the blood line. 

‘What is wrong?’ she asked, as she saw his face change. 

‘Nothing. Would you like something to eat?’ 

‘Not at the moment. I’m still a little queasy from the battle.’ 

‘It was brave of you to stand before the beast with just a burning 
branch,’ he said. ‘You looked very impressive there.’ 

‘I didn’t have time or space to use my bow. You showed great skill in 
charging your horse at it.’ 

‘I can’t claim too much credit for that; the poor animal was trying to 
stop and lost its footing.’ He looked away and silence fell between 
them. ‘Look . . .’ he said at last. ‘About Dianu . . .’ 

‘Let’s not talk about it,’ she said, her face hardening. 

‘There are some things that must be said. I was a fool; I know that, 
and no amount of breast-beating will erase it. But I knew nothing of 
the danger she was in; I did not know you had Nomad blood.’ 


‘You killed her, Errin. Your arrow pierced her heart.’ 

He closed his eyes, then opened them to stare into the flames. ‘Yes,’ 
he agreed. ‘My arrow . . . but you do not know what it was like. I had 
a broken leg and was making my escape. I wanted to rescue her, but I 
could not get down from my horse. When I rode to the hilltop, she was 
being tied to a stake at the top of a pyre -’ 

‘I don’t want to hear this!’ 

But Errin pushed on. ‘If I had reached her, I could not have freed her. 
She would either have burnt slowly to death or choked on the smoke. 
What would you have done, Sheera?’ 

‘All those people around her,’ she whispered. ‘She must have known 
many of them. She used to distribute gifts in Mactha -food and coin 
for the needy. Yet they cheered as she was led to the stake; we heard 
that in Pertia. And they screamed in rage when you robbed them of 
their sport. What makes people act like that? How could they be so 
cruel? So evil?’ 

He shook his head. ‘How can I answer? Some weeks ago a slave boy 
ran away after I had bought him as a gift for the Duke. I hunted him 
down, and when he had almost escaped I loosed an arrow into his 
back. Why? How can any man answer? He was mine; he disobeyed 
me; I watched him crawl into the forest to die alone. It’s been on my 
mind ever since. I cannot justify it - no more could any man present 
when Dianu died justify his passions.’ 

‘Are you sure the boy died?’ 

‘No, but the arrow went deep.’ 

For a while they sat in silence, then Sheera spoke again. ‘It is hard to 
believe how soon the world can change. I spent four years in Furbolg attending 
school, enjoying feasts and dances and banquets. I even 
met the King. He was tall and not old, but his eyes were strange and 
cold. I did not like him, nor his new Knights. Many rumours sprang up 
about them. Some men said they were demons from another world; 
others claimed they were sorcerers who sacrificed living victims on a 
secret altar. Then the fear began - the arrests, the executions, the 
mobs chanting in the streets. I used to walk along the Perfumed Path 
at night - you recall it?’ 

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A haunt for lovers. Roses and many other flowers lined 
the path all the way to the Royal Park.’ 

‘No one used it during my last year in Furbolg. Four women 
disappeared while walking it, two others were attacked and raped. It 
became a place of fear. And the murders and robberies! Not a day 


passed without word of some new outrage, but even that was not 
enough to concern the nobility. Then one evening at the palace 
everything changed. The King had ordered a special feast; we arrived 
late and saw that the palace hall was packed with beds and couches 
and everywhere people were rutting. The slave at the door told my 
uncle that no man was allowed to remain with his wife; all had to find 
other partners. We slipped away then, and that’s when my uncle sent 
me to Dianu and our plan to escape was formed.’ 

‘The King turned the palace into a brothel?’ exclaimed Errin. ‘And the 
nobles stood for it?’ 

‘Four who refused to take part were later accused of treachery. That’s 
when the King’s champion, Elodan, left his service and challenged the 
Red Knight, Gairbre. We were already on the road by then, but we 
heard of the fight.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Errin softly. ‘Cairbre told me of it. The world has thrown 
away its sanity.’ 

‘Not the whole world, Errin. Only the Gabala.’ 

‘Perhaps Cartain will raise an army strong enough?’ 

‘No, he will not,’ said Sheera fiercely. ‘Cithaeron is far away. And, 
anyway, there is already an army here. You have heard of Llaw 
Gyffes? Now is the time, Errin. Not in a year or ten years. Now!’ 

‘But the man is a peasant - you can’t be serious.’ 

‘A peasant? I would sooner be ruled by an honest peasant than a mad 
king. But his army would grow even faster if men like you were allied 
to him.’ 

Errin shook his head. ‘I have heard many stories of the legendary wife-
killer, but I have never seen this army. What would it consist of? 
Killers, thieves, robbers? Would these put an end to King Ahak’s reign 
of terror — or add to it?’ 

‘When I was a child,’ said Sheera, ‘there was a fire on the estate. Our 
foresters set another blaze before it, burning all the ground in its path. 
The first fire was starved and died, and the land was safe. Within a few 
years you would never have known there had been two fires.’ 

Ubadai entered the cave. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘Horse bolted and I saw 
wolf tracks. We walk now.’ 

‘Back to Pertia?’ enquired Sheera softly. 

‘No,’ said Errin. ‘We’ll find Llaw Gyffes.’ 

‘Better and better,’ grunted Ubadai. 


CHAPTER TWELVE 

Lamfhada lay in a warm corner of the cabin covered by a thick woollen 
blanket, his head resting on an embroidered cushion. He could hear 
Elodan and Gwydion talking in low voices, but the sound washed over 
him as he reached for the Yellow. He was anxious to see which Colour 
approached the edge of his vision. Would he be a Healer, or a Wizard, 
or a Seer, or a Craftsman? He closed his eyes, drawing the Yellow to 
him and feeling its warmth. His body lost all sensation of weight and 
he seemed to be floating effortlessly in a warm sea, slowly rolling over 
and over, yet rising into the glow above. Often he had reached this 
stage, but mostly he remained a little below it, bathing in the Yellow. 
Tonight he rose and rose, seeking the Colour of his life. The Yellow 
deepened into Gold and his eyes snapped open to see the sky was 
ablaze with colour: Red, Green, White, Blue, Black, Violet - and Gold. 
They merged and swelled together and he felt himself on a river of 
magic, whirling above the forest. At first he was frightened and 
struggled to return, but the Gold brought him tranquillity and he 
fastened to it. 

And from the darkest, deepest corner of the hall of memory came the 
realization that he had touched the Gold once before - as a nine-yearold 
child torn by grief at the death of his mother. He remembered the 
hooded man chanting on the hill and knew him as Ruad Ro-lhessa, the 
wizard Ollathair. But there was another man close by, he recalled: a 
man who had sent the frightened boy home. Yet his name was still lost 
to Lamfhada. 

His headlong flight slowed as he reached the edge of the forest. 
Gazing down at himself, he saw he was naked and standing on a 
golden circle. Far below him lay the trees, and he could see a stag 
running on a hillside, pursued by wolves. He shivered, afraid that he 
would fall from the circle, wishing it had walls. The circle curved up 
into a half-sphere and he sat back on a high seat. 

This was wondrous beyond his dreaming. 

On the hillside the stag had turned to face the pack. Lamfhada 
watched as it lowered its head. A wolf leapt - only to be hurled into the 
air. A second wolf moved in behind the stag . . . then another. Their 
fangs tore at the animal and the stag fell, its throat ripped, blood 
spilling to the earth. Lamfhada was struck by a terrible sadness, and 
the golden sphere dropped to the earth. Frightened by the light, the 
wolves ran off. Lamfhada stepped from the sphere and approached the 
dead stag. It was old, its fur grey around the mouth. The boy knelt by 


it and reached out; but his hand passed through the beast, and he 
remembered that it was his spirit that flew. Golden light flamed from 
his hand, filling the body of the stag. The wounds closed and the grey 
hairs vanished. Old, stretched muscles swelled with youth and vitality. 
The stag’s head came up, it surged to its feet and with one leap it 
bounded from the hilltop. The wolves closed in, but its speed carried it 
clear as it ran for the sanctuary of the distant trees. 

Lamfhada climbed into the sphere and took to the skies, joy flooding 
him. 

At the edge of the forest once more, he gazed out over the realm 
beyond and saw the Red gathering like a distant sunset. He sensed 
another presence and saw a man hovering in the sky. He was dressed 
in red armour and his hair was glittering white in the moonlight - and 
yet as Lamfhada looked closer, he saw the knight was almost 
transparent. 

‘Who are you?’ asked Lamfhada. 

Blood-red eyes turned on him and the Knight tried to fly closer. But 
the Gold turned him back. 

‘I am Cairbre,’ the Knight whispered. ‘And you?’ 

‘Lamfhada. Why are you here?’ 

‘To see, to learn. Are you with Llaw Gyffes?’ 

‘Yes. Do you know him?’ 

The Knight smiled. ‘I will know him . . . soon. His pitiful little army will 
see the power of the New Gabala. Tell him I said this. Tell him the 
King is coming in the spring, with all his soldiers. Tell him there is 
nowhere to hide from the Red Knights.’ 

‘He would not hide,’ said Lamfhada. ‘He will not fear you.’ 

‘All creatures of flesh and blood should fear me,’ declared Cairbre, ‘and 
all who ride with me. You, boy, what is the source of your magic?’ 

‘I do not know,’ said Lamfhada warily. ‘I am new to the Colours.’ 

‘There is only one Colour of importance,’ snapped the Knight. 

‘You speak of the Red. Yet it cannot heal.’ 

‘Heal? It can create a form that needs no healing. Why do I talk to 
you? Begone, boy! I have no wish to slay you.’ 

‘Are you in pain?’ asked Lamfhada suddenly. ‘Are you ill?’ 

Cairbre’s eyes flashed and he dragged his sword from its ghostly 
scabbard, swinging the blade at the golden sphere. But the sword 


bounced back and Cairbre’s face grew ever more pale. 


He dropped the sword, which floated by his side. ‘Kill me,’ he said. 
‘Come on, boy, kill me!’ 
‘Why? Why should I do such a terrible thing?’ 
‘Terrible? You have no idea of the meaning of the word. But you will, 


when we come for you in the spring. Tell Llaw Gyffes you saw me. Tell 
him.’ 


‘I will. Why do you hate him?’ 
‘Hate? I do not hate him, boy. I hate myself; to all else I am 
indifferent.’ The Knight turned away and grew ever more transparent, 
then suddenly he turned, his body bathed in brilliant red. ‘Ollathair!’ he 
cried. ‘You come from Ollathair!’ 


Lamfhada shrank back and a wall of golden light sprang between 


them. 
The Knight began to laugh. ‘Oh, this is rich! Go to him. Send him my 
regards. Cairbre-Pateus sends greetings!’ 


And then he was gone. 
Lamfhada fled for the cabin and the safety of his body. He awoke with 


a start, wondering if he had dreamt his flight, yet he could still see the 
burning eyes of the Knight. 
He sat up. In the opposite corner lay Elodan, fast asleep; Gwydion still 


sat at the table, staring into a goblet. Lamfhada rose. 
‘Can you not sleep?’ asked the Healer. 
‘May I speak with you, sir?’ 
‘Why not? There is little else to occupy us.’ 
‘I have found my Colour.’ 
Gwydion’s eyes sparkled and he clapped Lamfhada’s shoulder. ‘That is 


good. I hope it is Green; the world has need of Healers.’ 
‘It is Gold.’ 
‘There is no Gold, boy. You are still in the Yellow.’ 
‘No, sir. I floated in a golden boat and saw an ancient stag die. I gave 


it life, and it rose.’ 
‘Pah! What you had was a dream — but it sounds a damn fine one!’ 
Lamfhada shook his head. ‘Wait! Let me try again.’ He closed his eyes 


and reached for the Colours. The Yellow welcomed him, but of the 
Gold there was no sign. 



‘Do not be disheartened, lad,’ said Gwydion. ‘These things take time. 
What else did you see?’ 

‘I saw a Red Knight floating at the edge of the forest. He gave me a 
message for Ollathair; he said Cairbre-Pateus sends greetings.’ 

Gwydion recoiled, the colour draining from his face. 

‘Do not deliver that message! Do not speak of it. Do not even think of 
it.’ 

‘I don’t understand.’ 

‘And that’s as it should be. But trust me, Lamfhada. Say nothing. It 
was just a dream ... just a very bad dream.’ 

Ubadai knelt by the body that lay across the trail. It had six legs and 
was covered in scaled skin. The jaws were longer than a man’s arm, 
and were rimmed with three rows of teeth. 

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ declared Errin. ‘And there’s not a 
wound on it.’ 

Ubadai placed his hand on the creature’s chest. ‘All muscle,’ he stated. 
‘No fat; this one freeze to death.’ 

‘They had many strange beasts in the zoo at Furbolg,’ said Sheera. 
‘Perhaps someone was transporting more from the coast and they 
escaped?’ 

Ubadai shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I grew to manhood on the Steppes, and 
I never heard of a lizard with six legs. We should find a safe place to 
camp. The sun goes down - maybe more beasts.’ 

Warily they stepped around the carcass and continued on up a winding 
trail. At the top of the hill the path widened and split, one trail leading 
to the east, the other south. Ubadai sniffed the air. ‘That way,’ he said, 
pointing east. 

Errin was too tired and cold to argue; he hitched his saddlebags to his 
left shoulder and walked on. After another quarter of a mile they came 
to a bend in the trail, and there ahead of them was a small stone-built 
house nestling against the side of a sheer rock wall. 

Before it, on the snow, sat an old man in faded blue robes. His head 
was bald and round, but a white forked beard grew to his chest. 

‘Is he dead?’ Errin asked, as Ubadai approached the man. 

The old man’s eyes opened. 

‘No, I am not dead,’ he snapped. ‘I was thinking, I was enjoying the 
solitude.’ 


‘My apologies,’ offered Errin, bowing low. ‘But are you not cold sitting 
there?’ 

‘What has my condition to do with you? This is my home and this is 
my body. If it is cold, that is its own affair.’ 

‘Indeed it is, sir,’ agreed Errin, forcing a smile. ‘Look, my companions 
and I are in need of shelter. Could we prevail upon you to allow us to 
spend the night in your home?’ 

‘I do not like company,’ the old man replied. 

‘Then sit out here in the snow,’ said Ubadai. He turned to Errin. ‘Why 
waste time on a stupid old fool? Let’s get inside.’ 

‘No!’ said Errin. ‘We will find a cave or something.’ 

The old man grinned. ‘I have changed my mind,’ he announced. ‘You 
may stay. I expect you will want to light a fire. There is no wood and 
you will need to gather some. I believe there is an old axe inside.’ 

Ubadai muttered something under his breath and strode into the 
house, emerging moments later with the weapon. Errin bowed once 
more to the man sitting in the snow. 

‘Why did you change your mind?’ he asked. 

‘Because I am capricious by nature. Now go away and let me think.’ 

Errin and Sheera moved into the dwelling. There was only one large 
room, neatly laid out with a bed in one corner and a table with two 
bench seats set in the centre. The hearth was cold and empty, and 
there was sign of neither cooking utensils nor food of any kind. 

‘I’ll gather some tinder,’ said Sheera. Nodding, Errin dumped his 
saddlebags against a wall. The stone house was colder than death; ice 
had formed on the northern wall, where water had flowed through a 
crack in the roof. He walked over to the bed, where a single 
threadbare blanket was casually laid. There was no mattress, merely a 
line of wooden slats. 

Errin looked around; the room was stark and inhospitable. He walked 
out into the gathering dusk, skirted the seated figure and joined 
Sheera in her wood gathering. In the distance they could hear the 
steady thud of the axe. For some while they gathered what dead-wood 
could be found and carried it into the house. Sheera started a fire, but 
its warmth took an age to penetrate the grim cold of the dwelling. 

Ubadai came in after an hour and threw the axe against the far wall. 
His face was red and shining with sweat. ‘Need help,’ he muttered. 
Errin and Sheera followed him to a clearing where he had cut down a 
dead tree, and reduced it to manageable chunks and sections. It was 


dark by the time they had ferried the fuel to the house, and the fire 
was blazing brightly in the hearth. 

The trio sat round the blaze long into the night, and every once in a 
while Errin would rise, walk to the door and stare out into the 
moonlight where the old man was still sitting. It had begun to snow. At 
last Errin went out to where he sat and squatted down in front of him. 

‘Excuse me, sir.’ 

The man’s dark eyes opened. ‘You again? What is it now? You have the 
house - what more do you want?’ 

‘Are you trying to die?’ 

‘What if I am?’ 

‘I ... I know that is your own business, but the house is now warm and 
I would feel more comfortable if you joined us. Perhaps we could talk. 
Death is very rarely an answer to anything.’ 

‘Don’t be foolish, boy. Death is the final answer to everything. It is the 
end of every journey; it is peace and an end to strife.’ 

‘Yes,’ Errin agreed, ‘but it is also an end to laughter and joy, to 
companionship, to love. And most of all it is an end to dreams and 
hopes.’ 

‘Ah, yes, but then death holds no terrors for a man without dreams 
and hopes. Has it occurred to you that the more we love, the greater 
is our sadness? For ultimately all things end. No dream is ever 
completely fulfilled.’ 

‘Could it not be said the other way around?’ offered Errin. ‘The greater 
our sadness, the greater our joy. How can we recognize one without 
the counter-balance of the other?’ 

‘Answer me this, young debater: if a man loves a woman for forty 
years, adores her, lives for her, how great is the pain when she dies 
and leaves him alone? Given the choice to go back and start again, 
would he not be wise to avoid the first meeting and live his life without 
love?’ 

Errin smiled. ‘Does a man who lives in winter regret the summer? 
Would he choose to spend his life in a perennial autumn? The 
argument is not a good one, sir. Come inside and enjoy the fire.’ 

‘The fire is immaterial, but I will join you.’ The old man rose smoothly, 
brushed the snow from his clothes and followed Errin inside. Sheera 
was asleep by the fire and Ubadai was sharpening the old axe. He 
looked up at the old man. 


‘Not dead yet, then?’ said the Nomad. 

‘Not yet,’ the man agreed. 

Errin pushed shut the door and walked over to the fire, holding out his 
hands to the welcoming blaze. He removed his cloak and outer tunic, 
allowing the heat to wash over him. ‘How could you sit there so long?’ 
he asked as the old man sat beside him. 

‘Feel my hand,’ said the stranger. Errin took it and found it was 
warmer than his own. ‘Incredible. How do you do it?’ 

‘He is a wizard,’ said Ubadai. ‘I could have told you this.’ 

‘Are you a sorcerer, sir?’ asked Errin. ‘Of a sort. I am the Dagda. But I 
cast no spells -you are safe here.’ 

‘What form does your magic take?’ 

‘Don’t ask!’ snapped Ubadai. 

‘I tell the truth,’ the Dagda answered, ‘and I see all the spinning 
colours in the circle of life: the past, the present, and all of the 
futures.’ 

‘You tell fortunes,’ said Errin. ‘Could you tell mine?’ 

‘I could, Lord Errin. I could tell you everything that lies in store for 
you.’ 

‘Then do so, please.’ 

‘No. You see, I like you.’ He turned to Ubadai. ‘But you I will tell, 
should you desire it?’ 

‘Pah! Not me. You shamen are all alike. Death, despair, and bad luck. 
You say nothing to me, old man.’ 

‘Very wise, Ubadai,’ said the Dagda, smiling. ‘Will you answer me one 
question?’ asked Errin. ‘Perhaps.’ 

‘Can the King’s evil be defeated?’ 

‘You are sure Ahak is evil?’ 

‘Do you see his deeds as good?’ countered Errin. ‘We are talking of the 
man who led the last victorious army and successfully negotiated a 
peaceful end to the days of empire. We are talking about the King who 
introduced legal reforms to aid the poor, who set up a special tax so 
that food could be distributed among the poverty-stricken. And have 
you forgotten the free medicines for the sick and needy?’ 

‘I have not forgotten,’ replied Errin. ‘But nor can I forget the massacre 
of the Nomads, nor the disgusting events now taking place in the 
capital.’ 


‘And what does that tell you?’ 

‘That the King has become evil.’ 

‘Indeed, Lord Errin, it does. But the important word is become. There 
is something that has entered the realm, corrupting all it touches.’ 

‘I have no knowledge of that,’ said Errin softly, ‘but from wherever it 
comes, can it be defeated?’ 

‘The answer must be yes. Most evil springs from the hearts of men. 
And all men must die -therefore their evil dies with them. But your 
question was perhaps more specific. Can this evil be destroyed swiftly, 
by Llaw Gyffes? The answer, as we sit here, is no.’ 

‘But it could change?’ pressed Errin. 

‘There are many futures, and every man has an opportunity to fashion 
his own. The Colours are shifting, the Harmony gone. But, yes, it could 
change. You see, the success or failure of your venture depends on the 
whim of a thief and a murderer.’ 

‘Llaw Gyffes?’ 

‘No. Get some sleep, Lord Errin. In the morning I will be gone. Rest 
here until you are ready to leave, then travel east. You will find the 
man you seek.’ 

‘And where will you go?’ 

‘Wherever I choose,’ answered the Dagda. 

Groundsel found himself strangely reluctant to part with the golden-
haired child he had carried from the blizzard, but once the refugees 
had been found quarters in the stockade an elderly woman approached 
him, naming herself as the girl’s grandmother. The child’s name was 
Evai, and Groundsel felt both pain and gratification as she wept when 
her grandmother took her to the makeshift huts being erected against 
the north wall. 

He watched from the doorway as the old woman and the child made 
their way across the snow, waving when Evai looked back. Arian saw 
him there and joined him. 

‘It’s going to be very crowded here for a while,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll 
make my way back home.’ 

‘There’s another blizzard coming,’ he told her, pointing to the lowering 
sky. ‘Two or three days and it should be safe for a journey. Come 
inside and share a goblet of wine. It’s good; ten years old.’ 

Without waiting for a response he moved back into the hall and 
wandered to a blazing fire. For a moment Arian stood in the doorway, 


unsure. But she was lonely; Llaw avoided her company and now Nuada 
was living with the dark-eyed refugee, Kartia. Removing her sheepskin 
cloak, she went over to the fire, accepting a silver goblet filled with 
blood-red wine. She sipped it and sat facing Groundsel. 

‘An old woman like that is no guardian for a child. She may not last the 
winter,’ he said, staring into the dancing flames. 

‘You would be a better mother?’ 

His dark eyes swung on her. ‘Do not mock me, girl,’ he hissed. 

She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean it the way it sounded.’ 

He shrugged and the anger faded from his gaze. ‘Truth in it, though. I 
couldn’t raise a child; I wouldn’t know how. But you could.’ 

‘I’ll have children of my own, when I’m ready.’ 

‘I don’t doubt it; you’ve the hips for it. But that’s not what I meant. 
You could stay here . . . with me. We could raise the child - and some 
of our own. There is no better catch for you in the forest. I have 
everything here. And when I am ready I’ll sail for Cithaeron. And, by 
the gods, I’ll be one of the richest men there!’ 

Arian took a sip of wine, her mind racing. How could this ugly ape 
believe that she would marry him? The thought of him touching her 
made her feel ill. Yes, he was strong - and yes, he would undoubtedly 
become rich with his thieving and slaying. But a partner for life? 

‘I have no love for you,’ she said, at last, bracing herself for his anger. 
But his response surprised her. 

‘Love? You believe it is an arrow from Heaven? It is not. I have seen 
men and women without love living contented lives. Anyway, love is 
something that grows through companionship. I do not love you, 
Arian; I desire you. But that is a beginning. And I know what you see 
when you look at Groundsel; I am not blind. I am not tall and 
handsome like Llaw Gyffes, nor a talented wordsmith like Nuada. But I 
am strong, and I’ll still be here when they are long dead.’ 

‘No,’ she said, ‘I could not marry you. You talk of desire as a 
beginning. I believe that . . . and I do not desire you. Your wealth does 
not interest me, nor a life of riches in Cithaeron. I wish I could say this 
in a manner less hurtful, but I am not clever with words.’ 

He nodded, his face showing no emotion. Then he smiled. ‘For most of 
my life I was denied all that I desired. When I broke away and came 
here, I decided that never again would I be denied anything. I have 
asked for your hand - as a man should. But I will have you, Arian, with 
or without your consent. So take a few days to think over my 


proposal.’ 

‘I do not like being threatened,’ she said, eyes blazing. ‘And if you 
think to take me, think again. I will kill you.’ 

‘You think you could?’ 

Suddenly she laughed. ‘Take me to your bed, Groundsel, but be 
careful never to sleep.’ 

‘It might still be worth it,’ he told her. ‘You’ll never know,’ she 
retorted, rising. Sweeping her cloak over her shoulder, she moved 
back into the daylight. Snow was falling fast as she trudged towards 
her hut. As she approached it, she saw two sentries pulling open the 
main gates and watched as they bowed to an old man in faded robes 
of dyed blue wool. His head was bald, but a long, forked white beard 
flowed to his chest. The sentries backed away from him and Arian 
stood transfixed. The stranger seemed to float over the snow, leaving 
barely a trace of footsteps. He stopped in the centre of the village and 
sat down in the snow. One of the sentries ran to him, bringing him 
bread; other villagers came from their homes and clustered round him. 
Puzzled by the commotion, Arian strolled over and Llaw Gyffes joined 
her. 

‘What is he doing?’ asked Arian, as the old man spread out some thirty 
black stones on the packed snow before him. 

Llaw grinned. ‘You have heard of him, Arian - now is your chance to 
see. He is the Dagda. Have you the courage to question him?’ She 
glanced up into his mocking gaze. 

‘I’ll follow you,’ she said, but he shook his head. 

‘I have no wish to know the future, and I’ve not the skill to question 
the old man. He knows it all, right up to the moment of every death.’ 

‘He’ll freeze sitting there,’ she said. 

Llaw turned, then tapped Arian’s shoulder, pointing to the hall. 
Groundsel was walking forward bearing a heavy sheepskin cloak. ‘It’s 
part of the ritual in any village he stops in - he will wait for the head 
man to invite him to his quarters. Very few will refuse.’ 

‘Why? Does he curse them?’ she asked. 

‘Worse than that... he tells them the truth.’ 

The crowd pa’rted for Groundsel, who bowed to the Dagda. The old 
man gathered his black stones, tipping them into a leather pouch; 
then he rose and accepted the cloak. The crowd followed as Groundsel 
led the yay to the warmth of the hall. 


‘Would you like to see his skills in action?’ asked |Llaw. Arian nodded. 

Inside the hall a space was cleared by one of the | fires and once again 
the old man squatted down and spread the stones. He looked up at 
Groundsel, who shook his head. The crowd stirred. Groundsel pointed 
to Arian, waving her forward. Llaw came with her and they sat before 
the Dagda. 

‘You first,’ said Arian and Llaw cleared his throat. The Dagda gave a 
thin smile. 

‘Pick eight of the stones,’ he said, his voice hissing like a wind through 
the branches of a dead tree. Llaw looked down at them; they were flat 
and mostly round, obviously gathered from a stream-bed. Slowly he 
picked his eight, then the old man turned them over one by one, 
examining the different runes on each. His pale eyes came up. 

‘Ask me of your life, Llaw Gyffes.’ 

Llaw swallowed. ‘I do not know what to ask, Dagda,’ he muttered, 
reddening. 

‘Then shall I tell you all?’ 

‘No!’ snapped Llaw. ‘All men die - I have no wish to know the time and 
the place. Tell me if we will have a good spring, with game aplenty.’ 

‘The spring will be fine,’ said the Dagda, with another thin smile. ‘It 
will come early, and the game will be more than plentiful. But you will 
have little time to hunt, Llaw Gyffes, for your enemies are gathering. 
And they will be here as the snows melt.’ 

‘I have no enemies,’ stated Llaw. 

‘Your enemies are terrible: men of awesome evil. They fear you, Llaw; 
they fear your army and they fear your name. They must destroy you, 
and they will come to you with bright swords and dark magic.’ 

‘Then I shall leave for Cithaeron. Let them come there.’ 

‘You will never see Cithaeron, Llaw Gyffes.’ 

‘Can I defeat these enemies?’ 

‘All men can suffer defeat. I see two armies. Do you wish to know the 
outcome?’ 

‘No. Thank you for your counsel.’ 

The Dagda smiled and turned to Arian. He turned the stones and 
spread them under his long, bony fingers. She chose her eight and 
waited. 

‘Ask, Arian, and I shall enlighten you.’ 


‘Will Llaw win?’ she asked. Llaw cursed and pushed himself to his feet, 
but before he could retreat out of hearing the old man’s voice 
sounded. 

‘I see him lifeless on the ground before the forest, and a demon 
stalking the hill: a red demon with a dark sword.’ 

‘You foolish child,’ snapped Llaw, his angry eyes fixed on Arian. ‘A 
curse on you!’ 

He strode from the hall and Groundsel knelt by Arian. ‘Ask him about 
us,’ he whispered. Her face white, Arian shook her head. ‘I don’t want 
to know any more. I am sorry, Dagda.’ 

As she tried to rise to follow Llaw, Groundsel held her arm. ‘Ask him! I 
will abide by what he says.’ 

She shook herself loose and took a deep breath. ‘Tell me of 
Groundsel,’ she whispered. The outlaw leader blanched. 

‘He too will die in the spring. I see a horse, a white horse - and a rider 
in shining silver. And a child on a hillside. The demons are gathering, 
and a great storm will descend on the forest. But Groundsel will not 
see it.’ 

‘What should we do?’ Arian asked. 

‘Whatever you will.’ 

‘Does Llaw have to die?’ 

‘All creatures die. Some die well, others badly.’ He looked up at 
Groundsel. ‘Would you like to hear more, my new Lord Groundsel?’ 

‘I never asked you about me, but for years you’ve been longing to tell 
me, you bastard! Well, I’ll outlive you. And when this shining silver 
rider comes to me, I’ll kill him too. I do not believe you, Dagda. 
Nothing is writ in those stones that a strong man cannot change. I will 
make my own decisions.’ 

‘Indeed you will. Think on that point when you meet the silver rider.’ 
The old man turned his attention to Arian. ‘You asked what to do. I do 
not advise, I merely tell what is. But I see a one-handed swordsman 
and a Child of Power. I see a Craftsman, a wizard with a burden. All 
must come together. A balance must be restored.’ 

Arian left him then and made her way to Llaw’s hut, desperate to 
apologize. She had not meant to ask the question; it had sprung from 
her concern. Surely he would be able to understand? 

But Llaw’s hut was empty, his belongings gone. She ran to the gate 
and climbed the ladder to the rampart. 


Fresh snow was falling, but she could see his footsteps leading away 
into the darkness of the forest. 

Llaw Gyffes pushed on until an hour before dusk, ploughing his slow 
way through drifts, down icy slopes and across frozen streams, 
determined to put as much distance between himself and the Dagda as 
possible. The man was a grim legend in the forest. None knew where 
he lived, but stories of his travels claimed he had walked the Forest of 
the Ocean for more than a century. Some said he was a former Knight, 
others that he was a priest, but all agreed his words were double-
edged. Yet still men and women clamoured to hear of their futures -
dark or bright, joy-filled or pain-borne. At dusk Llaw had a fire going 
against the fallen trunk of an old birch. He built a snow wall to the 
north to shelter him from the bitter wind and settled down to sit out 
the night. 

Damn the girl! Death in the spring . . . lifeless before an army of 
enemies he had never courted. What unlucky star had he been born 
under? Which god had he offended to have his life so ruined? First 
Lydia -and that blow had been savage - and now a meaningless death. 

The stars were bright, the temperature dropping as Llaw built up the 
fire and gathered his cloak around him. A whisper of movement came 
from the undergrowth and he drew his axe from his belt and swung his 
head. Sitting some fifteen feet from the fire, and gazing at him with 
baleful eyes, was a huge grey wolf. In the light from the blaze Llaw 
could see that his muzzle was white; he was old, and cast from the 
pack. From the size of the scarred shoulders Llaw guessed he had once 
been the leader of the pack; but like all creatures age had withered his 
strength and a younger male had forced him aside. Llaw reached into 
his pack, pulling out a section of dried beef which he tossed to the 
wolf. The beast ignored it. Llaw looked away and added more wood to 
the blaze. When he looked back the meat was gone, but the wolf still 
sat. 

‘Proud, are you?’ said Llaw. ‘No bad thing, in man or beast.’ He tossed 
another chunk of meat, this time a little closer. Once more the wolf 
waited until he looked away before scooping the meat into its jaws. 
There were few recorded instances of wolves attacking men, and Llaw 
was not worried about his ability to kill the beast. His axe was sharp, 
his arm strong. But he was glad of the company. ‘Come, Grey One. 
Enjoy the fire.’ 

Another piece of beef landed before the wolf, but to his right, bringing 
him closer to the warmth. As he moved to the morsel Llaw saw the 
marks of recent combat on the gnarled shoulders, jagged fang marks 
deep along the flank. An old scar could still be seen on his right hind 


leg, causing him to limp. ‘You won’t survive the winter, Grey One. 
Even a tired rabbit could outrun you, and you’ll bring down no stags. 
Best you stay with me for a while.’ The wolf settled down on his 
haunches, grateful for the heat and his first meal in ten days. 

The wound on his hind leg had been caused in the summer when a 
huge brown bear had attacked his mate. He had charged the beast 
and leapt for his throat, jibut the thick fur had prevented his fangs 
from sinking home and a swipe from the bear’s talons had opened a 
long wound in his side. His mate had died, and his own wound had 
been long in the healing. When the pack had gathered for the winter 
the challenges had come, as they always did, but he had neither the 
strength nor the will to withstand them. They had driven him from 
them many days ago. 

He had lived on carrion and the leavings of other carnivores. Then with 
his strength almost gone he had smelt the man and had been 
gathering himself to attack him. Now he was unsure . . . but the meat 
was good, the fire warm. He settled down warily, his yellow eyes fixed 
on the man, his hunger now less keen. 

Llaw delved into his pack; there were three more pieces of meat. He 
pulled two of them clear and bit into one. The wolfs head came up and 
he threw the second piece to it. This time the animal ate it at once. 
Adding fresh wood, Llaw settled down beside the fire. He did not fear 
an attack from the wolf. How could he? Did not the Dagda say he had 
until the spring? 

He slept without dreams and awoke in the chill of the morning. The 
fire had died down to glowing embers and the wolf had gone. Llaw felt 
a sense of loss. He sat up, shivered and stoked the fire to life, adding 
twigs he had gathered the previous afternoon. Then he took a copper 
pot from his pack and filled it with snow, placing it at the edge of the 
fire. As the snow melted, he added fresh handfuls until the pot was 
half full with water. Into this he mixed some dried oats, stirring with a 
stick until it thickened. 

The words of the Dagda haunted him still. His enemies were gathering, 
and he could not avoid them. That left the former blacksmith only one 
option. He would attempt what the legends said he had already 
achieved. He would build an army. He would take the war to them. 

But how? How could a blacksmith raise such a force? He chuckled, 
‘Start with one, Llaw. Find one man . . . then another. The forest is full 
of rebels.’ His thoughts went to Elodan, the former Knight. He at least 
was versed in the ways of war. And the wizard who had helped 
Lamfhada, he too could be a help. Llaw ate the hot oats, doused the 


fire and set off to the east. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

The Duke was mildly drunk as he sat on the ramparts gazing out over 
the snow-covered countryside. An iron brazier had been set up beside 
him, but the glowing coals barely countered the freezing wind. 

Far in the distance he could just make out the black line of the forest, 
and beyond it he could picture the sea and the trade route to 
Cithaeron. The dawn sky was clear and the doves were waking around 
the tower, wheeling and diving. The Duke shivered and held out his 
hands to the coals. 

Three days ago he had still nursed hopes of riding the storm of the 
new age. But then the King had arrived, with a thousand riders. The 
audience had been short, and when the Duke was summoned to his 
own hall there had been Okessa sitting at the King’s right. And 
flanking the throne were the eight demonic Red Knights. The Duke had 
bowed low. 

‘This is a troublesome Duchy,’ said Ahak, Lord of the Realm, Captain of 
Ten Thousand Lances. The Duke looked up into his red-rimmed eyes 
and could find no words; the shock of the King’s appearance, white-
haired and grey of face, unnerved him. ‘Well? Have you nothing to 
say, kinsman?’ 

‘I am . . . heartbroken that you are distressed, my liege. Perhaps the 
reports have been unnecessarily alarming. We have identified all of 
Nomad birth, our taxes are collected and have been despatched to 
Furbolg. Where is the problem?’ 

Ahak shook his head and turned to Okessa. ‘Where is the problem, he 
asks. Is he slow-witted?’ Okessa shrugged and smiled and the King 
swung on the Duke. 

‘Where? Is this not the castle from which the rebel Llaw Gyffes made 
his escape, to form his rebellious army in that cursed forest? Is this 
not the Duchy that saw your own Lord of the Feast -a man you 
recommended should supervise my visit, and attend my person -turn 
traitor?’ Okessa leaned towards the King and whispered something in 
his ear. ‘Ah, yes,’ hissed Ahak. ‘And what of this wizard Ollathair, who 
was allowed to escape? And you do not see where the problem lies?’ 

‘My liege, I cannot dispute we have suffered . . . misfortunes. But the 
man Llaw Gyffes was just a blacksmith who killed his wife. And yes, he 
escaped. But of the men who escaped with him, all but a mere handful 
were recaptured. And as for Errin, I blame the Lord Okessa for 


provoking him at the Council. The man was concerned about a woman 
he loved.’ 

‘A Nomad bitch! Who knows what foul treason they would have 
plotted? I am displeased with you, kinsman. But I will consider what 
action to take when I have studied your Duchy at close quarters. Go 
now.’ Dismissed from his own hall, he had not been summoned to the 
King’s presence since then. But he had seen others who were. Two 
nights ago three young women from the village had been led into the 
courtyard by one of Okessa’s servants. An hour later, as the Duke lay 
in bed unable to sleep, he had heard a terrible scream. The girls had 
not been seen since that night, but the Duke had watched as three 
sacks were carried from the royal quarters, their contents buried 
behind the stables. The Duke had slipped out into the courtyard an 
hour later and found the fresh-turned earth. Digging his ringers into 
the ground, he had come up with a small skull which he hastily 
reburied. 

The following morning he had ordered his horse saddled for his usual 
ride across the hills, but was informed by his captain that the Lord 
Okessa had requested the Duke’s presence within the castle, in case 
the King should have need to call on him. 

He was a prisoner in his own fortress, guarded by his own troops. 

It was barely credible but then neither was the change in Ahak. The 
Duke had always known the King was a ruthless man. Six years ago 
the rumours had been strong that he ordered the poisoning of his 
uncle, the previous monarch, but in those days Ahak had been a 
powerhouse of physical strength, young and in his prime - his hair was 
raven-black, his eyes clear. Once, at a feast, he had lifted a twenty-
gallon barrel of wine over his head and held it there for ten heartbeats. 
Now he was a shadow of the man he had been. And yet, how old could 
he be? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? Certainly no more. 

As the coals in the brazier died down, the Duke returned to his 
quarters. His servants brought him hot water and, with the aid of a 
silver mirror, he shaved carefully around his thin beard, noting the 
grey hairs that were beginning to appear at his temples. 

His face was lean and strong, the eyes deep and set close together 
above a curved nose. Not handsome, he knew, but powerful. He put 
down the mirror and rubbed at his face with a warmed towel. 

Rebels in the forest! He wished to Hell there was a rebel army ready to 
sweep down. But all his spies informed him that the legend of Llaw 
Gyffes was exactly that: a fable. He smiled ruefully. Even if the legend 
were true, and the army swept into Mactha, he would still be a 


prisoner. He was a hated man; it was a lesson his father had taught 
him. 

‘A man can rule using either love or fear,’ he had said. ‘But fear is 
stronger.’ And his words had been proved true. But now, as the Duke 
waited for news of his fate, he knew there was not a man in Mactha 
who would assist him and few tears would be shed when his blood ran, 

‘Breakfast, my Lord?’ asked a slave-girl, whose name the Duke did not 
know. 

‘No.’ He looked at the girl. She was young, dark and pretty. He knew 
he had bedded her at some time in the winter, but could not 
remember much of the event. He wandered to his bedroom. He was 
glad he had never married; he had planned to, of course, in order to 
sire an heir, but had decided to wait until he was fifty. At least now he 
would not have the worry of a family waiting to share his fate. 

Hearing the thunder of hooves from the courtyard, he walked to the 
window. Five hundred of the King’s black-cloaked riders were galloping 
from the castle and he watched them for a while as they headed for 
the forest. 

He summoned his captain. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked. 

‘I understand the King has commanded them to enter the forest and 
ascertain the strength of Llaw Gyffes’ army.’ 

‘There is no army,’ snapped the Duke. ‘They will find a few 
settlements, and they will rape and kill. Gods! The world has gone 
mad.’ The man said nothing. 

The Duke waved him away. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go and report what I have 
said; I don’t doubt Okessa will reward you.’ 

The man bowed, moved back and closed the door. 

The Duke heard the key turn in the lock . . . 

Manannan pushed back the sheets, lifted the girl’s arm from his chest 
and rolled from the bed. He poured himself a goblet of the golden 
Ambria and watched the sun rise in glory over the mountains. 
Strength flowed through him and he swung round to see the girl 
awake; she smiled at him and sat up. 

‘How are you feeling, Lord Knight?’ 

He chuckled and returned to the bed, stroking her shoulder and 
pushing back the long, flowing hair to kiss her neck. Her skin was ivory 
pale, her body soft. Arousal swamped him . . . 

An hour later he watched her leave and lay back on the bed. Sunlight 


streamed through the open window, bathing his body, and the music 
of songbirds came floating from the perfumed gardens below. 

Manannan drank more of the elixir, then bathed and dressed in robes 
of blue silk. Wandering to the terraced garden, he strolled there 
among the blooms and the flowering trees. He found a small group of 
poets sitting among the camellias, arguing gently with a number of 
artists on the question of beauty. For a while he listened, but the 
sound of distant music lured him to a pavilion where women were 
dancing. 

And the sun shone with incredible brightness. 

Ollathair had been right. The tunnel beyond the Black Gate was a 
nightmare to chill a man’s soul: glittering eyes in the darkness, the 
sweat of terror upon his brow. But beyond it was a land of surpassing 
beauty and a city the like of which Manannan had never seen. White 
stone buildings towered over the landscape, wondrous statues lined 
the streets, and there were gardens everywhere, and woods of 
flowering trees. 

He had been met at the city gates by Paulus, a poet and a Magister. 
The man, tall and white-haired, had bowed low. 

‘Welcome at last, Manannan. It is a blessing for us that you have 
come.’ 

‘You know me?’ he had asked, dismounting. 

‘Know you, my dear man? Samildanach has talked of nothing else. 
Welcome indeed! He will be delighted to hear of your arrival.’ 

‘He is here? Alive?’ 

‘Not here,’ said Paulus, smiling. ‘But yes, he is very much alive - as are 
all your comrades. They chose to remain among the Vyre and help us 
in our troubles. But you are tired from your travels. Follow me to my 
home; there you can bathe and take refreshment.’ 

The Magister’s home was a palace of exquisite beauty, marble-fronted 
and surrounded by terraced gardens. Young women came out to greet 
them and Manannan allowed Kuan to be led away to the stables 
beyond the gardens. 

‘You have many slaves,’ he said to Paulus as they walked inside. 

‘Not slaves, helpers. Servants, if you like.’ He led the Once-Knight to a 
suite of rooms and gave him his first goblet of Ambria. As he drank it, 
Manannan felt strength surge through his limbs. 

‘What is it?’ he asked, astonished. 


‘It is the bedrock of our civilization. It is life, Manannan. Drink of this 
and you will never have need of medicine, neither will you age.’ 

Samildanach and the other Knights were away in the north, he was 
told, but they would return in about a month. At first Manannan was 
concerned, and restless. Could he not ride out to meet them? Paulus 
agreed that he could, but advised him to rest for a few days, gather 
his strength, and then he would supply a guide. But the days passed 
and Manannan grew to love the white-towered city. There was 
something about it that opened his soul: the problems of the Realm 
seemed so far away, and the world he had left behind so remote and 
petty. 

He bathed in scented water and found no need of food -one drink and 
his strength returned in seconds. The people here were gentle, and he 
spent several days roaming the libraries and museums, studying the 
customs of the Vyre. They were not a warrior race, though once -
according to the histories -they had boasted great armies. Now they 
employed a mercenary force to patrol their borders, but there was 
little trouble with neighbouring lands. 

‘Where is Samildanach?’ he asked Paulus on the fourth day of his stay. 

‘He is helping to rescue some people from your own troubled land. 
Nomads, I believe they are called. He has opened a Gate for them to 
allow them to settle in our land.’ 

‘That is kind of you.’ 

‘It is not just kindness, Manannan. We have suffered •,, terrible 
plagues here during the last thirty years, and there are few people left 
to till the earth or supply our | needs. The land needs new blood. 
There are some two thousand Nomads settled already in the north. 
Perhaps when Samildanach returns, you can visit the new towns they 
are building.’ 

On the fifth day Manannan had been ill at ease. He felt strong as a 
lion, but on edge. He spoke of his feeling to Paulus, who smiled and 
clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You must understand,’ said the 
Magister, ‘that the Ambria is working inside you, rebuilding your body, 
making it stronger than it has ever been. It is also making you more 
aware of your body. What you need is a companion for your bed.’ 

‘I am pledged to celibacy,’ Manannan had told him. 

‘Truly? For what purpose? Man was intended to mate. Trust me, 
Manannan.’ 

He had sent Draya to him that night, and she was divine to look at as 
well as being bright, witty and charming. Together they had finished a 


pitcher of Ambria and made love throughout the night. And Paulus was 
right. The tension in Manannan was gone; he felt smooth and relaxed, 
at one with this new world. After Draya he had enjoyed Senlis, Marin 
and others whose names he could not now remember. 

The joy of it all was almost too hard to bear. The City of the Vyre was 
close to Manannan’s view of Paradise. It had everything except an all-
powerful god and, truth be told, that made it somehow even better 
than Paradise. There were no judges here; the only law seemed to be 
Joy. 

And the days passed. Manannan read the Books of the Vyre, learned 
their poetry, viewed their painting and sculpture, made love to their 
women. The Once-Knight was content for the first time in his life. 

Soon Samildanach would return and they would ride to the rescue of 
Ollathair, put the Realm to rights, and then return here to enjoy the 
rewards of the blessed. 

On the sixteenth evening Manannan fell asleep with these dreams in 
his mind. He awoke in the middle of the night, shivering and cold, and 
reached for his Ambria only to find the pitcher empty. He swore and 
rose - he was sure it had been half full when he fell asleep, but Paulus 
would have more. As he stood, he saw a figure sitting in the chair by 
the window - her back to the moonlight, her face in shadow. 

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Never mind. Just let me get a drink and I 
will talk to you.’ 

‘You need a drink to be able to talk?’ she responded, her voice low and 
deep. Something stirred in Manannan’s memory, but it danced like 
morning mist, dispersing as he reached for it. 

‘No, of course not. But I am cold.’ He moved towards the door. 

‘Then put a blanket around your shoulders. You look foolish standing 
there naked, holding that pitcher.’ 

‘Who are you?’ 

‘I am a friend, Manannan. The only friend you have here.’ 

‘Nonsense. I have made more friends here than in all my life.’ 

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Sit and talk.’ 

‘I need a drink.’ 

‘There is fresh water,’ she offered. 

‘I don’t need water,’ he snapped. 

‘No,’ she admitted, ‘you need Ambria. You need the Nectar of the 


Gods. Is it too late for you, Manannan?’ 

‘Do not speak in riddles, woman. I have no time for this; I did not ask 
you here.’ 

‘You did not. Nor did I ask to be here in this cursed city. But such is 
the game of life. You are a Knight of the Gabala and once that meant 
something to the world. Only the strongest, the noblest could dream of 
donning the silver armour. Are you strong, Manannan?’ 

‘I have never been stronger.’ 

‘Then let me set you a task - not a difficult task. Sit here with me until 
the dawn - do not leave this room until the sun rises. Is that too 
difficult, sir Knight?’ 

‘What a ridiculous question. Of course it would not be difficult, but I 
have no wish to play this game. Now leave me in peace.’ 

‘The call of the Ambria is strong, is it not? I know. I cannot resist it. 
For me it has been too long, and no one warned me of its terrible 
properties.’ 

Manannan hurled the pitcher aside. ‘Damn you, woman, does your 
prattle never end?’ He stormed across to her and dragged her to her 
feet. It was then that she turned towards him and the moonlight fell 
upon her face. Manannan recoiled as if struck. ‘Morrigan? Dear Gods, 
Morrigan?’ 

‘I am grateful that you remember me.’ 

‘How did you come here?’ 

‘Samildanach brought me. Ten days after you . . . they . . . passed the 
Black Gate. He came to me in the night, took me in his arms and told 
me he loved me. He said he would show me Paradise.’ She laughed 
grimly. ‘Instead we came here.’ 

‘But. . . this is not an evil place.’ 

‘Because they are cultured and have treated you well? They have done 
a terrible thing to you, Manannan.’ 

‘Not so. I am strong, and I am happy. What terrible thing is that?’ 

‘And why did you come?’ 

‘To find Samildanach.’ 

‘In order to return home?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘To combat the evil in the realm caused by the King and his Red 
Knights?’ 


‘Yes.’ 

Morrigan sat down and stared out over the moonlit garden, silent for a 
while. Then she looked up at Manannan. ‘The Red Knights are led by 
Samildanach. They are your friends, my dear; they are the Knights of 
the Gabala.’ 

‘I do not believe it. Paulus says they are in the north, resettling 
Nomads.’ 

‘Indeed they are ... or they were. But you have not heard it all yet, 
Manannan. The Nomads are coming here in their thousands . . . but 
not to till the land. They are the Ambria . . . they are the food for the 
Vyre. That is what we are here, Drinkers of Souls. That is immortality, 
Manannan. We suck the essence of life itself from other human beings. 
We are not immortal, we are merely Undead. That is the drink you lust 
after — if you still want it. Go and find it.’ 

‘You are lying. It cannot be as you say. It cannot.’ 

‘I want you to try to remember the man you were when you rode here 

- the dreams that you had. Think back to all you held dear. Think of 
me as I once was. You have been corrupted, even as Samildanach and 
the others were corrupted - great men, noble men, who now spend 
their days gathering human souls for Paulus and the Vyre. Look at me, 
Manannan!’ 
Suddenly she rose, gripped him by the shoulders and bared her teeth. 

As he watched, her incisors lengthened into fangs, pointed and hollow. 
He thrust her from him. 

‘Can you not see?’ she screamed. 

‘Get away from me! You are a demon - you are not Morrigan at all. 
Begone!’ 

‘It is too late for you, Manannan,’ she whispered as she moved past 
him to the door. ‘I am so sorry.’ 

‘Wait!’ he called, as she moved into the doorway. ‘Please, Morrigan.’ 
She turned. He was sweating now and beginning to feel nauseous. 
Taking a deep breath he walked back to the window, sitting down on 
the sill and breathing deeply of the scented air. She came back into 
the room, pushing the door closed behind her. 

‘I cannot believe you,’ he said softly, ‘but I will listen. And I will accept 
your challenge to sit out the night.’ 

She nodded and sat facing him in the moonlight. Her face was pale, 
and there were silver streaks in her long golden hair, but her eyes 
were as he remembered — large, dark and almost slanted. 


‘Samildanach brought me through the Black Gate. Everywhere there 
were monsters, demons, but he held them at bay with his silver sword 
and we rode for the city. I could not believe its beauty, and was 
astonished at the greeting we received. Paulus and several others 
opened up their homes to the Knights. They fed us Ambria, and we 
were happy. Never before, or since, have I tasted such happiness. And 
we changed, Manannan, even as you are changing. I tried to stop 
drinking the Ambria, but I could not. It fastens to the soul, corrupting . 
. . distorting. New realities appeared and we learnt that the Vyre were 
dying, their food sources disappearing. Soon there would be no 
Ambria.’ 

Manannan leaned forward. ‘How did this happen? Are there not people 
in this land?’ 

She smiled. ‘The half pitcher you had when I came here would have 
cost maybe fifty lives. This is a large city, Manannan. To feed it would 
take a nation of - shall we say - lesser beings? Hence the Nomads. 
Samildanach and the others returned to the realm, taking with them 
Ambria for the King. They had new armour then, the magical garb of 
the Elder Vyre, the warrior race who first conquered this land. They 
were greeted well and the King took them to his counsel. But the 
Ambria ran out and the King learned - as did Samildanach - how to 
draw life from living victims.’ 

‘That is what is so hard to believe,’ said Manannan. ‘He was always the 
most noble of men.’ He clutched his stomach and groaned. ‘Where did 
you put the Ambria? I just need a mouthful; I will be fine then.’ 

‘Wait! Be strong. You will see. Breathe deeply, Manannan.’ 

‘I cannot. The smell from the garden is too sickly.’ 

‘That is what I am saying. The Ambria shifts perceptions. Look around 
at the room.’ He did as she bade him. The white walls seemed greyer 
now, and he noticed mould above the window. The silken sheets on 
the bed were filthy and soiled and the room smelt of decay. He turned 
back to Morrigan to see that her pale ivory skin was dry, her eyes dull, 
her lips tinged with blue. 

He swallowed hard. ‘But is this real? I don’t know any more.’ 

‘It is real,’ she whispered. ‘You are living in the City of the Undead. 
You are in Hell, Manannan. Samildanach almost saw it, but the Ambria 
took him.’ 

Manannan looked out into the garden, where the rockery steps were 
choked with weeds. He staggered to his feet. ‘Is there any water?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said, fetching him a pitcher from the outer room. ‘But be 


careful; it will not taste good to you for the Ambria is jealous.’ 

He drank deeply, and choked. 

‘Have some more,’ she urged him. ‘It will do you good.’ 

His stomach rebelled, but he forced down the water. ‘We must get 
out,’ he said, ‘back to the Gate.’ 

‘I would not know how to open it,’ she told him, ‘but Paulus would.’ 

He groaned again. ‘What is happening to me? There is such pain.’ 

‘You were becoming one of us. Now your body -your life — is fighting 
back.’ 

His head dropped and he rubbed at his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this 
for me? How is it that you are not affected by the Ambria?’ 

She laughed and rose. ‘Not affected, Manannan? Oh, but I am. I drank 
your half pitcher. When I look around this room I see only beauty and 
a man I desire. But I can remember how I felt when first I came 
here . . . when Samildanach was a god to me. I cling to that memory 
and I do not want to see you — my oldest and dearest friend -riding 
out to gather souls for the Vyre.’ 

‘Help me to dress.’ He looked around, searching the room. ‘Where is 
my armour?’ 

‘You will need no armour where you are going,’ said Paulus from the 
doorway. Beyond him were several warriors in black armour, helms 
down, swords in their hands. ‘We offered you immortality, Manannan. 
Now you will merely aid our own.’ 

The warriors surged forward to pin the arms of the i Once-Knight. 

Paulus shook his head. ‘Such a pity. I thought you were strong like 
your brothers. But no -even a fallen woman can turn your head from 
the glories of what could have been for you. Your stupidity offends me. 
Take him away!’ 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Nuada was surprised when the Dagda summoned him, following the 
poet’s evening performance in the hall. The old man had been 
allocated quarters close to the hut Nuada shared with the girl, Kartia, 
and a sentry had come to them just before midnight. 

‘I don’t think you should go,’ Kartia told Nuada, taking him by the arm. 
‘He is a demonic man, and the Lord Groundsel says he never gives 
good news.’ 

Nuada shrugged. ‘I have met very few genuine seers; I cannot pass 
this by. But I will ask him no questions of death. Do not fear for me, 
Kartia.’ He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. ‘I will return soon.’ 

He walked out into the cold night air and glanced up at the shining 
stars. Shivering in the chill, he drew his cloak about him. The sentry 
pointed to an open doorway, through which he could see the amber 
glow of a brazier. He stepped inside to see the Dagda sitting cross-
legged on a goatskin rug, his eyes closed and his hands spread. Nuada 
cleared his throat and tapped on the door frame. 

‘Enter, poet. Be at ease,’ said the Dagda, opening his eyes and Nuada 
pushed the door closed. There were no chairs, nor furniture of any 
kind, so he sat on the rug next to the old man. ‘Is there anything you 
would ask me?’ queried the Dagda. 

Nuada grinned. ‘Nothing, sir. I have no wish to learn the day of my 
death.’ 

‘Then why did you obey my summons?’ the Dagda asked, his dark 
eyes fixing Nuada with a piercing gaze. ‘To learn of you, sir. I would 
guess there is a song in your travels and I would be delighted to sing 
it.’ 

‘Some matters are not suited to song, my boy, and some lives are 
better left to mystery and magic. But you intrigue me. Are you aware 
of the Colours?’ 

‘Of course,’ Nuada replied, ‘though I have no special skill with them. 
Why do you ask?’ 

The old man stroked his forked white beard, then rose and added 
wood to the fire in the brazier. Nuada watched him closely. He seemed 
older than time, yet his movements were smooth, almost liquid. His 
hands were slender, yet strong, and there were no liver spots upon 
their backs. 

‘The Colours,’ said the Dagda, returning to sit before the poet, ‘are 


created of Harmony. We all add, or subtract, to and from the Colours. 
Even as we talk, the Red is growing stronger over the realm of the 
Gabala. Everywhere the more vile of emotions predominate. Lust, 
greed, selfishness rule in Furbolg. Of care and compassion there is 
little to be seen. How strange then that, in this forest peopled by evil 
men, the Red should hold little sway. What answer can you offer for 
this?’ 

‘I have no answers,’ Nuada told him. ‘I am a saga poet; I merely retell 
stories.’ 

‘Can you see Colours in men?’ asked the Dagda suddenly. ‘Can you 
look into a man’s eyes and know his soul?’ 

‘No. I take it you can?’ 

The Dagda grinned. ‘Yes, I can. It is both a curse and a gift. I was 
here last year, in this pit of a settlement. The Red was everywhere. 
Now it is vanished and the White holds sway here now. Only just, 
mind. Do you know why?’ 

‘You keep asking me th£ same question. I can answer it no other way.’ 

‘You are the answer, poet. I watched you tonight, filling their heads 
with nobility and strength - none more so than the sewer-rat 
Groundsel. You are the stone that falls into the centre of the lake, 
sending ripples out into the farthest corners. Now that is a gift worth 
having.’ 

‘You are beginning to lose me,’ said Nuada. ‘Are you saying my stories 
change men’s hearts? I cannot believe that. I accept that I can - for a 
short time -suspend their disbelief. But in the morning, when they 
wake, I am just a part of the previous night’s entertainment.’ 

‘Not so, Nuada. A man is a complex beast and his soul is like a sponge, 
drawing in emotions in a random manner. Strike him and he becomes 
angry, his soul Red as blood. Feed him, stroke him, make love to him 

— and his soul softens, blurs, changes. You fill them with glory, make 
them all believe they can be better, stronger. You force them to draw 
in the power of the White.’ 
Nuada thought for a moment. ‘Is that bad? Is it wrong?’ 

‘Not at all; it is close to holiness. A man is what he knows. But his soul 
will yearn for all that he does not know, for hidden there is all he may 
become.’ 

‘I take it, sir,’ said Nuada uneasily, ‘that there is a point to this 
conversation, and you have yet to make it?’ 

‘There is, and I have. You have many choices, Nuada. I cannot tell you 


that which you fear; I do not know. It happens with perhaps one man 
in a thousand. You could live for fifty more years, or you could die in a 
few days. All depends on the choices you make. But you are a man of 
power, and this will mean you will draw evil to you. It cannot be 
avoided. The King is insane; he has summoned his army and is 
determined to enter this forest and destroy all who live here.’ 

‘Why? There is nothing here -no wealth, no army, and surely no 
threat.’ 

‘There is a threat here: it is you. As we speak, the King sits in Mactha 
with his advisers. They turn their eyes to the Forest of the Ocean and 
they see the Power of the White and the Green. The Red is beaten 
back . . . their Colour, their strength. They cannot tolerate it. They 
wonder, as wonder they must, how long it will be before the White 
pushes back.’ 

‘Are you saying the King and his Knights are right to fear a poet? That 
is madness.’ 

‘Did I not say he was insane? All evil men are insane, Nuada. The 
question is - and here is the point - what will you do?’ 

‘Do? What is there for me to do? I will tell my stories and move on. In 
the spring I shall be in Cithaeron.’ 

The Dagda nodded. ‘That is a good choice. You will live long and 
happily there and breed fine sons.’ 

‘That is good to know, but I see by your eyes you are disappointed.’ 

‘Not at all,’ replied the Dagda sharply. ‘There is nothing in the world of 
men to surprise or disappoint. When you go, the White will wither and 
the Red will gain sway. Many will die - and die horribly. The Forest will 
become a charnel-house.’ 

‘And if I stay, all will be peace and harmony? I think not, Dagda.’ 

‘You are correct. But there will at least be balance in the contest. And 
the White could win -with your help.’ 

‘Do I still live for fifty years and breed fine sons?’ 

The Dagda was silent and Nuada chuckled without humour. ‘I thought 
not. It is not fair of you to put this pressure upon me; I have done 
nothing to harm you.’ 

‘On the contrary, young man, you have done much to please me. It 
was not entirely true to say that there is nothing in the world to 
surprise me. I wander this forest and I see the brutality, the cruelty of 
Man. It is more than pleasant to see Groundsel behave like a hero; to 
see him care for a golden-haired child. You have been good for him; 


he will die well for you.’ 

‘I do not want anyone to die for me - least of all Groundsel. Gods, I 
even like the little man!’ 

‘And why not?’ offered the Dagda. ‘There is now much to like.’ 

‘Are you advising me to stay? Are you telling me it is my duty to stand 
against the King and his Red Knights?’ 

‘It is not for me to instruct you in the ways of duty, Nuada. You are a 
man - a good man. I am here to tell you the choices you face ... no 
more than that. I will not judge you if you decide to make a life in 
Cithaeron.’ 

‘No, you have merely made sure that I will judge myself. Do not play 
with words, old man. Tell me what can be done to aid the White?’ 

The Knights of the Gabala must ride again.’ 

‘No one knows where they are.’ 

‘They are with the King,’ said the Dagda. They are his Red Slayers, his 
Drinkers of Souls. They are Vampyres, Nuada.’ 

Then how can they ride again on the side of the White?’ 

They cannot. They are corrupted by the evil they sought to destroy.’ 

‘Spare me the riddles then!’ stormed Nuada. ‘How can the Knights ride 
again?’ 

There must be new Knights to restore the balance. Even more than 
this, they must reflect the old Knights. We had eight good men who 
turned to evil; you must help to find eight men who can become good. 
Seek out a man called Ruad Ro-fhessa. He is the Armourer; he will 
advise.’ 

‘Where shall I find him? And how many Knights are there in this 
forest?’ 

There is one Lord here - you gave him the title yourself.’ 

‘Groundsel? You think Groundsel would become a Knight of the 
Gabala?’ 

‘He can be the first, Nuada. The first of your Knights of Dark Renown.’ 

Ruad was walking alone in the high meadows when Lamfhada came up 
to him. The youth stood back for a while, waiting for Ruad to 
acknowledge him. The Craftsman cleared snow from a boulder and sat, 
removing his bronze eye-patch and rubbing at the withered skin of the 
socket beneath. ‘It itches badly, boy,’ he said, gesturing Lamfhada 
forward. He forced a smile. ‘What troubles you, lad? When I awoke 


this morning, old Gwydion seemed ill at ease? Was it something you 
said?’ 

Lamfhada nodded. ‘I have been awake most of the night. Gwydion told 
me I had a nightmare, but I believe I have found my Colour. It is Gold, 
Ruad. It is all the Colours woven together.’ 

Tell me of it,’ said the wizard gravely. Lamfhada explained about his 
first flight as a child, when he had seen the Knights ride through the 
Black Gate and had destroyed the wolf creature with a blast of golden 
lightning. Then he spoke of soaring over the Forest of the Ocean on a 
disc of gold and scattering the wolf pack, and reviving the stag. But he 
could not. yet bring himself to talk of the Knight, Pateus. Ruad listened 
in silence until the youth had finished his story. 

‘I knew you had power, my boy. I could sense it in you. And I still 
recall how the falling feathers of your bird reversed their flight. The 
talent was buried deep within you; it still is. But it will surface again, 
and next time it will be stronger. Bear with it. Such power is not 
granted without reason. You will have need of it.’ 

Lamfhada stood and looked away. ‘I am not wise, Ruad. I do not know 
whether to speak. When I told Gwydion of my flight, and what 
happened, he grew upset and urged me not to tell you. But I think he 
was wrong. I hope you will not be angry - but I left something out of 
my tale.’ And slowly, falteringly, Lamfhada explained about the Red 
Knight, watching with growing apprehension as the colour faded from 
Ruad’s face. 

‘Pateus? He said his name was Pateus?’ 

‘Yes, sir. Cairbre-Pateus. Who is he?’ 

‘He is a Knight of the Gabala, the eldest of my Knights. He is the sin of 
pride returned to haunt me.’ Ruad saw the fear in Lamfhada’s face. 
‘No, no, boy, do not be frightened. You were right and Gwydion was 
wrong - very wrong. Some time ago, before I came to this forest, I 
saw a vision of eight Red Knights. Deep down I knew who they were, 
and I knew who led them. But I would not face my fears.’ 

‘What happened to them?’ asked Lamfhada, returning to sit beside the 
Craftsman. 

‘They lost. Simply that. They found evil and it conquered them.’ 

‘How could that be? They were the greatest of Knights.’ 

‘I have no answers, save that evil rarely stalks the land with horns and 
fire. If it did so, all men would turn from it. Take me, Lamfhada ... I 
sent nine good men into an unknown realm, filled with terrible 


dangers. Was that a good deed? I did it not for the world, but for my 
own glory. I tell myself it was not evil, but great evil has come from it. 
Do you wish to debate that with me?’ 

‘I am no debater, sir. But I see no evil in you.’ 

‘No? But then had you known Samildanach, or Pateus, or Manannan, 
you would have said the same.’ 

‘What can you do, Ruad? Are they as strong as before?’ 

‘If Pateus can now fly the Colours, he is stronger than ever he was. 
And only the Source knows how powerful Samildanach has become. I 
need to think, Lamfhada - best that you leave me for a while.’ 

The youth stood for a moment, wishing he could say something ... do 
something to help the man who had befriended him. But there was 
nothing and he turned sadly away. At the bottom of the hill he found 
Elodan hurling stones at a target chalked on a tree. None of the 
missiles came close to the target and his throwing stance was 
disjointed and awkward. 

‘A pox on it!’ snapped Elodan. Then he saw Lamfhada and grinned. 
‘Never give up, boy, that’s the answer. It’s what separates men from 
the beasts of the herd. The problem is threefold, you see. A man is 
right-sided or left-sided - eye, hand and leg. I am trying to change the 
focus of my being: to become left-sided, if you will.’ 

‘Is that possible?’ 

‘I doubt it, but I will continue my efforts until my dying day. I can do 
no more. I will not sit in some hut until my hair turns,silver, dreaming 
of what once I was. Come, let us find some food.’ He glanced at 
Lamfhada. ‘What is wrong, boy?’ 

The youth told him of his conversation with Ruad and Elodan sighed. 
‘That is grim news. I knew Samildanach. What a swordsman! It is hard 
to believe.’ 

‘Ruad says evil is not always ugly, but I’m not sure I understand what 
he meant.’ 

‘I’ll explain it to you, but first we’ll eat,’ said Elodan as they returned 
to the cabin, where the three golden hounds sat like statues. Gwydion 
was absent when they arrived and they prepared a meal of cold meat 
and cheese, washed down with cool spring water. Then Elodan stoked 
up the fire and sat facing the blond youth. 

‘A long time ago, when I was young, I saw a woman who fired my 
blood. I met her in the King’s Park; she and her servants used to 
gather flowers there. She was beautiful, but she was married to a 


nobleman twice her age, and very unhappy. We met by chance, and 
then by design. I fell in love with her - hopelessly, completely. I 
dreamed of taking her away to my estates in the north, raising a 
family. But it could not be - not while her husband lived. I grew to 
hate him - though there was nothing to hate. By his lights, he was a 
good man. But I would fall asleep at night dreaming of his death. It 
could not be right, I decided, that someone so young and beautiful 
should be saddled with such a husband. Anyway, one day I told a 
friend of mine to whisper my name to the man, and to tell him I was 
seeing his wife in secret. The husband had no choice then but to 
challenge me to single combat. He was old, but still canny. But his 
years betrayed him - and I slew him. And that was an evil deed.’ 

Lamfhada swallowed hard. ‘But what of the woman?’ 

‘She inherited his wealth - and married her lover. I was merely the 
instrument of her freedom. But I believed I was doing right; I had 
convinced myself he was evil and cruel. Self-deception, Lamfhada! 
That is why I stood for Kester against the King. Her husband was 
Kester’s son. You understand now something of what Ruad meant?’ 

‘I’m not sure. There are stories of terrible deeds in Furbolg, of Nomad 
families being massacred. How can the men responsible not see that 
as evil? It is not the same as being in love with a beautiful woman and 
fighting a duel.’ 

Elodan shrugged. ‘We were talking of self-deception. Samildanach 
loved the Realm the way most men love a woman. If he came to 
believe that the Nomads were responsible for the nation’s fall from 
power, I would guess he could come to hate them. But I cannot 
answer for him.’ 

‘They believe Llaw Gyffes has an army and they are coming here in the 
spring. I think it will be terrible when they arrive.’ 

Elodan nodded and gazed down at the stump at his wrist. ‘Even were I 
not crippled, I could not stand against the Gabala Knights. Cairbre 
took me as simply as I took the husband. Damn Llaw Gyffes!’ Elodan 
pushed himself to his feet. ‘I need to return to my work. I will see you 
later.’ 

Lamfhada watched him go, then cleared away the plates and cleaned 
them behind the cabin. Glancing up, he saw a stag in the distance. 
Suddenly its head came up and it sprinted for cover. Lamfhada 
scanned the countryside, looking for sign of wolves . . . 

And saw the five hundred black-cloaked riders silhouetted against the 
skyline. 


As the riders thundered across the half-mile of snow-covered 
meadows, Lamfhada raced back into the village shouting at the top of 
his voice. People streamed from the huts, saw the raiders and began 
to run for the shelter of the trees. Elodan gathered up a hatchet and 
joined Lamfhada. 

‘Get to Ruad. He must not be taken,’ said the crippled warrior. 

‘What will you do?’ 

‘I’ll stay with the stragglers.’ Some of the men had armed themselves 
with bows and knives and Elodan bellowed at them to make for the 
trees: ‘Stay together and form a line at the top of the hill.’ There were 
fourteen bowmen in the party, including Brion, the husband of Ahmta. 

‘Why are they attacking us?’ Brion asked, as they ran. ‘There’s nothing 
here for them.’ 

‘Ask them when they get here,’ snapped Elodan. 

The raiders, swords drawn, galloped into the village. An old man slower 
than the other refugees - was the first to be caught as a lance 
took him high in the back, lifting him from his feet. For a second or so 
his legs flapped in the air, then the lance snapped and he tumbled to 
the ground beneath the pounding hooves. A child ran from a cabin, 
screaming with fear; her mother, on the hillside above, turned and 
sprinted back for her. The child was trampled to death, the mother 
speared. 

Then the soldiers were clear of the cabins and heading for the hillside. 
Elodan formed the bowmen into a line. ‘Ignore the riders. Aim for the 
horses and bring them down. It’s the only way to stop the charge. And 
do not loose the shafts until I order it.’ 

Longbows were hastily strung and arrows notched to the strings. 
‘Draw!’ bellowed Elodan. The riders were slowing now as the hill took 
its toll on their mounts, but still they were closing fast. At forty paces, 
Elodan’s raised arm swept down. ‘Now!’ he shouted. The arrows 
hammered home at the centre of the line and horses reared and fell. 
But the wings of the charging line continued forward, sweeping round 
towards the bowmen. ‘Left!’ ordered Elodan. The bowmen smoothly 
notched more shafts and loosed them. Horses tumbled to the snow, 
hurling their riders to the ground. ‘Now to the right!’ The horsemen 
were almost upon them and two of the bowmen broke and ran for the 
trees. Elodan ignored them as the remaining archers bent their bows 
and loosed their shafts at point-blank range. ‘Now run!’ shouted 
Elodan, turning and sprinting towards the trees. He heard a horse 
close behind him and turned to see a lancer bent low over the saddle, 
his weapon aimed at Elodan’s heart. The crippled warrior drew back 


his arm and flung the hatchet with all his might. It sailed over the 
horse’s head to bury itself in the rider’s face and he tumbled back from 
the saddle. 


One of the archers was down, hacked to death. The others were racing 


for the trees. Elodan cursed. They would never make it. 
Suddenly a score of arrows flashed from the undergrowth, ripping into 
the riders. Then again . . . and again. The soldiers turned and fled 
down the hillside. 


Llaw Gyffes stepped out to stand beside Elodan. ‘You are a man of 
iron,’ said Llaw. 
‘That must be a compliment - coming from a blacksmith?’ 


‘It is. I sweated blood when I saw you form that fighting line.’ 
‘They’ll be back, Llaw - and we do not have the men to hold them. But 
I’m glad you came when you did!’ 


‘A man needs some luck,’ said Llaw. ‘I came upon a hunting party from 
this village and they said you were here, so I came with them. Then 
we heard the screaming and took up positions in the bushes.’ 


‘So,’ whispered Elodan, ‘the great hero, Stronghand, was seeking me? 
Might I enquire why?’ 


‘I need a man who understands the ways of war.’ 
‘Then you are to gather an army! It’s about time, Llaw. Well, this 
cripple will help you - if you’ll have him.’ 


Llaw clapped him hard on the shoulder. ‘That hatchet throw was a 


good one. I’d say you were coming on.’ 
‘I was aiming for the horse,’ snapped Elodan. ‘I missed it - at less than 
ten feet.’ 


‘I’ll not tell a soul,’ Llaw promised. ‘Now let’s get back. Brion is heading 
the villagers for the long caves. But we’ll need food, and firewood.’ 
‘Might I suggest something?’ 
Llaw grinned. ‘You are our general.’ 
‘Leave me twenty men and I will form a rearguard while you move on.’ 


‘Be careful, Elodan. I don’t want to lose you this early in the fight.’ 
‘They’ve made it a war, my friend. Now they must learn what that 
means.’ 


Bavis Lan, the leader of the raiders, dismounted before the cabin 
where sat the three golden hounds. He walked under the rough-hewn 



porch and knelt by the statues. ‘By Chera! They’re gold,’ he whispered. 
His aide, Lugas, joined him and stood by silently as Bavis examined 
the statues. ‘Well?’ snapped the leader. ‘Don’t just stand there, Lugas. 
Make your report!’ 

Lugas saluted crisply. ‘We lost eighteen horses and nine men dead. 
Eight other men have injuries. Shall we pursue them into the trees?’ 

Bavis stood, a tall, lean man in his middle forties. He removed his 
helm and ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. ‘No. Once inside 
the tree line they would pick us off with ease. We hit two settlements 
today, and we’ve given them something to think about. We’ll camp 
here, and strike north along the valley tomorrow.’ 

‘Yes, sir.’ 

‘What do you make of these statues?’ 

‘They’re beautiful, sir.’ 

‘Aren’t they just? I shall take them back to Mactha as a present for the 
King.’ 

The cabin door opened and a thickset man appeared. Bavis turned, his 
hand reaching for his sword. The man was powerfully built and sported 
an eye-patch of bronze; behind him stood a blond youth, his eyes 
fearful. 

‘Who the devil are you?’ Bavis asked. ‘The owner of the hounds. I fear 
they are too precious to put before a dullard like Ahak. He would not 
appreciate them - they have no blood, you see.’ 

‘Your conversation brands you a traitor,’ snarled Lugas, dragging his 
sword clear. 

‘And your deeds brand you a butcher,’ responded the man, dropping 
his hand to touch the head of the nearest hound. ‘Ollathair,’ he said. 

The hound’s jewelled eyes snapped open and as Lugas’ sword came up 
it leapt, sinking Its teeth into the officer’s forearm. Before he could 
even scream, the hound’s jaws snapped shut and the arm and hand 
were torn clear. Lugas sank to his knees, staring in horror at the blood 
seeping from the stump at the end of his arm. 

The general was frozen to the spot. The man with the eye-patch 
stepped back into the cabin, the three hounds following him. The door 
closed. 

A flash of golden light streamed from the open window. Bavis Lan 
blinked and then ran forward, kicking the door from its hinges. The 
cabin was empty. 


‘Help me!’ pleaded Lugas. ‘Dear Gods, help me!’ 

‘Surgeon!’ bellowed Bavis. ‘Someone find the surgeon!’ 

High on the hillside the air split with a flash of light and Ruad stepped 
clear, followed by Lamfhada and the hounds. The sorcerer’s face was 
grim, and his hands were shaking. He turned and dragged the blood-
drenched arm from the jaws of the hound and hurled it out onto the 
hill. 

‘A curse on them all!’ he hissed. 

‘We should find the others,’ said Lamfhada softly, unable to tear his 
eyes from the dismembered limb on the snow. 

Ruad did not hear him. He stared down at the village, watching the 
soldiers running to aid the crippled officer. 

‘I will make you pay for this, Ahak,’ he swore. ‘Somehow, Ollathair will 
make you pay.’ He turned away and walked swiftly into the trees, the 
hounds padding alongside. 

They reached the long caves at dusk and found Gwydion tending an 
injured man. Fires had been lit inside the caves and the refugees were 
gathered round them. Llaw Gyffes approached the one-eyed sorcerer. 

‘Are you the Craftsman?’ 

‘I am,’ said Ruad. He looked closely at the broad-shouldered blond 
warrior, noting the pale blue eyes and the red-gold beard. ‘And you 
are Stronghand. I hope the name fits you, boy - you’ll have need of 
your strength when the snow clears.’ 

‘I know. The Dagda spoke of the King’s army. Will you aid us?’ 

‘I will do what I can. But you should know the King’s forces are led by 
the Knights of the Gabala, and they will prove deadly enemies.’ 

Llaw smiled. ‘If I put my mind to it, wizard, I think I can be just as 
deadly. Have a little faith.’ 

‘It’s not faith I lack, Stronghand. But the Knights wear armour 
protected by spells, and carry swords of eldritch power -and even 
without these . . . gifts . . . their talents are extraordinary.’ 

Llaw put his huge hands on Ruad’s shoulders. ‘Do not tell me of their 
powers, wizard. Devote your mind to the problem of defeating them.’ 

‘It is not going to be quite that simple.’ 

‘I do not doubt it. But they live and breathe, so they must also be able 
to die. Find me a way to kill them.’ 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

Manannan relaxed as the guards took hold of his arms, his head 
dropping on his chest. Then, in an explosive burst of movement, he 
tore his right arm free and hammered his elbow back into one guard’s 
throat. The man screamed and staggered. Twisting towards the second 
guard, Manannan rammed his forehead into the man’s face. Free once 
more, he dragged a dagger from the guard’s belt and leapt at Paulus, 
grabbing him by his long white hair and hauling him forward so that 
the knife-point rested against the wrinkled flesh of his throat. 

The four other guards drew weapons, but stood by, uncertain. 

‘Dismiss them,’ ordered Manannan, ‘or your life ends here.’ 

‘Get back,’ squealed Paulus. ‘Leave us!’ The guards helped their 
injured comrades from the room and pulled the door shut. Manannan 
dragged back Paulus’ head and pricked the skin of his neck, allowing a 
thin trickle of blood to seep down on to his white tunic. 

‘You will now take us to my armour and my horse,’ hissed Manannan, 
‘and then I might let you live.’ He flicked a glance at Morrigan. ‘Are 
you coming with me?’ 

‘Where else can I go?’ 

‘Then lead the way through the back of the apartments. The guards 
are probably there by now, but we’ll walk through them.’ 

Dragging the whimpering Paulus, they entered the gardens; the smell 
from the blooms was almost sickening. The black-cloaked guards had 
gathered, but they stayed back as Manannan followed Paulus’ 
directions to the stables beyond a high white wall. Kuan was there, 
standing statue-still. Manannan ran his hand over the stallion’s back, 
but the animal did not move. 

‘What have you done to him?’ stormed the Once-Knight. 

‘We made him better than ever he was,’ said Paulus, ‘as we were 
doing with you. Why can you not understand, Manannan? We have 
given you freely the gift of immortality!’ 

The Once-Knight flung the old man against a wall. ‘Immortality? You 
almost made me one of you - a drinker of souls.’ 

‘Do not be so romantic,’ snapped Paulus. ‘Do you not slaughter 
animals for meat? Where then is the difference? Or will you tell me 
that a bull has no soul? It is a living being made up of flesh and blood 
and bone - and that is all a man is. We perfected the elixir of life. What 
right have you to judge us?’ 


‘I will not debate with you, Vampyre. There is no point. Now, where is 
the armour?’ 

Paulus led him to a wide room at the rear of the stable. Here, on 
wooden trees, were nine suits of silver armour. Manannan’s anger 
soared and he swallowed hard. 

‘This is all that remains of the true Knights who came here! The proud 
men who wore these are dead -just as you are dead, Paulus. You may 
walk under the sun, but you are dead: a ruined, corrupted thing.’ He 
turned to Morrigan. ‘Saddle Kuan.’ 

‘The guards are gathering outside,’ she told him. 

‘Ignore them. Saddle my horse.’ 

‘They will not let us leave.’ 

‘Then I shall cut a path through them. Now, saddle Kuan.’ 

‘It is not too late for you, Manannan,’ whispered Paulus. ‘I spoke 
harshly before, but you could still join us. Wait and speak to 
Samildanach - he is your friend.’ 

‘He is dead, Paulus. I do not speak with the dead.’ Morrigan led the 
cold stallion into the room and Manannan moved to stand before his 
horse, pulling Paulus with him. He handed his knife to Morrigan. ‘If he 
struggles or moves an inch, kill him. Can you do that?’ 

‘It would be a pleasure,’ she said, holding the blade against Paulus’ 
throat. 

He smiled thinly. ‘And how long, my dear, can you survive in the world 
of blood without your Ambria? You will need nourishment — and they 
will hate you for it. They will destroy you.’ 

Morrigan said nothing, but the Once-Knight saw the truth bring fear, to 
her eyes. He could find no words of comfort and moved to his armour. 

‘Look out!’ shouted Morrigan and Manannan swivelled just as a lance 
hurtled towards his back. He threw up an arm to strike the missile 
aside, but the guard who had thrown it stepped from behind a stall 
and ran at him with sword raised. The Once-Knight reached out and 
drew his own shining silver blade from its scabbard on the tree. 

‘You cannot stand against me,’ he told the guard. ‘Be sensible - and 
live.’ 

The guard shouted an obscenity and rushed in, whereupon Manannan 
countered the clumsy blow and slashed a reverse sweep across the 
man’s throat. The guard’s head toppled from his shoulders, body 
slumping to the hay-strewn floor. Swiftly Manannan donned his 


armour, buckling the breastplate and sliding the shoulder-guards into 
place. His stomach heaved and his body shook; sweat trickled from his 
face into his eyes. 

‘Be strong, Manannan,’ Morrigan pleaded. He forced a grin and walked 
to Paulus. 

‘Now, Vampyre, you have one last opportunity to cling to your half-life. 
Open the Gate between the Worlds.’ 

‘I cannot, not here. The beasts will enter. There must be space for the 
tunnel.’ 

‘Then you die here,’ said Manannan softly, pressing the sword to 
Paulus’ belly. 

‘Wait!’ begged the old man. ‘I could reach Ollathair! He could open the 
Gate.’ 

‘Then do it!’ 

Paulus nodded and closed his eyes. A golden circle of light began to 
grow against the far wall and Manannan saw a cave packed with 
people and Ollathair talking to a tall man with a red-gold beard. He 
watched as the sorcerer stiffened and turned. Ollathair’s voice 
whispered inside Manannan’s mind. 

‘Do not taunt me, Manannan. Begone! Join your brothers!’ 

‘I need help, Ollathair,’ said the Once-Knight, aloud. ‘Morrigan is with 
me. You must open the Gate.’ 

‘If this is some form of demonic trickery, you will answer for it.’ 

Manannan shook his head. ‘Just open the Gate, Armourer. I’ll give you 
answers.’ 

‘Consider it done,’ said Ollathair and the vision faded. 

Manannan rested his sword on Paulus’ shoulder. ‘Morrigan, I think it 
best that you also don a suit of armour. Use the one furthest left; it 
once belonged to Pateus, and he was slim enough.’ 

He watched as she slid from her dress, then turned his attention to 
Paulus. ‘I ought to kill you,’ he whispered. ‘By the Source, you deserve 
it! But I will not.’ 

‘Do not take a high moral tone with me, Manannan, merely because 
my ways are different from yours. In your petty world, thousands die 
in wars and plagues and bloodshed. Their corpses serve no purpose. 
Here the deaths are relatively few, for we have no battles and no 
diseases. My people are a cultured race.’ 


‘You live on death, Paulus - on other people’s misery. Do you drag 
them screaming for mercy to their deaths? And do they feel fear as 
you did a few moments ago? Do they beg for their lives as you were 
prepared to do?’ 

‘I would imagine they do,’ Paulus admitted, ‘though the Ambria vats 
are in the north of the city and I have not found it necessary to visit 
them. But in your world, do not the kings and princes have men put to 
death? Do they not own slaves whose lives depend upon the whim of 
their owners?’ 

‘There is nothing either of us can say to reach the other,’ said 
Manannan. ‘You and your race are evil -but then that is just a word to 
you. You will be destroyed ... in time.’ Glancing back at Morrigan, who 
was fastening silver greaves to her calves, he waited until she buckled 
the sword to her hip and then patted Kuan’s neck. ‘Come, Greatheart, 
we are going home.’ 

‘He does not hear you,’ said Paulus. ‘The stallion is dead. But you will 
find him faster than ever he was; he will not let you down.’ 

‘He would not have let me down in life - and that would have been his 
choice,’ Manannan told him. ‘Go, Paulus. You are free.’ 

The old man turned to find himself facing Morrigan, a sword in her 
hands. 

‘What are you doing?’ whispered Paulus. ‘He said I was free.’ 

‘Perhaps he did,’ hissed Morrigan, ‘but I am of the Vyre, Paulus, and I 
am evil. I am what you made me.’ 

‘Don’t! Please. I beg you, Morrigan. I will bring you Ambria ... I will . . 
.’ 

Her sword hammered into his side, ripping his entrails from his body, 
and he fell screaming to the floor. 

Morrigan ran to Manannan and vaulted into the saddle behind him. 
‘Ride!’ she shouted. 

The dead stallion bunched its muscles and galloped from the stable. 
Guards hurled themselves aside as the horse thundered by. Arrows 
bounced from Manannan’s armour -and then they were clear and out 
into the countryside. 

Ahead of them lay the trees and the dark shadow-haunted entrance to 
the Tunnel of the Gate. 

‘Why did you kill him?’ shouted Manannan. 

‘Why did you not?’ she countered. 


Kuan ran on, his pace constant. Arrows jutted from his dead flesh and 
Manannan felt a great sense of loss and a heavy sadness. They 
entered the tunnel at a full gallop and all light vanished, but when 
Manannan held up his sword and shouted ‘Ollathair!’, the blade blazed 
with a white light which reflected from scores of eyes to the left and 
right. 

‘The beasts are coming,’ screamed Morrigan and Manannan glanced 
back to see a pack of huge, lumbering wolf creatures running along 
the trail behind them. He turned his gaze to the front - the tunnel was 
ending. 

And still the Gate was shut. 

‘Was that the enemy?’ asked Llaw, as the glowing golden window 
faded. 

‘I hope not,’ answered Ruad. ‘That was Manannan. I sent him through 
the Black Gate in search of the Gabala Knights and I must bring him 
back.’ 

‘But you said that the evil beyond the Gate overcame them. How do 
you know it has not affected Manannan? This could be a trick.’ 

‘If it proves so, he - they -will rue it. I am not without power. I will 
return here by morning.’ As Ruad moved towards the doorway, Llaw 
called out to him. 

‘Shall I send men with you?’ 

‘No. If it is a trap, they will not be able to aid me, and if it isn’t I will 
not need them.’ 

The sorcerer walked out into the snow, glad to be free of the cave and 
the hope in the eyes of Llaw Gyffes. How could the man understand 
the ways of magic? He was a blacksmith and a man of little learning. 
As far as he was concerned, the enemy were just men. The fact that 
they possessed enormous power from the Red did not concern him. 
After all, the great Ollathair was now with the rebels. 

‘Find me a way to kill them.’ 

Did .he think it was so easy? Samildanach alone had almost been a 
match for Ruad Ro-fhessa - and that was before they passed through 
the Gate. Who knew of what terrible deeds he was now capable? Ruad 
trudged on, reaching a low hill above the cave. The wind howled 
around him and he walked on into a circle of trees. Selecting a shaded 
spot, he gathered wood, building a rough pyramid. He needed no 
tinder. Reaching into the Red, he ran his hand over a branch; flames 
sprang from within the wood and he thrust it into the pyramid. 


For a little while he sat lost in thoughts of all that could have been. 
Then he straightened his back and reached for the calm of the White. 

Soon he would open the Gate, but first he had to think, to plan. If 
Manannan had been changed, corrupted, then Ruad would kill him. 
Morrigan, too. If not, he would seek the Once-Knight’s counsel and 
plan - as Llaw urged him - a defence against Samildan-ach’s evil. 

Evil? He rolled the word around in his mind. What did it mean? 
Samildanach had been a Knight, pledged to fight injustice. He had 
always hated evil. Yet now he was the man Ruad feared above all 
others. And how did Samildanach view him? As evil? Was it all 
relative? A mere matter of perception? The Gabala Knights had 
patrolled the Nine Duchies dispensing justice - but they were backed 
by their skills with lance and blade, which meant that their power was 
inspired by fear. And fear was a cousin to evil. 

Ruad shook his head. This was not the time for such a debate. 

He pictured again Manannan’s face and the shadowy background he 
had glimpsed through the window. There was something there, he 
recalled, that had caught his eye. He concentrated on the memory, 
trying to bring the image into sharp focus. Something had gleamed in 
the background. A mirror behind Manannan? No, not a mirror. A 
warrior in armour? No, not quite. It was inert . . . lifeless . . . and yet, 
curiously familiar. 

Think, man! 

He lifted himself once more into the White, cleansing his mind, freeing 
himself from fear and doubt. All that mattered was the gleaming 
object. All else faded. 

And then it was there: the ornate shoulder-plate he had made for 
Edrin. It was resting on a wooden armour-tree, and with it was Edrin’s 
silver armour. 

Ruad opened his eye - his mouth dry and his heart beginning to 
hammer. He tried again to find calm, but it was impossible. The 
original armour of the Gabala Knights was within his grasp, for if 
Edrin’s armour was there, why not the others? 

He thought of Manannan. The Gate would need to be opened soon, but 
thefe was still time. He needed power and floated towards the Black, 
filling his body with strength, feeling his muscles swell. Then he sought 
the Red. Fear touched him as the Colour washed over him -such a 
powerful spell would radiate far. He must be swift, or Samildanach 
would locate him and travel the Mist to kill him. He pictured the arms 
he had made for the Gabala Knights - the ornate helms, habergeons, 


greaves and gauntlets, and the swords of silver steel that would never 
dull. He drew the memories to him and reached out. His mind swam. 
Waves of pain blanketed him. 

He had tried this before -six years ago -and been repulsed by a wall 
of sorcery. But now the wall had disappeared. Sensing the closeness of 
his creations, he opened the eyes of his mind and saw Manannan and 
Morrigan racing towards the Gate. The woman was wearing Pateus’ 
armour. 

Swiftly he reached out again. There! In a wide room, seven suits of 
armour and seven swords. He returned to his body, holding the place 
in his mind, and said aloud the Words of Calling. The air crackled and 
his head ached; he groaned and felt the wetness of blood flowing from 
his nose. 

Too late now to halt the process. ‘Come to me!’ he shouted. ‘Come to 
Ollathair!’ A flash of light leapt from the ground before him, scattering 
his fire. He brushed the cinders from his lap and fought his way 
through the burning pain in his chest. His left arm was growing numb, 
and he could feel panic welling in him. If his heart gave out now, it 
would all be for nothing. 

Calm! Be calm, he told himself. ‘Come to me!’ he whispered. 

Glowing lights formed a circle around Ruad, shimmering in the 
moonlight, translucent and almost transparent. He watched as they 
formed, growing more solid. Slumping back to the ground, he sucked 
in a deep breath. Around him, like ghostly Knights, stood the armour 
of the Gabala - and with this, allied to Ruad’s own enormous powers, 
Llaw Gyffes might have a chance. He eased himself to his feet. 

He must open the Gate for Manannan. He gathered his fading 
strength, took one last look at the eight silent statues and then began 
the Spell of Opening. Pain tore at his chest and the fingers of his left 
hand grew numb. 

The Black Gate appeared. Ruad knew he was close to the limits of his 
strength, that he would only be able to hold the Spell for a few 
seconds once the Gate was open. It would be more than tragic if he 
opened it too soon . . . and yet, too late would be no better. He 
recalled the speed at which Manannan had been riding into the tunnel 
and reckoned he should be at the Gate soon — if not now. And that 
meant the Chaos Beasts would be closing on him. He groaned as his 
agony grew and clutched his chest. His breathing was ragged and 
sweat dripped into his eyes as he sank to his knees and fought to calm 
his erratic heart. The pain eased a litde. Ruad slowly began the 
completion of the Spell. 


A creaking sound came from his right. He twisted and scanned the 
circle, blinking sweat from his eyes. All was now silent, the moonlight 
gleaming on the eight suits of armour. Eight? There should only be 
seven! A power like unseen hands dragged him to his feet and drew 
him towards the nearest armour. Ruad glanced up to see the visor 
slowly opening and struggled to hold his position, but he was too 
weak. Closer and closer he came, and now he could do nothing save 
stare at the moving visor. The pull on him ceased. He wanted to run, 
but could not take his eyes from the plumed helm and the blackness 
within. 

The moon came out from behind a cloud. Silver light washed over the 
figure and Ruad watched the armour darken until it was deep crimson. 

Two blood-red eyes gazed down on him. 

‘Time to die, traitor!’ said Samildanach. Too late Ruad saw the dagger 
in the gauntleted hand. It plunged into the sorcerer’s belly, ripping up 
through the lungs. 

Ruad crumpled to the ground . . . 

Samildanach stepped back - and vanished. 

The sorcerer tried to roll to his belly, but the pain was colossal. Blood 
bubbled into his throat and he tried to swallow it back, but coughed, 
spraying bloody froth which stained his beard and tunic. 

Knowing he had scant seconds to live, Ruad fell back and pointed his 
arm at the Gate. 

‘Open!’ he hissed, completing the Spell. A great warmth flowed 
through him as he gazed up at the stars and all pain vanished. He saw 
again the day when he had become the Armourer, and recalled the joy 
on the faces of his Knights. 

‘With you at our head we will change the world, my friend,’ 
Samildanach had told him. 

‘You will not need me for that, Lord Knight,’ Ruad had replied. 

The stars grew faint as the snow-clouds gathered and Ruad could hear 
a sound like a rushing sea. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he whispered. ‘I want 
to . . .’ A large snowflake touched his eye and melted to become a 
single tear that flowed down the dead man’s face. 

Three of the beasts were down - one of them writhing across the path, 
clutching the stump of its severed arm. Manannan and Morrigan 
backed away to the Gate as a score more of the monsters advanced 
warily. The undead stallion, Kuan, stood by unmoving, ignored by the 
pack; they were interested only in living meat. 


A huge creature, larger than a bear, dropped on all fours and rushed 
at Morrigan. She drove her silver sword into its mouth, plunging it 
deep down the beast’s throat. The impetus of its charge carried it 
forward, even in death, and it hammered her into the Gate. 

Manannan had no time to help her. Cutting left and right, his silver 
sword held the other beasts at bay, but they were growing more 
daring - darting in and back, slashing at him with long, curved talons. 
A gigantic wolf slunk down on all fours, creeping into the shadows on 
Manannan’s left. The Once-Knight did not see the beast until it was too 
late, when suddenly it sprang and he was hurled from his feet, his 
sword spinning from his hand. Twisting under the wolf, he crashed a 
mailed fist into its face. Instantly the other creatures were on him, 
ripping at his armour, sinking talons into his helm, pulling and tearing, 
seeking the warm flesh beneath the silver steel. 

‘Kuan!’ he yelled. ‘To me!’ The undead horse trembled. The shout 
came again and Kuan backed away, shaking his great head. Then the 
light of life stirred in his blank grey eyes. 

‘Kuan!’ 

The stallion bunched its muscles and charged the pack — hooves 
hammering, hind legs kicking out with awesome force. They scattered 
before the horse and Manannan reached up and grasped the reins, 
hauling himself to his feet. He gathered his sword. 

Morrigan eased herself from behind the enormous carcass of the bear-
beast and advanced to stand beside him. At first the pack had been 
dismayed by the stallion’s sudden attack but now they were gathering 
themselves for another charge. 

Manannan patted Kuan’s neck. ‘Welcome home, Greatheart,’ he said. 

As the pack swept forward the stallion hurled himself into their midst. 
Manannan tried to stop him, and watched in horror as the dreadful 
talons tore into his body. A shaft of moonlight lit the scene. Manannan 
spun to see the Black Gate slowly opening, and beyond it the stars of 
his own world. ‘Back!’ he yelled to Morrigan; she needed no second 
bidding and leapt through the narrow opening. 

‘Kuan!’ bellowed Manannan, but the stallion was beyond hearing. Still 
it lashed and kicked at the beasts, but grievous were the wounds . . . 
terrible tears and deep, deep cuts. 

‘Manannan!’ yelled Morrigan. ‘The Gate is closing!’ For a moment more 
Manannan stood, watching the last moments of his stallion. Then he 
turned and ran for the Gate. It shimmered before his eyes and he 
hurled himself over the last few yards, hitting the snow-covered 


ground and rolling on his back. When at last he stood and looked back, 
the Gate had vanished. 

Morrigan touched his arm. He swung to see the ghostly circle and the 
grimly silent Knights of the Gabala. 

‘Sweet Heaven,’ he whispered. Then he saw the still figure of Ollathair 
and ran to him. Blood had drenched the man’s tunic and stained the 
snow around him. 

‘Look,’ pointed Morrigan. The snow beside Ollathair’s corpse showed a 
set of footprints that seemed to appear from nowhere. 

‘Samildanach,’ said Manannan. He pulled the gauntlet from his right 
hand and gently closed Ollathair’s eye. 

‘What now?’ asked Morrigan. ‘Without him, what chance do we have?’ 

The Once-Knight could find no words. A long time ago, Ollathair had 
been his mentor and his friend. The Armourer had been almost a 
father to them all, and the Knights had adored him. He had been 
gentle and wise, and the Colours had brought him many gifts. Now he 
lay silent in the snow, killed by a friend. 

‘Not a fitting end for such a man,’ Manannan whispered. 

‘I have no sympathy for him,’ said Morrigan. ‘He fashioned his own 
doom when he sent the Knights through the Gate. Let us go from 
here. It is cold.’ 

Movement caught Manannan’s eye and he watched as a large group of 
men marched over the hill-top bearing torches. He waited until they 
approached the circle. A tall warrior with a red-gold beard stepped 
inside. 

‘So, you bastard, it was a trap!’ said Llaw Gyffes, drawing his axe from 
his belt. 

‘I did not kill him,’ answered the Once-Knight. ‘Look there at the 
footprints.’ 

‘Defend yourself!’ roared Llaw, rushing forward. Manannan ducked 
under a clumsy sweep and crashed a right hook to the warrior’s jaw. 
Llaw Gyffes hit the ground hard, but rolled to his feet. 

‘Enough of this nonsense!’ said Manannan. ‘The man was my friend.’ 

Llaw gathered himself to attack again, but Lamfhada pushed through 
the crowd to kneel by Ruad’s corpse. As Llaw Gyffes advanced on 
Manannan, the boy called out to him. 

‘Look at the wound,’ said Lamfhada. ‘It was not a sword, but a narrow 
blade like a dagger. And he has no knife.’ 


Llaw knelt and examined the wound, then looked up at Manannan. 

‘I still don’t trust you,’ he declared, ‘but I suppose it matters little now. 
The enemy is gathering a great army, led by wizard Knights, and we 
have no sorcerer to defend us.’ He turned away and stared off into the 
distance. 

The Once-Knight moved to stand beside him. ‘You will grow to trust 
me,’ he said, ‘for I do not lie and I am true to my friends.’ 

Llaw smiled. ‘A lot of good that will do us! I am trying to plan a war 
against an enemy I cannot defeat. I am no general.’ He swung to stare 
at the circle of faces lit by the flickering torches. ‘Look at them,’ he 
said. ‘Foresters, runaway farmers and clerics. There is not a mail-shirt 
among them. What do we do when the enemy arrives?’ 

‘Fight or run,’ replied Manannan. ‘They are the only two choices.’ 

‘We cannot run. A man came yesterday to tell us that the King’s fleet 
has docked at Cithaeron, bringing a thousand soldiers. There is no 
retreat now; they will hunt us down like wolves.’ 

Manannan remained silent for a moment. ‘Look around you,’ he said at 
last. ‘The forest is an awesome size — not the easiest place for an 
army to force a pitched battle. Do not let the evil deeds of tonight 
bring you to despair. Come, let us bury Ollathair and say a few words 
of farewell to his spirit.’ 

There was a sudden flurry of movement from the back of the circle, 
and men stepped back to allow Nuada and Groundsel to move forward. 
The squat outlaw leader looked down at the corpse. 

‘So,’ he said, ‘that’s the great wizard. Well, he was a big help.’ 

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Llaw. ‘Isn’t this a little far from your 
normal hunting-grounds? There’s no one to rob.’ 

‘Yes, it’s good to see you too, Llaw,’ said Groundsel, grinning. ‘But I 
am here, so Nuada tells me, because it is my destiny. He spoke to the 
Dagda and they decided that the hero Groundsel needed to meet the 
wizard Ollathair. Well, I’ve met him. It was a short meeting, but that is 
life. I’ll be going home in the morning.’ 

‘Wait!’ said Nuada. ‘That wasn’t what the Dagda said, and you know it. 
But this is not the place or the time to discuss it. Let us bury this man, 
and I will say a few words for him.’ 

‘You’ve never said a few words in your life, poet,’ said Groundsel. The 
outlaw looked closely at Manannan, his eyes narrowing, then he turned 
away without a sound and walked back through the circle of men. 

Llaw ordered Ruad’s body to be carried to the caves, and other men 


struggled to bear the Gabala armour. Manannan rejoined Morrigan, 
who had been strangely silent throughout the encounter. 

The Once-Knight stared into her face. It looked sickly and pale in the 
silver moonlight. ‘Are you all right, Morrigan?’ 

‘Leave me alone,’ she whispered. ‘I must get away from here.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘I am tired. I need ... to rest. Let me go.’ 

‘Let us go to their camp. You can rest there. And eat. . .’ His voice 
faded to a whisper. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You need Ambria, or ... Listen to 
me, Morrigan, you must fight it. You must.’’ 

‘I will. Just leave me for a while; I need to be alone.’ 

‘That is what you do not need.’ 

She tore her arm free from his grasp, her eyes blazing. ‘Get away from 
me!’ she hissed, but he stood his ground. 

‘I know that you only had eyes for Samildanach,’ he said gently, ‘and I 
was merely a friend with whom you shared your confidences. But I 
loved you, Morrigan, I still love you.’ 

For a moment more the air was electric between them, then she 
seemed to sag. ‘Dear Gods of Light,’ she whispered. ‘Help me!’ He 
stepped forward and took her in a clumsy embrace, encumbered by 
the armour they both wore. 

‘Come with me,’ he said, and led her after the torch-lit column. 

Once in the caves, Morrigan stripped herself of the armour and ate a 
little meat and dried fruit. Then she took some borrowed blankets and 
moved back into the shadows at the far end of the cave to sleep. 

Many of the men accompanied Llaw and Nuada to watch the burial of 
the sorcerer Ollathair, and to listen to Nuada’s oration. 

As they made their slow way back to the caves, one man lingered 
behind the rest. He was tired and he had an ache in his knee from an 
old injury when his horse had fallen, pinning him to the ground. He 
stopped and sat for a while on a storm-toppled tree. 

He rubbed at the knee until the pain subsided and made as if to stand. 
Then he saw the woman standing close by. She was young and pale, 
and beautiful, her hair silver in the moonlight. 

‘Best be getting back,’ he advised. ‘It’s cold out here.’ 

‘I too am cold,’ she said, sitting beside him and resting her head on his 
shoulder, her hand on his thigh. ‘But the cave is so crowded. Stay with 


me for a while.’ He turned towards her and ran his hand inside the 
blanket she held around her, sliding his fingers up across her flanks 
and feeling the softness of her flesh. He could hardly believe that she 
did not stop him . . . his hand curled over her breast. 

Her face lifted and they kissed. The cold was forgotten as the man 
fumbled at her clothing. 

‘I can’t believe it,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened 
to me before. What a night for my luck to change.’ 

Morrigan said nothing. 

And her lips moved to his neck . . . 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then nothing is ever achieved?’ 

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

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

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

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

Gwydion rose beside him. ‘Ruad was good to you and showed you a 
path to follow. You will show others. The more men who follow this 


path because of you, the greater Ruad’s achievement. His death will 
not stop that. But if you despair, and take another path, his life will 
have been diminished. That is your debt, my friend.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manannan convinced Llaw of the need to move to a safer camp in the 
high meadows, where they could build new homes and watch all the 
approaches day and night. For two days the one hundred and twelve 


refugees marched further into the mountains, passing several small 
settlements. At each, they obtained food and temporary shelter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And why were you needed?’ 

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

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

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

‘Why not now?’ asked Nuada softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Please let me speak,’ interposed Gwydion, ‘for the debate is moving 
out of hand. Manannan is correct, the Knights were special. Few 
people understood this when they rode. They were a force not just to 
aid the dispossessed, or the weak, but to affect the Colours 
themselves. What they did was to bring hope to those without hope, 
and fear to those who would rule by fear. They were the balance. For 
each dispute they settled, ten . . . twenty ... a hundred more would be 
settled because the Knights existed. Yet now - out in the world beyond 

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

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

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

‘I lean towards Groundsel’s view,’ he said. ‘The return of the Knights 
would be a massive blow to the King and would make us the focus of 


rebellion. But after that the problems would begin. People would 
expect the Knights to ride fearlessly against the enemy. Could we do 
that - and survive? Manannan thinks not. I cannot — will not - make a 
decision here. I think we should vote on it, and only if all agree should 
we go ahead.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

Llaw nodded. ‘I agree. Manannan?’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How?’ asked Llaw Gyffes. 

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

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

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

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

‘Choose, Groundsel.’ 

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

‘Now put it on.’ 

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

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

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

‘And what of me?’ Morrigan asked. 

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

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

Lamfhada smiled. ‘I flew too high and saw too much.’ Gently he lifted 
Llaw’s hand from his shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, Elodan will begin to teach 
you all what it means to be Knights of the Gabala. But before he does, 
one fact must be made plain. When the final battle is over, some of 
you will be dead. You must understand that and accept it, or there is 


no point in continuing.’ 

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

‘You have a task for nie, I think?’ 

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

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

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

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

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

‘But you are,’ Lamfhada told him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How did they come here?’ asked Elodan. 

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

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

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

‘Wear it with pride, Elodan.’ 

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

‘I will help you.’ 

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

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

‘I am not worthy,’ repeated the Knight. 

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

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

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

‘No, it is not,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘The sword broke because it was not 
needed. You will not be a warrior Knight, Nuada. It is not - thank the 
Source - in your nature to kill. You will be our herald. You will journey 
through the forest, to every settlement, and tell them the Knights 
have returned. You will gather men to our cause. But more than this, 
you will help the Harmony of the Colours. You must lift and inspire 


your hearers as never before. You must fill their hearts with hope. 
Take Kartia with you, and Brion. Go north for two days. You will find a 
sheltered valley and a man who breeds horses. Purchase mounts for 
yourselves, and ask the man to deliver seven grey stallions here 
during the next week.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Manannan has it?’ 

‘Yes. I brought it to him.’ 

‘I take it Manannan will be in danger?’ 

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


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It is still evil,’ said Sheera. 

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

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

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

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

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

‘What’s happening?’ Errin asked. Three men leapt from the 
undergrowth and Errin dived aside, rolling to the earth. As he rose and 


reached for his belt, two more attackers jumped to his back, bearing 
him to the ground. He twisted his head to see Ubadai at bay, his sword 
ready. 

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

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. 

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

‘For what reason?’ 

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

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

‘Ollathair,’ he said. 

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

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

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

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

‘May I have my knife back . . . Errin?’ 

‘Of course,’ he said, reversing the blade and handing it to her. She 
moved to the fallen men and knelt by them. One was stirring. Errin 
wandered to where Ubadai and Sheera were still being held. ‘Would 
you be so kind as to release my comrades?’ he requested. Ubadai 


shook himself free and stalked away, muttering curses beneath his 
breath. Sheera approached Errin and took his arm. 

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

He grinned. ‘I enjoy surprising you.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who are they?’ he asked Arian. 

‘I have no idea. Let’s find Llaw.’ 

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

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

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

Errin shook it. ‘You have?’ 

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


‘Unless you have other, more pressing, plans?’ 
‘No, not at all. We will speak later.’ Errin, Ubadai and Sheera began 
the long walk to the cave, while Arian remained behind with Llaw. 


As the trio approached the cave mouth, a youth strolled out to meet 
them. Errin stopped in his tracks, his heart sinking. 
‘What’s the matter?’ Sheera asked. 


‘This is the boy I shot.’ 
Lamfhada moved to meet them. ‘Welcome, Lord Errin, welcome to the 
Forest of the Ocean.’ 


‘Nice to see you again. Can you direct us to the Armourer? I’d love to 


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


‘I see. What do you require of me ... of us?’ 
‘Stand for a moment. . . and listen,’ said Lamfhada. Nonplussed, Errin 


allowed the silence to grow. The sound of distant music came to him; 
he strained to hear it, but it drifted like the echo of an echo. 
‘What is it?’ he asked. Lamfhada said nothing. ‘Can you hear it?’ he 


asked Sheera; she shook her head. 
‘I can,’ said Ubadai. ‘It is something in the cave.’ 
Errin moved to the cave mouth. The sound — if sound it was - was 


stronger here. It seemed to whisper in the caverns of his soul. . . 
calling, drawing him in. He turned to Ubadai, who was now standing 
beside him. 


‘You can hear it?’ 
‘Yes,’ answered the Nomad. ‘Let us get away from here.’ 
‘It does not feel threatening.’ 
‘Trust me,’ said Ubadai. 
‘You should listen to him, Errin,’ advised Lamfhada. ‘If you enter the 


cave, your life will be changed for ever. Worse, it may bring you pain 
and an early death.’ 
‘He’s right. Let’s go,’ said Ubadai, grasping Errin’s arm. 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘By whom? By you?’ 

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

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

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

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

‘Then choose your path.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manannan dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks. 

And rode for the castle . . . 

The Duke of Mactha was brought out into the field and the crowds 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Duke laughed aloud. ‘I have stood here and wasted a beautiful 
morning, my liege, listening to lies and deceits. I will not spoil it 
further by adding the truth. To be honest, though, for a moment, I 


think this is rather a good day to die. So let us . . .’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


towards the forest.’ 

‘What of you?’ 

‘With luck I shall be beside you.’ 

‘Can you defeat Cairbre?’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manannan surged forward -only to suffer a riposte that all but tore his 

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

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

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

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

Then they were away and clear. 

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

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

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

The column wound its slow way down the forest paths and out on to 
the open ground before a range of wooded hills. Here Bavis raised his 
arm and signalled a halt for the midday meal. As he did so, three 
riders came galloping from the woods to the right. He shaded his eyes 


against the sunlight and tried to identify the men, thinking them to be 
his scouts. As they neared, he saw that they were dressed in foresters’ 
buckskins -and each carried a bow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes. Where are you from?’ 

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

His hands fumbled at her tunic. 

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


Morrigan’s arm circled his neck and drew him down towards her. 
Elodan turned away as Groundsel cut the throat of a wounded soldier. 
‘Squeamish, Lord Knight?’ asked the outlaw leader. 
‘Yes,’ answered Elodan. ‘I was not trained for butchery.’ 
Groundsel laughed. ‘You would never guess it! Your strategy was 


perfect - only one escaped.’ 
Everywhere the rebels were stripping the dead, gaining armour and 
swords. Thirty horses had survived the massacre, and these were 
loaded with weapons and armour and led away, back towards the 
camp in the high meadow. Elodan walked from the bodies to where 


Llaw, Errin and Ubadai were sitting in a sheltered glade by a tiny 
stream. 
Errin looked up. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘You planned it well, Elodan.’ 
‘I feel no pride in it,’ owned the Lord Knight. ‘So many dead.’ 
‘All enemies,’ declared Ubadai. ‘I shed no tears.’ 
‘No,’ whispered Elodan, ‘nor does Groundsel. He’ll be searching the 


corpses for gold teeth next.’ 


Errin grinned. ‘Not an easy man to like, our Groundsel. But he fights 
well.’ 
‘There is more to being a Knight than that!’ snapped Elodan. ‘You 


should know that, Lord Errin. I am ashamed to wear this armour.’ 
‘Do not say that!’ stormed Llaw Gyffes. ‘Not ever! I know how you feel 


- but put yourself in my place. I am a blacksmith and an outlaw. As far 
as history is concerned, I am also a wife killer, t do not know how to 
be a Knight - but I will do my best not to dishonour the armour. That 
is all any man can do. Content yourself with this victory; it will give 
heart to the men.’ 
‘I hope Morrigan is all right,’ remarked Errin, as the silence grew. ‘One 
of us should have gone with her.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did you catch him?’ 

‘Yes, he is dead.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


outlaws?’ 

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

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

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

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

‘Nothing at all,’ came the answer. 

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

‘Yes.’ 

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

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

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

‘Why should my opinion make a difference?’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reached out and touched the armour. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

Outside the cave in the village beyond, the victorious rebel army had 
arrived safely home. Women and children streamed to meet them. 
Manannan sat down on a boulder and watched as Elodan, Llaw, Errin 
and Ubadai rode up to the cave. 

‘It is good to see you safe,’ Elodan greeted them, stepping from the 
saddle. ‘Did your mission go well?’ 

‘He is in the cave,’ said Manannan. 

‘What of Cairbre?’ 

‘I killed him. Let us talk no more of it.’ 

‘Who is in the cave?’ asked Llaw. ‘What was this mission?’ 

Lamfhada moved in front of Llaw. ‘The Duke of Mactha,’ he said softly. 

All colour fled from Llaw’s face. ‘What mockery is this? The whoreson 
sentenced me to death for a crime he knew I did not commit. He is a 
King’s man!’ 

‘No,’ said Manannan. ‘He was on trial for his life; the King was to have 
him executed.’ 

‘Which just shows that even a bad King cannot be wrong all the time. 
This is a mistake, but I will put it-to rights. Get out of my way,’ said 
Llaw, drawing his sword. 

‘Put it down!’ Elodan commanded. ‘This instant!’ 

Llaw swung on him. ‘So? You patricians want to stick together, do you? 
Fine. What else should I have expected?’ 

‘You are wrong, Llaw,’ said Elodan softly. ‘I am the man you asked to 
lead your army. Your army. But I am also the Lord Knight of the New 
Gabala. If the armour chooses him, then he is with us. If not?’ He 
shrugged. ‘Then he is yours. Does that suit you?’ 

Llaw backed away. ‘If the armour chooses? Had I known he would be 
among us, I would never have agreed to wear it myself.’ Slamming his 
sword in its scabbard, he stalked to his horse, mounted and rode for 
the village. 

‘Thank you, Elodan,’ said the Duke, stepping out into the open, his 
armour blazing in the sunlight. 

‘Lord Duke,’ said Elodan, ‘welcome to the Order.’ 

‘I am the Duke no longer. My name is Roem,’ he said, holding out his 


hand. Elodan shook it. Errin removed his helm and strolled forward. 

‘I see we have a fine cook,’ commented Roem. ‘We must be a force to 
be reckoned with.’ 

Arian found Llaw Gyffes high on the south meadow in a grove of beech 
trees overlooking the forest. He was sitting by a small fire, staring into 
the flames, and did not hear her approach. She sat beside him and 
reached out to touch him, but stopped. Encased as he was in his 
armour, there was no point. 

‘Llaw?’ she whispered but he did not turn his head. ‘Come, Llaw, speak 
to me.’ 

‘There is nothing to say. I am lost, Arian . . . lost.’ She moved closer to 
him. 

‘No, you are not! You are Llaw Gyffes, the strongest man I have ever 
known. How can you be so downhearted? You have triumphed over 
your enemies and your army grows by the day.’ 

He shook his head. ‘None of it matters. My life was destroyed when 
Lydia died. And now I too must die -just as the Dagda said. And you 
know what will happen then? Nothing. If the King should prove 
victorious, the world will go on as before. If we should defeat him, 
then the Duke of Mactha - or someone like him – will rule and the 
world will go on as before. We change nothing by what we do.’ 

‘What were you expecting, Llaw? Back in the village, there are people 
who would now be dead but for you and Elodan, and the others. At 
Groundsel’s settlement there are Nomads who would have frozen to 
death but for you and Groundsel and Nuada. Ask them if you made a 
difference. Take your eyes from the stars, Llaw. Look to the earth.’ 

She rose to kneel by his side, her fingers pulling at the leather straps 
of his breastplate. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. 

‘Get out of this metal,’ she ordered. ‘Put it aside. Then we will walk for 
a while in the mountains and you will feel the air on your skin.’ He 
helped her, laid the armour beside the fire and stood. She moved to 
him and ran her hands along his arms. 

‘I am tired of waiting for you,’ she said. ‘And don’t tell me you are not 
ready; I am sick of it. You are a man -so stop running from the past 
and fearing the future. All we have is the Now. All we will ever have is 
the Now.’ 

‘Does it not frighten you that I must die soon?’ 

‘Yes, it terrifies me,’ she told him. ‘But it will be the worse for me if 
you should be gone having never loved me.’ 


His arms circled her. ‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘You are never far 
from my thoughts.’ 

She drew him down beside the fire and kissed him, but he groaned 
and weakly pulled away. 

‘Forget the stars, Llaw,’ she whispered. ‘Forget the stars.’ 

Later, as they lay closely together, it seemed to Llaw that a burden 
had been taken from him. He could not recall the moment when it had 
passed, nor even what it was that had weighed him down. He could 
smell the newly growing grass and feel the wind of spring upon his 
face. He could hear the birds in the trees above and sense the joy of 
growth in the forest. The world of kings and knights and peasants 
seemed a fragile, insubstantial matter as Arian snuggled against him, 
her right leg curled over his thigh. Rising on his elbow, he looked down 
at her. She was sleeping. He touched her skin and kissed her hair and 
her eyes opened. 

‘I was dreaming,’ she said. 

‘Are you happy still?’ 

‘You fool,’ she answered. She rose swiftly and ran to the stream and 
he followed her, watching her bathe. ‘Come in,’ she called. 

‘It looks cold.’ 

‘The great Llaw Gyffes fears a little cold water? Come in.’ 

He waded in alongside her and sat down. ‘Gods of Heaven!’ he 
exclaimed. She laughed and splashed his chest and face; he grabbed 
her and they rolled under the water. 

‘I surrender,’ she shouted as they surfaced. ‘Truly.’ 

He said nothing and pulled her in to his embrace. ‘You should have 
come to me long ago,’ he whispered. 

‘I did, Llaw, but you were not ready. Will you regret this day?’ 

‘Never.’ 

‘Good. Now get dressed and go back to your Knights - all of them.’ 

His face darkened. ‘I cannot face the man. I think if I did, I would kill 
him.’ 

‘You are too strong for that. Trust me, Llaw. In this, I think I know you 
better.’ 

He stood and shivered. Arian grasped his arm and hauled herself 
upright. Sensing his changing mood, she remained silent, following 
him back to the fire. He dressed swiftly and started to walk back to his 


horse which was tethered to the root of a nearby beech. But he 
stopped and looked back; then suddenly he grinned. ‘Will you ride with 
me, my lady?’ 

She pulled on her tunic and trews, gathered her boots and knife and 
ran to him. 

He left her in the village and rode back for the cave. The other Knights 
were sitting with Elodan and Lamfhada. Llaw dismounted and tethered 
his horse. No one spoke as he joined the circle and looked across at 
the Duke of Mactha. 

‘I am Llaw Gyffes,’ he said, extending his hand. 

‘I am Roem. I am pleased to meet you,’ responded the other, taking 
his hand and gripping it firmly. 

‘Now the new Order is complete,’ said Lamfhada, ‘and it is time to 
prepare for the Day of Blood. Nuada is carrying our banner to all the 
settlements of the forest. Morrigan and Groundsel are seeking allies 
close to Pertia Port. The King’s army is almost ready to move. They 
will be at our southern borders within ten days; we must be ready to 
oppose them.’ 

‘How many men do we have?’ Roem asked. 

‘Close to two hundred now, but the numbers are swelling daily. 
Nuada’s prowess has rarely been put to better use.’ 

‘The King has ten thousand men,’ said Roem. ‘Two thousand lancers, 
six thousand foot-soldiers, fifteen hundred archers, and five hundred 
scouts, used to the ways of the forest. You cannot hold them with two 
hundred, nor a thousand.’ 

Elodan raised his hand. ‘It is not important that we have a large army, 
only that the King thinks we have. Now Lamfhada says he has placed a 
spell over the forest and the Seers of the King cannot breach it. That 
being the case, all the King has to go on is that his five hundred 
lancers have been wiped out. I do not think he will immediately 
venture into the forest in force. He will send in his scouts and then 
advance slowly. We must eliminate those scouts.’ 

‘That sounds plausible,’ said Errin, ‘but do we fight a holding action 
from now until the King dies of old age? Somewhere there must be a 
conclusive encounter.’ 

‘Indeed there must, and we must recognize the opportunity when it 
arises,’ answered Elodan. ‘But until then, as the weaker side, we must 
hit and run -strike them where we can - make them think they are 
facing a force ten . . . twenty times greater than we are. And all the 


time we will be growing.’ 

Llaw spoke. ‘There is something else to consider: supplies. We have 
the forest and the deer, and sheep are plentiful. The King has ten 
thousand men and they will need to be supplied from the south. We 
must have a raiding force behind their lines. Empty bellies make for 
discontent.’ 

‘I will lead that force,’ said Roem. ‘It is my Duchy and I know all the 
roads. Give me fifty men; we will live off the land and force them to 
send back troops.’ 

‘You will be alone,’ Lamfhada pointed out. ‘We cannot support you.’ 

‘Do not fear for me, Armourer. I am not ready to die yet.’ 

‘Very well,’ agreed Elodan. ‘Select your fifty men and train them; you 
have ten days.’ 

‘What of the rest of us?’ asked Manannan. 

‘Your day is coming,’ said Lamfhada, looking away. 

Morrigan sat under the stars, her memories vivid and painful. Her love 
for Samildanach seemed from another age, when the world was young 
and innocence a joy. Her six years in the City of the Vyre had 
drenched that innocence in blood and lust and depravity. She could no 
longer recall the numbers of men and women who had shared her bed, 
nor see all the faces. All she could remember clearly was the taste of 
the Ambria, and the surging strength it brought to her limbs. She had 
told Manannan that Samildanach had tired of her, but it was not 
strictly true. Faced with the myriad pleasures of the Vyre they had 
drifted apart - seeking new sensations, more pleasure and pain. 

Now Manannan claimed to love her. But he did not know ... he loved 
the woman who once had been. She shivered as the night wind rolled 
down from the snow-covered peaks. 

The general had died swiftly, his body shrivelling as his life filled her. 
He had not even known he was dying. She had left the empty hide-
covered sack of bones where they fell. How soon would she need to 
feed again? A day? Two days? 

She could hear Groundsel snoring by the fire. Detestable little man! 
You will be next, she promised herself. But then what? Manannan? 
Llaw Gyffes? Or merely another innocent stranger, like the man with 
the injured knee? 

Was life so enchanting that she could not bear to leave it? 

She knew the answer. Of course it was. To see and hear, to breathe 
and feel - how could anyone bear to die? 


‘Can’t you sleep?’ asked Groundsel, sitting up and running his fingers 
across his scalp. ‘Damned lice,’ he said. ‘Nothing shifts them.’ 

‘Try bathing once in a while.’ 

‘What are you doing?’ he asked. 

‘I am thinking.’ 

‘Do you never sleep? How do you manage to keep your strength?’ 

‘I draw it from the company of men, Groundsel. Strangely, I am 
feeling rather weak at the moment.’ 

He grinned at her. That’s the first time I’ve seen any sign of humour 
from you, Morrigan. Perhaps you are beginning to like me. Why don’t 
we start afresh? Come and join me; I’ll give you a little strength.’ 

‘Beware, Groundsel. I might just do that.’ 

He yawned and stood. She turned away as he urinated against a tree. 
‘Who are we supposed to see?’ he asked. 

‘The leader is a man called Bucklar. You should like him, Groundsel he 
has built his kingdom the way you built yours, on blood and 
murder. I think that’s why Elodan thought you were the man to 
accompany me. You think Bucklar will send men to aid Llaw’s army?’ 

‘That depends. If he feels threatened by the King, then he will. If he 
thinks he’s safe, he’ll wait - and when the other forest leaders send 
men, he’ll attack their lands and extend his power.’ 

‘It is doubly important, then, that he helps us. For without him the 
other leaders will also hold back.’ 

‘True, lady.’ He began to climb into his leggings. 

‘I thought you wanted me,’ said Morrigan, rising and striding towards 
him. 

‘I did,’ Groundsel said, grinning. ‘But you didn’t say please. Dawn’s 
coming up; we should be moving.’ 

Samildanach walked to the coffin and gazed down on the face of his 
oldest friend. His anger had gone and he was aware of a terrible 
emptiness deep within him. He knew that he had loved Cairbre as a 
brother, but that had been so long ago - before the crusade, before 
the Vyre, before the dawning of the New Age. Now he searched for 
that love and could find nothing. All he could see was a pale corpse, 
hands folded across a crimson breastplate. 

The other Knights moved forward, circling the coffin and observing the 
body, and Samildanach looked from face to face. All wore the same 


expression. A shiver passed through the Lord Knight. 

‘We all know,’ declared Samildanach, ‘why our brother died. He had 
ceased to take the Nourishment his body desired; he was physically 
weak. I do not know why Cairbre acted as he did, but it should be a 
lesson to us all. Our crusade is a holy one. We must restore the 
civilization and the power of the Gabala, and introduce to it the 
wonders of the Vyre.’ His words seemed hollow and they echoed in the 
high arched tomb. He saw again Manannan riding on to the field, his 
silver armour ablaze. 

They had been friends . . . 

Friends? The concepts of friendship, of love, of brotherhood moved in 
his mind like wisps of smoke, close but unobtainable. 

‘Are you well, Samildanach?’ Edrin asked. 

‘Yes. I feel there should be words to say over our . . . friend. But I can 
think of none.’ 

‘Then let us cover him and be gone,’ said Bersis. ‘This place is cold and 
inhospitable.’ 

‘Yes,’ whispered Samildanach. ‘Cover him.’ He turned and strode for 
the stairs. The tallest of the Knights, he was wide-shouldered and 
narrow-hipped and his movements, even in armour, were smooth and 
sure. He led the Knights to the Upper Room, where they seated 
themselves around the oval oak table. 

‘It is time,’ said Samildanach, ‘to gauge the strength of the enemy. 
The boy sorcerer has placed a barrier around the forest, and now is 
the moment to breach it. Give of your strength, my friends.’ 

The Knights bowed their heads and Samildanach felt the power 
soaking into his frame. Sta.iding, he thoved away from the table; 
lifting his arms, he called for the Red. His right hand sliced through the 
air, which parted like a torn silk screen. A cold breeze whispered into 
the room. Samildanach opened the curtain further and gazed on the 
night-shrouded Forest of the Ocean. Then he stepped through and 
sealed the opening behind him. He was in a glade by a rushing river. 
Silently he made his way to the nearest hilltop and gazed around him 
at the moonlit landscape. A mile to the north lay the village of Llaw 
Gyffes. Samildanach sat cross-legged on the grass and closed his 
eyes, his spirit soaring into the night sky. Picturing the silver armour of 
the Gabala Knights, he felt the pull of their magic. He found himself 
floating by a cave. Inside, a fire was burning low and he could see 
seven sleeping figures. He recognized the Duke of Mactha, and 
Manannan; the others he did not know. He left the scene and rose 


once more. This time the pull took him far to the west and he came to 
a Long Hall wherein stood a shining figure surrounded by scores of 
warriors. The Knight was telling the men of past glories and great 
heroes. His voice was compelling and Samildanach could see the 
Colours blossoming throughout the hall. 

This one was a danger . . . 

Rising again, he journeyed east and north. Here, in a hollow, he found 
Morrigan and a squat, ugly peasant. Samildanach recoiled from the 
man. This was the enemy, he thought? This was the kind of man who 
now wore the silver? Anger flared in him. His spirit eyes turned to 
Morrigan, whose beauty in the moonlight was beyond reason. He 
smiled as she made some cutting remark to the peasant. How could 
she be here, among these low-born outlaws? 

For some time Samildanach roamed the forest, seeking signs of the 
rebel army. Nowhere could he find any evidence of large 
concentrations of troops. But he did not have time to search the entire 
forest, and returned to the cave. There he hovered at the entrance 
and fixed his concentration on the blond youth who slept beside three 
golden statues of hounds. 

‘Come to me,’ he said softly. ‘Rise and come to me.’ 

Lamfhada stirred and rolled over. A shimmering light glowed around 
him and his spirit rose from his body. He blinked and saw 
Samildanach. The Knight moved back into the moonlight; Lamfhada 
followed and they floated high above the trees. 

‘How did you come here?’ asked the youth. 

‘How did you think to stop me?’ replied Samildanach. ‘Foolish child. It 
is time to die.’ 

Suddenly Samildanach’s form swelled to dwarf the terrified Lamfhada. 
Talons erupted from the Knight’s fingers and slashed at the boy’s 
chest. He hurled himself back and reached in terror for the Gold, but 
his mind was too full of fear and panic and it eluded him. He tried to 
escape, but Samildanach’s giant hand circled him and he was drawn 
ever closer to the huge face. 

‘I expected at least a battle, child,’ said the Knight. 

‘And you shall have one,’ came a voice from behind. Samildanach 
swung to see a familiar figure floating beside him. 

‘Ollathair! What a pleasant surprise.’ 

‘Not for me. Release the boy.’ 

‘Why should I? A dead man cannot harm me.’ 


‘Indeed he cannot. But there is a live man standing beside your body, 
with a knife to its throat.’ 

The figure faded from sight and Samildanach smiled. ‘Well, boy, it 
seems you are to live -for now.’ He released Lamfhada and sped 
away. 

Samildanach opened his eyes and rolled to his right, his dagger hissing 
from its scabbard. There was no one close, but beside his body were 
the marks of recent footprints. 

‘You should have killed me, Ollathair - as I killed you.’ He opened the 
curtain of night and stepped back into the Upper Room. 

Once seated at the table, he roused the Knights. 

Swiftly he outlined all he had seen; then he turned to Edrin and Bersis. 
‘I see no real danger to the King’s army,’ said Samildanach, ‘but there 
are two men who should be dealt with at haste. Edrin, you and Bersis 
will go to Pertia Port. There you will show the commander the King’s 
seal. Bersis will take command of five hundred men and lead an attack 
on the Citadel above the Bridge of Chains. Morrigan will be there; I do 
not want her harmed. But there is one with her who offends me. Kill 
him. You, Edrin, will take fifty men and move through to the west of 
the forest. Find a village nestling below the two highest peaks. There 
you will hear of one of these new Knights. He is a storyteller of great 
power and, given time, he could raise a force against us. Destroy him. 
Use any means. You understand?’ 

‘I will not fail you, Samildanach. Be assured, he will die.’ 

Lamfhada watched the Red Knight disappear into the distance. ‘Ruad,’ 
whispered the youth. ‘Are you still here?’ 

‘He never was here,’ came a voice in his mind. ‘Return to your body. I 
will come to you within a short time.’ 

Lamfhada did as he was bid; then he stood, wrapped a blanket around 
his shoulders and silently moved past the sleeping Knights. Outside 
the cave, he sat on a rock and scanned the countryside. After a few 
minutes he saw a tall figure making his way up the rocky path. 
Dressed in long robes of faded blue and ancient leather sandals, the 
man was old, and completely bald; a forked white beard flowed to his 
chest and he was using a quarter-staff to aid him on his climb. The 
newcomer halted before Lamfhada. 

‘I am the Dagda,’ he said, ‘and you were born under lucky omens.’ 

‘Thank you for your help. Why did you impersonate Ruad?’ 

The Dagda shrugged. ‘It was a necessary deceit which sowed the seed 


of fear in Samildanach’s mind. Also,’ he continued, sitting beside the 
youth, ‘I knew Ruad Ro-fhessa -and I think my deceit would have 
pleased him. How are you faring, Lamfhada?’ 

The Armourer shrugged. ‘I do my best. I can do no more. But I wish 
Ruad was here to guide me.’ 

‘That is understandable, but a man is strongest when he is alone. 
Remember that. You have the Knights, and I think the Source is with 
you. Even so, there is much you must suffer.’ 

‘I know all this. When I found the Gold I saw all that could be, all that 
should be, all that might be. What I could not discern was all that will 
be. Good men will die, I know that.’ 

‘All men die, good or otherwise,’ said the Dagda. ‘And I know what you 
saw. I was with you when you flew.’ 

‘You were the one whose presence I felt? I hoped it was Ruad.’ 

‘Do not be disappointed. I have waited for you for a very long time.’ 
The Dagda chuckled. ‘Precisely one hundred and forty-two years! Does 
that seem a long time to you, child? I can see that it does. Well, we 
are here now and you have much to learn.’ 

‘What do you mean . . . waited for me?’ 

‘You - or one like you. Ruad would have told you, had he lived. You 
walk the Gold, Lamfhada, and that is rare. It is special. All the Colours 
are subject to the Gold, and it is part of the Great Harmony that when 
the Colours are threatened the Gold shines. The Red is swelling over 
the Realm, but its users do not understand the Harmony. They seek to 
make the Red preeminent, but no Colour exists of itself. If the Red is 
allowed to dominate, the other Colours will fade and die» Neither can 
the Red exist alone. So then, those who seek to promote the Red are 
actually destroying all magic. And without magic, the world would have 
only one colour: it would be Grey -the grey of the tombstone, the 
grey of ashes. You understand?’ 

‘No,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Magic is used by very few. How would the world 
be harmed if it failed? Trees would still grow, flowers would bloom. 
Babies would still be born?’ 

‘No, that is not the case. All life is magic, and all men feel it. They see 
the spectacle of the dawn and they are filled with a sense of wonder. 
That is magic. See the look in the mother’s eyes as she holds her 
firstborn and cuts its cord. She understands magic. In that moment, 
for that precious second, she understands. But when the Harmony is 
disrupted - as now in the Realm - and the magic is under threat, there 
is only cynicism and despair and Man’s more brutal emotions begin to 


surface. No, my friend, the world needs magic as it needs air and 
water.’ 

‘Who are you, Dagda? What are you?’ Lamfhada asked. ‘Are you some 
sort of god?’ 

The old man shook his head. ‘I am a man. N^o more, no less. A long 
time ago I was -in the world’s eyes -a great man. But I forsook my 
life and its riches, for I yearned to know all the world’s secrets. I came 
to this forest and met a man -a man who had waited for me for 
eighty-seven years. He was the Dagda. And though his story was 
different from mine - as indeed yours will be -we were the same. We 
were rings in a chain that began when Man first reared to his hind 
legs, and will end when the stars fall and the sun dies . . . and perhaps 
not even then.’ 

Lamfhada’s mouth was dry and he wished to be free of this strange old 
man. As if sensing his fear, the Dagda placed a bony hand upon his 
shoulder. 

‘We - he and I, you and I -are the Enchanters. We watch the Colours, 
and we nurse them. We walk the land and we maintain the Balance. 
Where all is war, and plague and death, we seek to aid the White or 
the Green or the Blue. Where all is peace and tranquillity, we 
strengthen the Red and the Black. But mostly we guard the Yellow, for 
as you now know, Lamfhada, the Yellow is merely the Gold disguised. 
And it is the Gold that maintains the other Colours.’ 

‘Why is this not known?’ Lamfhada asked him. 

‘Once it was, boy. And through such knowledge, men made 
themselves gods and brought calamity upon themselves. Now it 
survives in folk tales and legend. The Sun worshippers echo the 
Mystery; they worship the sphere of Gold that feeds the earth. Think 
of it. All that grows or lives or breathes depends upon the sun. And 
that is so with the Colours. The Yellow is born of innocence and the 
laughter of children, fed by the sense of wonder in the young. In its 
turn, it nourishes the others. But now the truth has become a Mystery, 
for it is safer that way. I guard that mystery. Now you will guard it.’ 

‘What do you require of me?’ 

‘I? I require nothing. I have completed my task, as the Guardian 
before me completed his. He was the Dagda . . . now you are the 
Dagda.’ 

‘I do not wish to be.’ 

‘No more did I. It is lonely, Lamfhada. And yet it is fulfilling - you will 
find it so.’ 


‘And what if I die? Do you tell me the world will end? I do not believe 
it.’ 

‘If you die, another will be chosen. And you are only one of many. But 
you will not die yet. You did not see your own death in any of the 
futures, only the deaths of your Knights. I know; for I too have seen 
the futures. I will leave you now - you will need time to think.’ 

‘When will you come back for my answer?’ 

The old man smiled. ‘I will not come back. I have done all that I was 
required to do. Now I will find a place. I will watch the stars, and I will 
die at peace and join the Colours.’ The Dagda pushed himself to his 
feet and looked into Lamfhada’s eyes. ‘You have changed, young man, 
since I first saw you on that hillside six years ago, when you watched 
the Gabala Knights ride to a doom they did not deserve. And you will 
change even more through the long, lonely years ahead. Count the 
days, and the months and the years. And one day you will look into 
the face of a newcomer and you will see what I see. Farewell.’ 

‘I don’t want it. You cannot do this to me,’ shouted Lamfhada, 
storming to his feet. 

But the old man ignored him. He had heard those same words before. 
One hundred and forty-two years, three months and eight days before. 
But then it was he who had spoken them. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 

Groundsel reined in his stallion at the top of the rise and gazed down 
in silent wonder at the Bridge of Chains, spanning the chasm. The 
bridge was constructed of huge rings of iron from which hung rods 
connected to more rings. To these were fastened wooden planks. The 
swaying structure began on the northern slopes of a wooded hill and 
stretched for almost a quarter of a mile to where it joined a stone 
promontory set beneath a portcullis gate. ‘How did they make it?’ 
asked Groundsel as Morrigan rode alongside him. 

‘Some believe it was magic,’ she told him, ‘but my father explained 
that they first made a simple rope bridge and gradually strengthened 
it. He said it took over seven years to construct.’ 

Groundsel switched his attention to the Citadel itself. It was carved 
from the side of the mountain and reared above the chasm like a giant 
tooth. As far as he could see, the Citadel was inaccessible from the 
south or west; only the slender bridge linked it to the forest. The 
fortress was walled to the north and boasted two square towers above 
the portcullis. Groundsel could see no sentries, nor movement of any 
kind on the walls. 

‘I do not like the thought of riding a horse across that bridge,’ he said. 
‘I have never liked heights.’ 

‘You will find it will support you well enough,’ she told him, edging her 
mount forward. Together they rode down the hill and halted before the 
bridge, where Morrigan lifted her helm from her head and placed it 
over the pommel of her saddle. 

‘Are you ready, Forest Lord?’ she asked, grinning. 

Groundsel’s face was pale, his mouth set in a hard line. He did not 
answer, but spurred the stallion forward. As the horse moved out on to 
the bridge, he pulled down the visor of his helm and shut his eyes. 
Morrigan followed him, riding close to the right-hand side of the 
structure and gazing down over the iron rings. The chasm was deep, 
and she could just make out the bright ribbon of a stream running 
over the rocks below. 

She transferred her gaze to Groundsel, who was sitting like a statue, 
looking neither left nor right. The horses’ hooves sounded like slow 
drum-beats on the wooden planks. 

‘Enjoying the view, Groundsel?’ she called, but there was no reply. 
Smiling, she kicked her horse into a run. The bridge swayed alarmingly 
as Morrigan overtook Groundsel and cantered up to the portcullis gate, 


where she swung her mount and waited while her companion made his 
slow way forward. Once on solid ground, Groundsel slid from the 
saddle and sat down beside the gate. He removed his helmet and 
wiped the sweat from his face. 

‘You do not look well, my Lord,’ she said. 

His muttered reply was short and brutal. Laughter burst from 
Morrigan. 

‘My dear Groundsel, how could you use such language in front of a 
lady? A Knight of the Gabala should always be courteous. Shall we go 
inside?’ 

Groundsel stood and led his horse through the gateway. As they 
passed under the portcullis, he stopped and looked up. ‘Rusted solid,’ 
he said. ‘What sort of fool allows his defences to fall into such 
disrepair?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Perhaps the man is a peasant. He 
probably doesn’t understand knightly ways. You could instruct him, 
Groundsel.’ 

His eyes were cold as he approached her. ‘You seem intent on making 
me angry, bitch. That is not wise.’ 

‘Have I offended you? Oh, I am sorry, dear Groundsel. Perhaps we 
should kiss and become friends again?’ 

‘I would sooner kiss the rear end of my horse,’ he snapped. 

‘Well, your experience is obviously greater than mine in such matters - 
but I pity the horse.’ She dragged on her reins and cantered into the 
Citadel. Nothing moved, the fortress seemed deserted. 

She headed her mount towards the High Keep and halted before the 
steps to the double doors. Groundsel rode alongside her. 

‘There’s nobody here,’ he said. ‘What in Hell’s name happened?’ 

‘They are inside,’ she told him. 

‘How do you know?’ 

Morrigan shook her head and dismounted, wondering how he would 
react if she told him she could sense their blood, warm and promising. 
Mounting the steps, she banged her mailed fist against the door. 

‘Bucklar!’ she called. ‘You have visitors.’ 

The left-hand door slid open, creaking on its hinges. ‘Don’t go in!’ 
called Groundsel, dragging his longsword clear. ‘I don’t like this at all.’ 

‘Then stay outside,’ she advised. She stepped into the cool interior and 


smiled at the woman who stood holding the bent bow, the arrow 
aimed at Morrigan’s face. ‘Do not fear me,’ she said. ‘I am here with a 
message from Llaw Gyffes.’ Behind the woman were several children, 
one of whom held a curved dagger. Movement came from the shadows 
to left and right and Morrigan swung her head. There were some 
twenty women in the hall; their eyes were frightened, their manner 
tense and expectant. Then Groundsel entered, grinned and sheathed 
his blade. 

‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘We’ve ridden for days to find a fortress of 
women and children. How many will want to join Llaw’s army, do you 
think?’ 

‘Who are you?’ asked the woman with the bow, easing the string 
forward and lowering her weapon. Morrigan noted that the arrow was 
still notched and could be loosed in an instant. 

‘I am Morrigan. The ape in the armour is Groundsel. We are looking for 
Bucklar. The King’s army is about to attack us in the south and we 
were hoping Bucklar could send some men to aid us.’ 

‘No,’ the woman said, ‘he won’t do that. He can’t. We are already 
under attack. A force has invaded the forest from Pertia Port and 
wiped out two settlements. My husband - and almost all of the men - 
have gone after them.’ 

‘What a genius,’ said Groundsel. ‘Leaving his home base undefended. 
Come on, Morrigan, let’s go.’ 

‘You leave if you wish,’ said Morrigan, ‘but I have had enough of 
sleeping on the ground, with ants crawling inside my armour. I intend 
to stay here the night - and take a bath.’ 

Groundsel approached her. ‘I may not be a Knight by birth, Morrigan, 
but neither was I born a fool. This is not a fortress, it’s a tomb. There’s 
only one way out - over that bridge. And if the enemy gets here before 
Bucklar returns, everyone here will be slaughtered. Is a bath worth the 
risk?’ 

‘You worry too much,’ she told him. 

‘Your insults are easier to bear than your stupidity,’ he retorted and, 
turning on his heel, he strode from the hall and mounted his stallion. 
His helm was hanging from the pommel and he eased it into place. 
What a useless mission, he thought, as he rode from the portcullis 
gate. Four days in the company of a harridan and nothing to show for 
it. 

He swallowed hard as his horse walked out on to the gently swaying 
bridge and steeled himself to stare straight ahead. The boards beneath 


the horse creaked and groaned, the chains to left and right of him 
grating. Safely on the other side he angled his white stallion up the hill 
and into the trees, halting to stare back at the Citadel. Morrigan was 
right, he knew. He was a peasant - and worse, he was a murderer and 
a thief. How amusing he must seem to her and the other patricians. A 
movement came on the hillside opposite, and he saw a young boy 
walk out of the undergrowth with a small grey dog beside him. Now 
that was a good age to be, thought Groundsel, remembering the early 
years of his youth, when he had played with the master’s hounds, and 
all the summers were lifetime long and golden and the winters bright 
with cold magic. He grinned, thinking of the golden-haired child he had 
saved from the snow. It would be nice to watch her grow in Cithaeron, 
to see her dance and sing and play. Why waste time on this doomed 
war? Morrigan’s words lashed at him. 

‘The ape in the armour is Groundsel. . .’ 

A month ago he would have killed her for those words, and thought 
nothing of it. 

Suddenly the boy darted down the hillside and raced on to the bridge, 
the dog running beside him. Groundsel swung in the saddle. Back 
along the road w«ere some thirty soldiers, marching two abreast 
towards the Citadel. 

Groundsel chuckled. ‘Have a good bath, Morrigan, nxy sweet,’ he 
whispered. He could see movement on th»e walls of the Citadel; 
several women were gathering at the gate towers, armed with bows 
and quivers of arrrows. The soldiers marched to the bridge and halted. 
L«oosening their packs, they dropped them at the roadside and untied 
the small round shields that were bmickled to them. Finally the officer 
gathered his men atround him, giving instructions. 

‘Be interested to see how you are going to handle this, Morrigan,’ 
murmured Groundsel. 

The soldiers surged on to the bridge and ran forward, holding their 
shields before them. Groundsel could see that the few archers on the 
battlements would not stop them. Sunlight sparkled from Morrigan’s 
silver armour as she stepped into sight, sword in hand. 

‘You’ve got pluck, at least,’ owned Groundsel. 

Seeing her before them, the soldiers slowed their charge. Arrows 
thudded into their shields, or bounced from breastplates and helms. 
One man went down with a shaft in his thigh. But the rest ran on. 

Morrigan sprang to meet them, her longsword slicing murderously 
through a wooden shield and half-severing the arm beneath. The 


warrior screamed and hurled himself away from the silver figure, 
tripping to fall in front of his comrades. Several men tumbled over him 
and the charge faltered. Morrigan’s sword rose and fell in the melee, 
cutting through armour, skin and bone. Several blades bounced from 
her own armour, but no blade touched her flesh. Five men were down 
before the attackers regained their composure and Morrigan was 
forced back, step by step, towards the wider portcullis gate, where 
they could get behind her and bear her down. 

Groundsel decided to watch until she was overpowered. The sound of 
advancing hoofbeats came to him. Back along the road was a rider ... 
a rider in crimson armour. Groundsel’s eyes narrowed. 

‘Poor Morrigan,’ he thought, and was about to swing his horse and ride 
away when a series of images flashed into his mind: the child on the 
hillside; Morrigan in her silver armour, her white horse behind her in 
the gateway; and now the Red Knight. The words of the Dagda cut 
into him like hot knives. 

‘He too will die in the spring. I see a horse, a white horse. And a rider 
in shining silver. And a child on a hillside. The demons are gathering, 
and a great storm will descend on the forest. But Groundsel will not 
see it.’ 

This was the day then. And the rider would kill him. 

Don’t be a fool, he told himself; you are clear. The Dagda is wrong. 
Ride away and cheat your fate. 

But then he recalled the look in Manannan’s eyes, and the promise he 
had asked of all the Knights. 

‘Damn you all!’ shouted Groundsel. Slapping the stallion’s rump, he 
galloped down the hill. The stallion thundered on to the bridge and 
raced at the startled soldiers. Groundsel’s sword hacked down at the 
first to come within range and then he was among them, cutting left 
and right. Morrigan, blood flowing from a wound in her temple where 
her helm had been dashed from her head, forced her way into the 
fray, swinging her sword double-handed. In the confined space the 
soldiers found it difficult to hit out, for fear of injuring their fellows. But 
Groundsel and Morrigan were in no way so impaired. Groundsel’s blade 
crashed through the officer’s helm, dashing his brains to the wooden 
boards. 

‘Back!’ yelled one of the soldiers - and they fled. Groundsel stepped 
from the saddle and looked around him. Twelve soldiers were down. 
Three were still alive, but bleeding heavily; he killed them. 

‘We are dead,’ said Morrigan, her voice flat and cold. Groundsel 


glanced back to see the Red Knight riding slowly across the Bridge of 
Chains, a dark sword in his mailed fist. 

‘Speak for yourself,’ returned the former outlaw. ‘I never met the man 
I couldn’t kill.’ Morrigan said nothing but she backed away, her sword 
falling from her hand. The Red Knight advanced with terrifying lack of 
speed, the undead stallion plodding forward. Groundsel rode to meet 
him, halting his mount in the Knight’s path. 

A dry metallic chuckle came from within the red helm. ‘It takes more 
than armour to make a warrior, Knight,’ said a voice. ‘I shall kill you 
slowly for your effrontery ... I shall dismember you.’ 

‘You all want to talk first, don’t you?’ hissed Groundsel. ‘Well, I’ve 
heard your boasts, Scumbucket - now let’s see how you fight!’ He 
spurred his stallion and aimed a wicked blow at the crimson helm, but 
the Red Knight swayed in the saddle and Groundsel’s sword swept 
harmlessly by. A thundering cut hammered into Groundsel’s neck-
plates. Stars exploded before his eyes and he tried to crash his own 
blade at the crimson figure, but again and again the dark sword 
clanged against the Gabala armour. His shoulder-plate was ripped 
from him, then his helm was struck, the visor spinning away. His 
stallion reared, saving Groundsel from a thrust that would have 
speared his eye. The horse backed away and Groundsel dragged in a 
shuddering breath. The Red Knight advanced, and in that moment 
Groundsel knew the end had come. He could not lay a sword on the 
man. 

The Red Knight began to laugh. ‘What a sorry day for the Gabala! You 
really are the worst Knight in history. I hope there are others better 
than you. And now, peasant, it is time to send you to Hell.’ 

Groundsel said nothing - but as the Red Knight moved in, he kicked 
his feet from the stirrups and dived at him. It was the one move Bersis 
had not anticipated. With lightning reflexes the Red Knight swung his 
sword to slice deep into Groundsel’s shoulder, smashing through the 
collar-bone and down deep into the lungs. Ignoring the pain, 
Groundsel’s powerful arms circled the Knight, driving him from the 
saddle. They landed across the huge rings that held the bridge and 
swayed there for a second. Groundsel’s face was pressed close to the 
Red Knight’s helm, and the former outlaw could see the fear in his 
enemy’s eyes. 

‘Not talking now, are you, pig breath?’ he spat, blood 

bubbling down his beard. ‘Send me to Hell, will you? Well, you can join 
me on the journey.’ 

‘No!’ screamed Bersis. But Groundsel, with the last of his strength, 


dragged his opponent over the edge and the two figures toppled out 
into space. 

Morrigan ran to the precipice and stared down. The Red and Silver 
figures were still locked in a deadly embrace, but now they looked like 
children’s toys sparkling in the sunlight. Smaller and smaller they 
became, until at last they were dashed against the jagged rocks 
below. 

At the moment of impact Morrigan averted her eyes. The undead 
stallion fell to the boards, its flesh stripping away, and a terrible stench 
was borne to Morrigan on the breeze. 

At the far end of the bridge the soldiers were gathering for another 
rush. But suddenly a horn sounded and the hillside was alive with 
forest men who charged into the startled troops. Morrigan did not 
watch the slaughter; she moved to the edge of the chasm and looked 
down at the tiny figures. 

‘You were a man, Groundsel,’ she said. 

Sheera watched as the Duke of Mactha led his fifty riders from the 
village. For ten days she had observed their training, or joined with 
other groups practising archery or sword work. Of Errin she had seen 
little, and her patience was wearing thin. She had spurned the safety 
of Cithaeron in order to avenge her sister’s death, but now she felt 
useless - and worse, ignored. She had seen Llaw Gyffes walking the 
hills with Arian, but only twice had Errin sought her out - once to see 
that she was comfortably ensconced in a primitive cabin, and a second 
time when she received a nick in her upper arm after an overenthusiastic 
practice session with longswords. 

‘Why must you put yourself in danger?’ he had asked her as he 
examined the shallow cut. 

‘What sort of question is that?’ she responded. ‘Am I not also a part of 
Llaw’s army?’ 

‘You are a woman,’ he stated, as if that answered the question. 

‘Is Morrigan not a woman? Or Arian?’ 

‘That is different. Morrigan is ... strange. Arian has been raised in the 
forest. Anyway, I have no say over the others.’ 

‘You have no say over me,’ she stormed. ‘The only connection we have 
is that you killed my sister.’ 

Now he avoided her completely - which was galling. Several of the 
forest men had approached her, but these she sent packing with 
strong words. She had asked the Duke of Mactha if she could ride with 


him and raid the supply lines, but he had politely refused her request. 
He had dismounted from the grey stallion and placed his hand on her 
shoulders. 

‘I say this to you in confidence,’ he whispered. ‘We Will not be coming 
back. There is no hope that we can evade pursuit for long. Most of the 
men with me nderstand this. I do not want to see you ... in peril, 
Sheera. It was bad enough being part of your lister’s . . . trial. You 
understand?’ 

‘You are going out to die.’ 

‘I think so - though I will strive to delay the dreadful ay.’ 

Now he was gone — as Llaw, Elodan and Manannan were gone. The 
King’s army had reached the southern border and most of the Knights 
had travelled south to prepare the defences and ready the men. 
Already word had come back that Elodan had ambushed some of the 
King’s scouts and destroyed them in a short battle. Of Manannan and 
Llaw there was no word. 

Sheera joined a group of women for the midday meal of venison and 
dried fruit, then took her bow and quiver and wandered to the hills. It 
was she who first glimpsed Morrigan riding slowly along a game trail, 
followed by scores of warriors. She ran down to meet them. 

‘Where is Groundsel?’ she called up to the silver rider. 

‘Dead,’ answered Morrigan, touching spurs to her mount and riding on. 

Sheera joined the column as it wound its way down to the settlement. 
There were more than two hundred and fifty men, and she soon 
gathered that they were from a Citadel to the north, they had already 
fought one battle, routing troops from Pertia Port, and now were 
pledged to Llaw Gyffes. It seemed that Groundsel and Morrigan had 
saved many of their wives and children and the leader, Bucklar, had 
promised to aid the rebellion. 

Sheera sat with the Citadel men as Bucklar, Errin and Lamfhada 
discussed strategy in the cave. Towards dusk the Citadel leader - a 
tall, stout warrior with greying hair and a trident beard - led his men 
south. 

Sheera gathered her bow and joined them. 

Nuada awoke to the sound of bird-song. Opening his eyes, he saw the 
dawn breaking over the mountains, the sky ablaze with colour, pink 
banners streaming into the virgin blue, white clouds running before 
the sun like sheep before a golden lion. 

Kartia’s head was resting on his shoulder, her arm draped across his 


chest. He snuggled down into the blanket, feeling the warmth of her 
body against him. 

This was contentment. This was joy. 

Far from the front line of battle, an eternity away from the killing and 
slaying, Nuada was at peace. Kartia mumbled something in her sleep 
and Nuada’s hand slid over her hips. Her eyes opened. 

‘Dawn already?’ she whispered. 

‘It is a beautiful day,’ he told her. ‘A veritable prince of days.’ Pulling 
her to him, he kissed her softly. 

For an hour they made love without haste, then lay together in 
comfortable silence. Finally Nuada stretched and sat up. The fire was 
dead, and Brion was nowhere to be seen. Usually at this time he would 
be broiling rabbit meat for their breakfast - or pigeon, or lamb. Nuada 
rose and strolled to the waterfall, wading in to stand beneath the 
showering water; it was cool, and wondrously refreshing. 

Sunlight bathed the pool at the fall’s base and rainbows danced 
through the curtain of water. Paradise could not contain more beauty, 
Nuada thought, as he towelled himself down with his shirt. Kartia 
moved to a tall rock and dived into the pool. Nuada envied her the 
ability to swim; it was something he would have to learn. As he sat 
back and watched her glide through the water, his thoughts moved to 
his mission. So far they had visited a dozen villages, and at each 
settlement his words had inspired a following. More than three 
hundred men had pledged themselves to the cause, but it should have 
been more. Many more. 

He must have spoken to more than two thousand warriors, he 
reflected, glancing back at the armour laid on a blanket beneath an 
overhanging pine. 

The Knight without a sword. He felt a pang of guilt. Not because he did 
not fight, but because he was so glad that he did not. It made him feel 
like a hypocrite. 

Go out and join Llaw, all you young men - but not me. No. I am a 
poet, you see. I just fill your heads with glory, and skim past the 
maggots and the worms and the pain. 

He had tried to paint a picture of the war as a Holy cause: good versus 
evil, light against dark. But here in the forest all was shade. 

‘Nuada! Nuada!’ called Brion. Nuada rose and saw the burly blond 
forester running towards the pool. 

‘What is the matter?’ he asked, climbing down from his rock to meet 


the running man. 


‘The King’s men have surrounded the village; they have herded all the 
people into the hall.’ 
‘Slow down. Tell me all.’ 
‘I went back just before dawn. I couldn’t catch anything for breakfast, 


so I thought they would let us have some food. When I got close, I 
saw the horses, so I hid. They gathered in Ramath and all his people. I 
don’t know what they plan, but we must get away from here. We’re 
too close.’ 


‘Why so frightened? We have horses; we can outrun them, surely.’ 


‘There is a Red Knight with them and they have dark magic. You have 
said this many times, that they are the Evil Ones. We must get away.’ 
‘A Red Knight? Here? Why?’ 
‘I don’t know,’ said Brion. ‘I’ll saddle the horses.’ 
Kartia swam to the shore and rose from the water. ‘What is for 


breakfast, sir Knight?’ she asked. 


‘Nothing, I am afraid. We have to leave. Ramath’s village was attacked 
this morning; it is not safe here.’ 
‘Poor Ramath,’ she said. ‘I really liked him.’ 
‘So did I. Now get your things together.’ 
They gathered their packs and tied them to the saddles. Nuada 


climbed into his armour, which Brion helped him to buckle. 
A man stepped into the clearing and Brion’s dagger flashed out. 
‘Ramath!’ greeted Nuada, grinning. ‘You escaped! Well done.’ 
The newcomer was tall and lean, dressed in dark skins of polished 


leather. He approached Nuada and bowed. 
‘I did not escape, sir, they let me go.’ Ramath swallowed hard and 
looked away. ‘It is you they want. I must return with you within the 


hour, or all my people die. The Red Knight, Sir Edrin, has promised 
that we will be freed the moment you surrender yourself.’ 
‘You can’t!’ cried Kartia. ‘They will kill you.’ She swung on Ramath. 


‘How dare you come here and ask this of him? How dare you?’ 


Nuada pulled her back. ‘How . . . how can you be sure he will keep his 
word, Ramath?’ he asked. 
‘I cannot be, sir. But what else can I do?’ 
Nuada’s mouth was dry. He lifted a canteen from his saddle and drank 



deeply. ‘I have a mission, you see,’ he said at last. ‘I must raise an 
army to fight these . . . evil men. You understand? I cannot. . .’ His 
voice faded to silence as he saw the look of despair in Ramath’s eyes. 

‘I have three sons, sir. None has yet reached five years. They are 
sitting with their mother, waiting for the knives to open their throats.’ 

Nuada turned away. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Kartia pleaded. ‘Please 
Nuada. Think of us. Think . . .’ 

Nuada stooped and lifted his helm, handing it to Brion. ‘Keep this. I 
will not need it. Take Kartia back to Llaw and the others. Tell them I’m 
sorry; I don’t have the strength to refuse.’ 

Kartia grabbed at his arm. ‘They’ll kill you,’ she said, tears spilling to 
her cheeks. ‘Sweet Heaven, they’ll kill you!’ 

He drew her away from the others, his vision misting as he kissed her. 
‘I love you,’ he said, ‘and I think that this morning’s joy was a gift. A 
last gift. I never saw a dawn like it.’ He pulled her close. ‘I don’t know 
what to say. There are no words, Kartia.’ 

‘Let me come with you. Please?’ 

‘No. Go with Brion. I will feel. . . stronger if I am alone.’ 

He strode to his horse and mounted. Then, taking a deep shuddering 
breath, he touched his spurs to the stallion. Kartia ran forward, but 
Brion pulled her away as Nuada rode from the glade, not daring to 
look back. Ramath walked beside him in silence until they reached the 
last hill; then he reached up and touched Nuada’s hand. 

‘I will never be able to thank you enough,’ said the leader. 

Nuada smiled, but his mouth was too dry for words and he was 
trembling. As he guided the horse down into the village, soldiers ran 
out, ringing him with their lances. 

He was ordered to dismount and did so; his limbs were shaking with 
fear and he stumbled. The villagers flocked out to see him, lining the 
way ahead. Looking at their faces, he drew strength from their 
sympathy. One more performance, Nuada, he told himself. Surely you 
have the strength for that? 

He was led beyond the main hall, where only the night before he had 
held the villagers spellbound with tales of heroism and courage. What 
he would not give now to see Llaw Gyffes and the other Knights 
thundering down the hillside to rescue him. Now, there would be a 
song! 

They took him to a dead tree in a clearing and there was the Red 
Knight, Edrin. 


‘So,’ he said, ‘the story-teller returns. Where is your sword, sir Knight, 
and your helm?’ 

‘I have no sword,’ said Nuada. 

‘I will loan you one. Then, at least, you can fight for your life.’ 

Nuada shook his head. ‘No. If I were to kill you, these people would 
suffer for it. You made a bargain: me for them. Honour it.’ He could 
see the anger in the Knight’s eyes and knew that he had won. For if 
the Knight had killed him in combat, the word would have spread 
through the settlements that the new Knights of the Gabala were 
weaker than the Red Knights of the King. He smiled. ‘What now, sir 
Knight?’ 

‘If you are too cowardly to fight, then you will die like a villain.’ 

Soldiers surrounded Nuada and his armour was unbuckled and pulled 
from him. Then he was taken to the tree, his arms spread against the 
rough bark. Two soldiers came forward with hammers and long nails 
and Nuada gritted his teeth as the sharp points were placed against 
his wrists. The hammers struck. Blood spurted from his arms as the 
nails drove through flesh, sinew and bone to bite into the trunk 
beyond. Nuada sagged . . . the nails ripped at him. He groaned and 
tried to raise his head. 

The Red Knight took up a bow and a quiver of arrows, carrying them 
to Ramath. 

‘You shoot first,’ he said. ‘Prove yourself a loyal man of the King.’ 

The leader blinked. ‘I ... can’t . . .’ 

‘Do it!’ yelled Nuada. ‘Or it is all for nothing. They will kill me anyway; 
you will not be killing me, they will. Do it. I forgive you.’ 

Ramath took the bow and notched an arrow to the string. Swiftly he 
drew and loosed and his arrow punched into Nuada’s chest. One by 
one the village men were called forward, and each sent a shaft into the 
lifeless body nailed to the tree. 

At last the arrows were spent and the Red Knight’ strode to his 
stallion. The soldiers backed away and marched from the scene. 
Ramath ran forward and began to pull the arrows from Nuada’s body, 
weeping as he did so. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, over and over. 

It was to this scene that Lamfhada’s spirit came. He had left the cave 
to scout the north, and had been drawn to the village by the 
overpowering outpouring of emotion. He hovered in the air over 
Nuada’s body and saw the terrible wounds it bore. 


Remembering the stag, he thrust his golden hands into the corpse and 
poured his magic into the body. The wounds closed, but there was no 
life to be found. 

Ramath and the other men, unable to see Lamfhada, watched as the 
wounds closed and stumbled back from the tree. 

Knowing it was pointless, still Lamfhada would not stop. More and 
more power flowed into the corpse -and through it into the dead apple 
tree beyond. The branches trembled and buds grew in an instant from 
every twig and bough, opening into pink and white blossom which 
began to fall like snow around the scene. 

At last Lamfhada surrendered to the inevitable: Nuada Silverhand was 
dead. The Armourer rose from the scene and fled, distraught, to the 
cave. 

Then Ramath stepped forward and stooped to lift apple blossom from 
the ground. He turned to his people. 

‘He said it was a Holy War. And you have all seen this sign from the 
Heavens. We will send a messenger to every settlement. Nuada will 
have his army. By all the Gods, I swear it!’ 

CHAPTER TWENTY 

The King’s Scouts charged up the hill into a withering volley of arrows. 
But still they came on and the hidden archers fell back before them. 
Elodan waited until the Scouts reached the tree line, then raised a 
horn to his lips and blew a single note. 

Scores of warriors dropped from their hiding place in the trees, knives 
and swords hacking at the attackers. Elodan drew his sword and 
spurred his horse into the midst of the fray, cutting and killing. The 
Scouts fell back, streaming down the hillside. 

From the woods opposite Llaw Gyffes, Manannan and a score of 
mounted warriors galloped into sight. The Scouts scattered before 
them, but many were ridden down as they ran back along the valley. 

Manannan kicked his stallion into a furious gallop and rode through the 
fleeing men. Ahead of him the Scout’s standard-bearer was carrying 
the King’s flag, a raven on a field of blue. Manannon cut him down and 
seized the standard, raising it high for the defenders to see. 

The thunder of hooves filled the air and Manannan swung his mount. 
Riding into the valley were five hundred of the King’s Lancers. The 
Once-Knight cut left and rode for the trees. Several of the Lancers 
veered after him and, reaching the tree line, he hurled the standard to 


a waiting rebel and swung again to meet the charging riders; there 
were five in the chasing group. Lifting his sword, Manannan spurred 
the stallion at them. He swayed in the saddle, allowing a lance to slice 
by him, and hacked the rider from his mount. A second lance glanced 
from his breastplate and his sword stabbed out to cleave the rider 
through the ribs. Then he was among them. Unable to use their long 
lances to good effect, the attackers dropped them and drew their 
swords. It availed them nothing. Manannan tore into them, his silver 
blade slicing through armour and mail. The last remaining Lancer tried 
to escape, but as he turned his steed an arrow flew from the 
undergrowth and hammered into his horse’s side. The beast stumbled, 
throwing its rider to the earth; the man rose, but another shaft took 
him in the thigh. Rebels ran from the undergrowth to despatch him. 

Manannan leaned on to the pommel of his saddle and watched the 
Lancers thunder into the valley. Llaw Gyffes and the other riders gave 
way before them, riding up into the stands of pine that circled the hills. 

Elodan rode out to rein in alongside Manannan. ‘Do you think they’ll 
come up after us?’ 

‘Not if they have any sense. They can’t know how many we are, and 
Lancers are as useful here as a wooden sword. Did we lose many 
men?’ 

‘About a dozen. Gwydion is looking to the wounded now. Have you 
seen Morrigan?’ 

‘No, I thought she was with you.’ 

‘She gave chase to some Scouts over to the west,’ said Elodan. 
‘Perhaps you should find her.’ 

Manannan nodded. He rode for some minutes, alert for any stragglers 
who might still be hiding in the undergrowth. Then he heard a 
terrifying scream and drew his blade. The stallion baulked at entering 
the glade from which the noise had come, but he patted its neck and 
spoke soothingly to it. The horse walked on for several steps, then 
stopped again. Manannan dismounted and tethered the beast. He 
pushed aside the undergrowth and saw Morrigan crouching over a 
struggling man; her teeth were fixed into his throat and as Manannan 
watched the body began to shrivel. 

The Once-Knight looked on, horror-struck, while Morrigan rose and 
wiped the blood from her mouth. She turned slowly. 

‘Manannan!’ 

‘Take off that armour,’ he hissed. ‘Now!’ 


‘Wait!’ she pleaded. ‘Let me explain.’ 

‘What I saw explained everything. Take off the armour, Morrigan — or 
I’ll kill you where you stand.’ 

‘You think you could?’ she spat. ‘I have the strength of the Vyre.’ 

‘I know I could -and so do you. Take off that armour. Now. You 
disgrace everything it stands for.’ 

For a moment he thought she would attack him, but then she dropped 
her sword and began to unbuckle the silver breastplate. He waited in 
silence until she stood before him in a simple blue tunic and grey 
leggings. ‘What now?’ she asked. 

‘Now you go from here. You leave the forest. If ever I see you again, 
you will die. Get out of my sight.’ 

‘It is not my fault!’ she shouted. ‘I did not choose to be the way I am.’ 
He did not reply; she moved closer. ‘Manannan, don’t send me away.’ 

‘If you are still here in one minute, I shall cut your disgusting head 
from your shoulders. GET AWAY!’ he screamed. She recoiled from his 
fury and ran from the glade as Manannan slumped to the grass, his 
hands shaking. He was still there when Elodan found him. 

The Once-Knight outlined what he had seen and Elodan sighed. ‘In one 
way she was right, Manannan. She did not choose to be a Vampyre; it 
was forced on her. But she had to go. Will you remove my helm?’ 
Manannan placed his hands on the helmet and twisted it loose of the 
neck-ring, lifting it clear. ‘Thank you, my friend. I feel more useless 
than ever in armour. You know, left to myself I would not be able to 
remove my breastplate.’ 

‘You are beginning to fight well,’ Manannan told him. ‘That is a boon.’ 

Elodan lifted his left hand and stared at it. ‘It is beginning to obey me, 
but I would not like to meet anyone skilled.’ The Lord Knight glanced 
at Morrigan’s armour. ‘I suppose we should select another Knight?’ 

Manannan shook his head. He strode to where the breastplate lay and 
lifted it, carrying it back to Elodan. On the outside the plate shone like 
polished silver, but inside it was rusted through. Manannan tensed his 
muscles and gripped the edges hard; the breastplate snapped and fell 
apart in his hands. 

He hurled it aside. ‘The armour reflects the wearer,’ he said. 

‘Then why was she chosen at all?’ Elodan asked. 

Manannan shrugged. ‘I do not know. But we have lost Groundsel, and 
now Morrigan. Who is next, I wonder?’ 


‘Nuada is also dead,’ said Elodan. ‘Lamfhada came to me in a dream 
last night. The poet was nailed to a tree; he gave his life to save a 
village.’ 

Manannan said nothing, pushing himself wearily to his feet. ‘Come,’ he 
said. ‘The day is not yet over.’ He lifted Elodan’s helm and prepared to 
place it on the Lord Knight. Elodan’s eyes were sorrowful as he spoke. 

‘It must hurt you, Manannan, to see the men who have become 
Knights of the Gabala: a cripple who cannot dress himself, a thief, a 
cook, a blacksmith, and a Nomad tribesman who wouldn’t understand 
the concept of chivalry if it bit him.’ 

‘You have no idea, Elodan, how proud I am. No idea.’ 

The King hurled the jewel-encrusted goblet at the general, who knew 
better than to duck. The missile took him high in the forehead, gashing 
the skin, but he remained at attention as a trickle of blood moved 
down his cheek. 

‘You imbecile!’ stormed the King. ‘You incompetent! My troops will 
starve if it’s left to you to supply them. How many convoys have got 
through to us in the last six days? How many?’ 

‘One, sire,’ answered the man. 

‘One. You have been given five hundred Lancers; you have scoured 
the countryside. And what have you achieved? What?’ 

‘Nothing, sire. We captured one of their scouts who told us the Duke of 
Mactha was leading the force. Under torture he gave us their hiding 
place. But when we got there, the Duke was gone.’ 

‘Who?’ hissed the King. ‘Who had gone?’ 

‘The Du . . . the traitor Roem, sire.’ 

‘Get out of my sight - and report to Kar-schen. You are no longer a 
general; you will take command of the next Turma into the forest.’ 

‘Yes. sire. Thank you, sire,’ said the man, bowing and backing away 
through the tent entrance as the King swung to Samildanach, who was 
standing beside the throne. 

‘How do you read our situation, Lord Knight?’ 

‘The former Duke is a worthy adversary. His raids are lightning-swift 
and well planned. He has burned over a dozen convoys for the loss of 
maybe six men. He knows the land. Far more worrying is the news of 
unrest in Furbolg.’ 

‘Unrest? A few riots. My troops have seen to them,’ said the King. 


‘Even so, sire, the main army is with us here. Should there be a revolt. 
. .’ 

‘A revolt? Why should there be? I am well-loved. Is that not so, 
Okessa?’ 

The new Duke of Mactha bowed his bald head. ‘Indeed it is, sire. But 
the Lord Knight is right to be concerned - there will always be 
elements inspired by envy or greed.’ 

‘What do you suggest, Samildanach?’ 

‘I think you should return to Furbolg, sire — with a thousand Lancers. 
That should put paid to any problems.’ 

‘But I want to see Llaw Gyffes and his rebels punished.’ 

‘You will, sire. Despite their spirited defence, it is now obvious that 
they lack the numbers to halt a fierce and sudden invasion. In two 
days the Lancers will advance on the left and right, two miles apart, 
and converge on the centre. At the same time I will lead the main 
body of the army into the forest here. The enemy will be forced to fall 
back.’ 

‘Then I will stay to see it,’ stated the King. 

‘Sire,’ continued Samildanach, ‘that is only the first move. They will 
not stand to be destroyed at a single blow. The rebellion will be 
crushed, but it will take weeks to hunt them all down - and I fear the 
continuous pursuit through the forest would bore you to tears.’ 

‘Very well, Samildanach, I will heed your advice. But Llaw Gyffes is not 
to be killed; he must be brought, with the other traitor Knights, to 
Furbolg for trial and execution.’ 

‘It will be done, sire.’ 

‘And what plans have you for the traitor, Roem?’ 

‘We are sending one convoy from Mactha — but this time, as well as 
the escort, there will be Lancers a mile distant to the south, west, east 
and north. He will not escape. I myself will be riding with the convoy.’ 

‘Send me his head. I shall have it placed on a lance over the main 
gates of the city.’ 

‘Indeed I shall, sire.’ 

Soldiers ringed the former Duke as he stood, holding his sword 
double-handed and keeping them at bay. A warrior ran in, but the 
Duke swept aside his thrust and slashed his own blade down through 
the man’s neck. A half-mile to the west, the smoke from the burning 
convoy was rising like a giant cobra. Roem grinned. Around him lay 


the remains of his force; they had fought well, but had been 
outnumbered and overpowered. Only Roem, in his silver armour, had 
been able to withstand the many blows. 

‘Come then, my heroes,’ invited Roem. ‘Who is next for the swan’s 
path to glory?’ 

‘I fear you are,’ said Samildanach, moving inside the circle. ‘Do you 
wish to surrender?’ 

‘Dojyou?’ asked Roem. 

‘I think not. The King has asked me to send him your head and I 
promised I would. I am a man who likes to keep his promises.’ 

‘Truly? Did you not once promise to aid the poor and the 
dispossessed?’ 

‘Enough talk, Roem. Defend yourself!’ 

The Duke of Mactha was a fine swordsman, but never had he faced a 
warrior more skilled than Samildanach. With increasing desperation he 
fought off the Red Knight’s frenzied attacks, but as he grew weaker he 
could sense his opponent growing ever more strong. The dark blade 
hissed and cut faster and faster. Roem tried to attack, but his blows 
seemed clumsy and without style against the master he faced. His 
shoulder-plate was hacked away by a mighty blow, exposing the 
collar-bone; then his helm was struck, the sword ricocheting to slice 
open the skin of his shoulder. A second blow loosened the helm and 
Roem backed away. Samildanach did not follow. 

‘Do remove it if it troubles you,’ Samildanach invited him. 

Roem plunged his sword into the grass and lifted his damaged helm 
clear. 

‘You are a remarkable fighter, Samildanach,’ he said. ‘I only ever saw 
one man better.’ 

Samildanach chuckled. ‘If you fought a better man than I, Roem, why 
are you still here?’ 

‘I only practised with him. He will kill you, Samildanach.’ 

‘And the name of this paragon?’ 

‘Manannan.’ 

The smile left Samildanach’s face. ‘The day has not dawned when 
Manannan could best me -and I am stronger and faster now than ever 
before. I think you seek to unsettle me, Roem. Is that not so?’ 

‘You see through me so easily,’ answered Roem with a smile. ‘But I 


wish I could be there when he forces you to kiss the grass at his feet.’ 

‘But you won’t!’ hissed Samildanach, leaping forward. Roem’s sword 
came up - but too slowly . . . the dark blade swept through his neck 
and his head toppled to the ground. 

Samildanach sheathed his sword and turned his back on the corpse. 

‘See that the head is sent to the King,’ he ordered. ‘Today. He should 
be halfway to Mactha by now.’ 

For five days a thunderstorm swept across the forest, swelling rivers 
and streams, making paths and trails treacherous, hills impossible to 
climb. The fighting became sporadic and the army of the King was 
forced to halt its advance on both wings. At the centre, under 
Samildanach and Okessa, the infantry pushed forward slowly. 

On the sixth day the sky cleared, the sun blazing down upon the sea of 
mud that was to be the battleground. 

Samildanach decided to wait one more day for the ground to become 
more firm, and rode for Mactha to report to the King. 

In the hills Elodan and Manannan redirected their forces to the east 
and west, where the advancing wings were meeting little resistance. 
Lamfhada arrived at the camp at noon. 

‘They have two thousand men on each side of us,’ he told Manannan. 
‘If we stay here, we will be trapped; the horns will close in, drawing us 
on to the foot soldiers. We must retreat.’ 

‘I agree,’ said Elodan. ‘We cannot allow them to force us into a pitched 
battle; their numbers would swamp us.’ 

‘I can see that,’ said Manannan, ‘but I don’t like the feel of retreating and 
I am not speaking of pride. Most of the men are here as a matter 
of choice. If they think we are losing, they will run for their homes. 
Every step we march back will see our army shrink.’ 

‘There’s truth in that,’ agreed Errin, moving with Ubadai to join them. 
‘We’ve already lost some of the warriors from Bucklar’s force. Twenty 
men headed home last night as the rain ceased.’ 

Elodan shook his head. ‘You are saying we cannot retreat, yet 
Lamfhada tells us we are soon to be surrounded and overwhelmed. 
That does not leave us many choices. We cannot attack. We have not 
the discipline, or the lines of command. We can only fight as we are. 
Any suggestion would be appreciated, Manannan.’ 

Manannan nodded. ‘I think a small victory would serve us well at this 
stage. May I suggest we shift our position and hit their left wing? While 
the mud is still deep, their horses will be restricted and it should give 


our infantry a sound advantage. But there is a danger. It will leave 
their foot-soldiers with no opposition and they could march into the 
forest and sack all the settlements between here and the mountains.’ 

‘True,’ said Elodan. ‘And the men will desert in their hundreds - they 
will have to, in order to save their families.’ 

‘The enemy is short of food,’ Errin put in. ‘They cannot march too far, 
for they will need supplies. They cannot live off the land as we do. We 
have scattered the herds, driving them north, and there are no crops 
as yet.’ 

‘Food will no longer be so great a problem for them,’ said Lamfhada 
softly. ‘The Duke of Mactha has been slain by Samildanach, and all the 
men with him are lost to us.’ 

Errin cursed. The others said nothing. Finally Manannan spoke. ‘I do 
not think they will attack in force today; they will wait for the mud to 
dry out. It seems to me we have only one choice: we must attack 
them. Hit their camp. But it is a risky venture, my friends, and our 
losses will be high.’ 

‘I am not a military man, Manannan,’ said Errin, ‘but I have an idea — 
it is probably foolish.’ 

‘Speak, Errin,’ Manannan invited. 

They listened in silence as Errin outlined his thoughts. Ubadai, who 
had been quiet throughout, stood and walked away. 

Towards dusk Okessa left his tent, lifting his long purple robes to 
prevent them from scraping the mud, and walked out to the hill at the 
centre of the camp. From here he could see the neat lines of tents and 
the regularly spaced cook-fires, the long trestle-tables where the men 
gathered to collect their meagre rations, the picket lines set at rightangles 
to the tents and the latrine ditches dug downwind of the camp. 
Tomorrow would see the end of the rebels and the beginning of 
Okessa’s dream. Already he was the Duke of Mactha, and he had the 
ear of the King. Soon the army of the Gabala would march into 
neighbouring lands, sweeping out to the sea - and the riches of 
Cithaeron. Okessa longed for the day when the King would make him 
Satrap of a foreign realm - almost a king in his own right. His two 
acolytes joined him on the hilltop, leading a white goat. They lifted it 
to the crude altar and Okessa slit its throat, then he disembowelled it 
and tore the liver from its innards. Dropping the carcass, he carried 
the liver to where an acolyte held a burning torch. But the organ was 
diseased and covered with black spots. Okessa swallowed hard and 
swung on the acolyte. ‘Fetch another goat,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now.’ 


The man nodded, handed the torch to his master and ran down the 
hill, slithering in the mud. 

‘How are the King’s fortunes, my Lord?’ asked the second acolyte, 
approaching his master. Okessa’s pale eyes fixed on the man. 

‘I did not sacrifice the goat for the King,’ lied Okessa, ‘but for the 
enemy.’ He showed the man the bloody liver and the acolyte grinned. 

‘Tomorrow should be a fine day, sir.’ 

‘Yes,’ Okessa agreed. Dropping the liver to the ground, he wandered to 
the brow of the hill. Below, the soldiers were gathering in rings around 
the camp-fires. From the west came a troop of Lancers riding slowly, 
almost wearily. ‘Go down to that officer,’ called Okessa. ‘Tell him to 
report directly to me.’ The acolyte bowed and made his way down the 
hill towards the approaching riders. 

The troop rode into the camp. Some of the men dismounted and 
gathered torches; others moved on towards the picket lines where 
more than five hundred horses were tethered. Okessa watched in 
astonishment as three riders drew their swords and cut down the 
picket sentries. Fires leapt from several tents to the west, the wind 
fanning the flames. Suddenly the camp was in an uproar as men 
surged from the cook-fires, running to their tents to rescue their 
possessions. The westerly breeze caught the flames, lifting them from 
tent to tent. A shout went up from the east and Okessa swung to see 
the horses thundering towards the forest, being chased by a dozen 
riders - no, not chased, herded! At the centre of the camp all was 
chaos. Okessa could see swords flickering in the firelight and men 
falling. 

Then he saw the troop thundering from the camp. His own tent caught 
fire and he began to run down the hill, but his foot slipped in the mud 
and he tumbled headlong, spinning and sliding until he came to rest at 
the foot of the rise. His robes were ruined. Cursing loudly, he got to 
his feet and strode into the camp to see his tent was blazing, his books 
and scrolls destroyed. 

An officer ran by and Okessa grabbed his arm, but the man tore 
himself free and continued on his way. Thick smoke curled around him 
and tears started from his eyes as he coughed and spluttered, backing 
away from the inferno. To the east men were tearing down their tents 
in an attempt to halt the advance of the blaze. Just as it seemed they 
were winning, a tremendous crack of thunder rolled across the 
heavens and the rain lashed down, dousing cook-fires and torches. 
The flaming tents hissed and spat, but could not compete with the 
torrent; within minutes the entire camp was plunged into darkness. 


Okessa’s fury rose, but there was no one to vent it upon. The storm 
lasted for more than two hours. When at last the moon broke clear of 
the retreating clouds Okessa, drenched and filthy, located the general, 
Kar-schen. He ordered the night sentries to be put to death and the 
captain of the watch flogged. 

He watched the executions at dawn, but they did not lift his spirits. 

How could they? 

He had seen the King’s future. 

* 

In Mactha, King Ahak was in a better mood. The upper rooms were 
warm, the food plentiful and the evening promised heady pleasures. 
He did not need Nourishment, but what had need to do with joy? To 
take a woman, use her in the way the Gods intended, fill her with new 
life and then draw her life from her, filling himself. Never had he 
believed such joy possible. 

He remembered the day Samildanach came to him, with the gift of 
Ambria. That had been incredible. But the first time he had sucked the 
life from another living being . . . that was indescribable. Now he had 
it all. Immortality. Power. The King for Ever. Everlasting. He savoured 
the feel of the words on his tongue. 

Strolling to the window, he stared down into the courtyard. Where in 
Hell’s name was his manservant? He should have found a girl by now. 

He poured himself a goblet of strong wine and drained it. There was a 
time when wine had seemed like the nectar of the Gods. But that had 
been before Ambria, before the pleasures of the Vyre. Now it served 
only to whet his appetites. 

A light, tapping sound came from the door. ‘Enter!’ called the King. 

The door opened and his manservant, Mahan, stepped inside and 
bowed. ‘My Lord, if it please you, there is a woman from the village 
who wishes to enjoy the pleasure of your company.’ 

‘Bring her in,’ said Ahak, sweeping his purple cloak over his shoulder 
and drawing himself up to his full height. 

Mahan stepped aside and ushered in the woman. She was tall and 
slender, yet full-breasted, her hips delightfully curved. As Ahak moved 
forward and took her hand, she averted her eyes from his gaze, 
looking down towards the floor. 

‘Do not be shy, my dear,’ said Ahak. ‘I find it a delight to meet my 
subjects and listen to their cares and worries. It aids me in this lonely 
role.’ He lifted her chin and was rewarded by a soft smile. Dismissing 


Mahan, he led the woman to the window. ‘Will you join me in a drink?’ 

‘If it please you, my Lord.’ Her voice was soft and mellow and fired his 
passions but he fought them down, savouring the moment. Reaching 
out, he took her hand, lifting it to his lips. He pulled her close to him, 
his right arm circling her waist. 

‘Would you do anything for your King?’ he whispered. 

‘Yes, my Lord.’ 

He released her hand and ran his fingers down her body, squeezing 
her breasts, stroking her belly. ‘You know what I desire?’ 

‘Yes, Lord,’ she said, loosening the ties on her dress. When he pushed 
it back from her shoulders, it fell to the floor and she stepped from it. 
He led her to the bed, unfastened his cloak and removed his clothing. 

For a moment he stared at her. 

‘You have no idea of the pleasures in store,’ he said, sliding alongside 
her. 

‘I think I have, my Lord,’ replied Morrigan. 

Samildanach dismounted and led his stallion to the stable. Then he 
mounted the steps and pushed open the main doors to the hall. Mahan 
moved to get him. 

‘Where is the King?’ asked the Red Knight. 

‘He is in the Duke’s upper bedchamber, Lord. He has a woman with 
him.’ 

‘I will wait,’ said Samildanach. ‘Bring me some wine.’ 

‘Yes, Lord. It may take longer than normal; the woman is exquisitely 
beautiful.’ Mahan grinned. 

‘Exquisite? Here in Mactha? That is a surprise.’ 

‘Yes, Lord. I think the King’s luck has scarcely been better. I found her 
waiting outside the castle; she was just sitting by the roadside.’ 

‘Describe her,’ said Samildanach. ‘Tall, with the most beautiful golden 
hair. She is young and yet it is already streaked with silver . . .’ 

‘Dear Gods!’ shouted Samildanach and drawing his sword he raced for 
the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the upper corridor 
and ran to the bedchamber, but the door was locked. Leaning back, he 
crashed his foot against the brass key-plate and the door burst open. 
Samildanach leapt inside . . . 

The King’s hideously withered corpse lay on the bed. Morrigan was 
sitting naked on the floor, blood pooling at her feet from the deep 


slashes in her wrists. 


Samildanach dropped his sword and walked over to her. ‘Why?’ he 
whispered. 
Her eyes struggled to focus. ‘Why? Can you not see what... we have 


become? Oh, Samildanach! We are corrupting everything we ... touch.’ 
She sagged sideways and he caught her, drawing her to him. Her head 
fell to his shoulder. ‘I loved you,’ she said, ‘more than life. And now ... 
I don’t even know what it means.’ 


‘Don’t talk. Let me bind your wrists; we can save your life.’ 


‘There is nothing to save. I died back in the City of the Vyre when I 
became one of the Undead -just like you, my love.’ 
‘You don’t understand. We will build a new Gabala . . . New . . .’ 
‘Do you remember loving me?’ 
‘I remember,’ he said. 
‘Not in the Vyre -but before. In the garden on the night you left. You 


remember?’ 
‘Yes. It was another age.’ 
‘What happened to that glorious young Knight?’ 
‘He is still here, Morrigan. He... Morrigan? Morrigan!’ He laid her gently 


to the floor and closed her eyes. 



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE 

It was two full days before the King’s army was ready to march, the 
infantry pushing ahead down the long valley in phalanx formation with 
shields locked in four great squares. 

Manannan, Elodan and the other Knights sat their mounts to the north 
of the advancing army, and the mood was sombre. Llaw had sent 
scouts east and west to gauge the strength of the enemy cavalry and 
the first report had been swift. Nearly two thousand riders were 
pushing in from the west. From the east, there was no word. 

‘We must pull back,’ said Manannan. ‘We do not have the numbers to 
break those squares.’ 

Reluctantly Llaw agreed. 

A forester ran from the trees, his face red, his eyes bright with 
excitement. 

‘Llaw! Llaw!’ he shouted. ‘The Lancers have been crushed!’ 

‘What? What’s that you say?’ 

‘There are five thousand rebels, led by a man named Ramath. They 
smashed the Lancers; they are on their way here now.’ 

‘Ramath? I’ve never heard of him.’ 

‘The whole forest north of us is ablaze with news of a miracle something 
about Nuada and the Tree of Life. I don’t understand all of 
it - but they’re here!’ 

‘Where?’ asked Manannan and the man turned and gestured to the 
eastern hills where armed men poured out from the trees, racing down 
the slopes towards the enemy. 

‘Damn!’ shouted Elodan. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces!’ 

‘Sound the advance!’ ordered Llaw. ‘We’ll hit them from all sides.’ 

‘If they hold formation, they will turn us back like water from a dam,’ 
said Manannan. 

‘Then pray they don’t,’ Llaw told him. ‘Forward!’ He spurred his stallion 
into a run, the other Knights following, and behind them some eighty 
riders in stolen armour. 

At the centre of the first square, Okessa saw the attackers and 
blanched; there were thousands of them. ‘Back! Back!’ he screamed 
and the marching square faltered. They could hear the panic in the 
Duke’s voice and this, coupled with the wild screams of the charging 


horde, caused them to break and stream back down the valley. Two 
other squares sundered themselves but the third, under the general 
Kar-schen, held firm. 

Okessa spurred his mount towards the safety of the plain, 
outdistancing the running soldiers. He was almost clear when a slender 
figure loped down the hill and drew back on a bow. The arrow took his 
horse in the chest and the beast stumbled, hurling him over its head. 
He hit the ground hard, rolled and came to his knees to see that his 
attacker was a woman. He fumbled at his belt. ‘I have money here,’ he 
said. ‘Take it all.’ 

‘You killed my sister,’ said Sheera, notching another arrow. Okessa 
rose and began to run back the way he had come . . . the arrow took 
him to the left of his spine, cleaving through to his heart. 

Sheera turned and ran back up the hill, but none of the soldiers gave 
chase - they were too intent on escape. Kar-schen saved the day for 
the King’s army, fighting a steady retreat back down the valley. 
Hundreds of panicking soldiers, looking back, saw the general’s 
courageous rearguard and, finding their courage once more, joined 
him. The army suffered fearful losses, but was still intact when dusk 
gave way to darkness. 

Samildanach and the Red Knights arrived near midnight and Kar-schen 
gave his report. 

‘There was little I could do,’ said the burly, ageing general. ‘The Duke 
panicked and the men fled with him. But we still have an army -and 
we have been joined by two thousand Lancers. If we go in tomorrow, I 
believe we will rout them.’ 

‘I do not believe that will be necessary,’ Samildanach told him. ‘You 
did well, general; very well. I will see that the King rewards you.’ 

‘His Majesty is well?’ 

‘Yes, he is resting in Mactha.’ 

At dawn Samildanach rode into the valley, halted his horse and 
planted a white banner in the earth. Then he waited. It was more than 
an hour before a Knight in silver armour cantered down to him. 

‘Welcome, Manannan. How are you faring?’ 

‘I do not wish to engage in idle conversation with you, demon. State 
your business.’ 

‘Once we were friends,’ said Samildanach. 

‘That was another man. Speak, or I ride back.’ 


‘Very well. I have an offer for you. Tomorrow we can push back into 
the valley and engage our forces once more. Hundreds of lives will be 
lost - perhaps thousands. Why do we not settle this like Knights? In 
single combat?’ 

‘What do we fight for?’ asked Manannan. ‘What do you offer?’ 

‘If you win, the King’s army will return to Furbolg and the Forest of the 
Ocean will be safe. If I win, you disband your force and surrender Llaw 
Gyffes.’ 

‘No,’ said Manannan. ‘If we are to talk of surrender, then you can give 
us Ahak.’ 

‘Very well. No surrenders -merely disband your force.’ 

‘And how do I know that you will keep your part of the bargain?’ 

‘I give you my word as a Knight,’ said Samildanach, fighting to control 
his anger. 

‘Once I would have walked into Hell on such a promise. But not now, 
Samildanach. Your word is worth less than pig-droppings. No. I think 
we will chance the battle.’ 

‘You then are the Lord Knight, Manannan? Or are you the Armourer? 
Strange - I heard it was the cripple, Elodan, and the boy, Lamfhada. 
Run to them and tell them of my offer. See what they have to say.’ 

Now it was Manannan’s turn to feel the cold bite of anger in his soul 
and he took a deep, slow breath. ‘You are right, of course. I shall do 
this. And if your challenge is accepted I will meet you here at dawn. 
Believe me, Samildanach, I will defeat you. I promise you that.’ 

‘Enough of your empty threats. Carry my message to your masters. I 
will wait here for their answer.’ 

Manannan rode back to where the other Knights waited with 
Lamfhada, seated around a breakfast fire. Ramath, Bucklar and the 
other leaders stood close by. Manannan outlined Samildanach’s offer 
and immediately stressed that he was against it. 

Lamfhada stood. ‘We must not dismiss it lightly. It could save - as 
Samildanach says - many hundreds of lives. Can you beat him, 
Manannan?’ 

‘Yes, I believe that I can. But I cannot be sure.’ 

‘There is another point to be considered,’ put in Elodan. ‘If he loses 
and breaks his word, it will only strengthen our cause. If he wins, we 
can disband - and perhaps re-form at a later time.’ 

‘I think you are overlooking something of importance here,’ said Errin 


softly. ‘We are the Knights of the Gabala. We cannot refuse such a 
challenge and maintain any pretence to our title. Samildanach knows 
this. If we refuse we will be condemned as imposters, and then 
Nuada’s death, and the deaths of the others, will count for nothing. 
Whatever the risk, we must accept and trust in Manannan’s skill.’ 

Elodan nodded in agreement. ‘Thank you, Errin. You are correct, of 
course. It matters not whether Samildanach is sincere. I doubt that he 
is, but he must be fought. Lamfhada, you agree?’ 

‘Yes. Ride back to him, Manannan. Tell him that the combat will be 
fought tomorrow.’ 

Manannan sighed and shook his head. ‘As you say,’ he said. He 
mounted his stallion and returned to the valley and Samildanach. 

‘Tomorrow, two hours after dawn,’ stated the Once-Knight. 

‘Then the challenge is accepted?’ 

‘Yes. I will be here.’ 

‘You, Manannan?’ said Samildanach, smiling broadly. ‘But that is not 
how it will be done. I will follow Gabala rules. I am the Lord Knight of 
the Crimson therefore naturally I will fight the Lord Knight of the 
Gabala.’ 

‘What trickery is this?’ stormed Manannan. ‘Elodan is crippled - as well 
you know.’ 

‘It is not for me to criticize your choice of leader. But you know the 
Rule of the Sword: my challenge must be answered by my equal. 
Naturally, if you now wish to ask me to withdraw my challenge, I will 
consider your request.’ 

‘And then deny it?’ 

‘Of course. I challenged; it was accepted. It would be base of you to 
withdraw now.’ 

‘How can one such as you use the word base? You are a creature of 
the dark, a servant of demons. You have turned your back on all that 
is holy and decent.’ 

‘Do not preach, Manannan. Return to your . . . home in the mud, and 
tell Elodan I will meet him here two hours after dawn.’ 

* 

Lamfhada sat apart from the Knights, watching the stars and feeling 
the breath of the night wind. Below him in a sheltered glade Elodan 
was preparing for the morning’s battle; he also sat alone, kneeling in 
prayer. Lamfhada’s heart was heavy and his thoughts filled with 


foreboding. They had been tricked and now must suffer the 
consequences. Elodan had taken the news well; he had stood and 
halted Manannan’s angry outburst with a raised hand. 

‘Enough, Manannan, my friend. It does not become a Knight to give 
vent to such public rage. Samildanach is entirely correct; and I will be 
there to meet him.’ 

Lamfhada heard the rustle of bats’ wings and watched them circling in 
the night sky, seeking insects. He shivered and drew his cloak more 
closely about him. In the previous autumn he had been a slave, 
desperate to make a bird of metal fly. Now he was the Armourer and 
the Dagda, the Guardian of the Colours. It was all too much, and 
tonight he felt his youth keenly. 

A shimmering glow began to appear ahead of him, and a shining figure 
emerged to stand before him. Lamfhada stood and watched as the 
vision became solid, not knowing whether to speak or to run. As the 
face materialized, Lamfhada cowered back; he tried to escape, but a 
powerful hand grabbed his arm. 

‘Do not run from me, child,’ said Samildanach. ‘I wish only to speak 
with you.’ 

‘What do you want?’ 

‘When I almost trapped you, and my hands closed about you, I saw 
many things. I saw a dying stag made whole — and young. That is 
power of the greatest kind. Have you considered all its uses?’ 

‘I will not use that power for you, dark one.’ 

‘Not for me, fool! For him!’ said Samildanach, pointing to where Elodan 
knelt in the glade below. ‘Think on it.’ 

He stepped back - and disappeared. 

For a long time Lamfhada sat and puzzled over the Red Knight’s 
words. Why would he seek to aid Elodan? What could he gain? 
Lamfhada closed his eyes and sought the Colours, rising swiftly to the 
Gold, floating above the forest and then dropping to hover behind the 
kneeling Knight. He lifted his hands, willing them to burn with all the 
power of the Gold, then thrust them into Elodan’s back. The Knight 
stiffened and groaned. Lamfhada could feel the heat in his hands 
spreading through the other’s body. Suddenly Elodan arched back, his 
right arm rising; he began to tear at the leather pad covering his 
stump, ripping it from his arm. The skin of the stump was pink and 
bruised, and it writhed and rippled. Elodan screamed and fainted, 
toppling sideways to the earth. Still Lamfhada poured his energy into 
the Knight and the stump swelled like a ball, flattening into a palm 


from which the beginning of new joints sprouted, stretching into 
fingers. At last Lamfhada drew back and Elodan stirred and pushed 
himself to his knees. He stared down at his new right hand, tentatively 
touching it with the fingers of his left. 

‘It is a dream,’ he whispered. ‘Dear Gods of Heaven, it is just a 
dream!’ 

Lamfhada returned to his body and rose wearily as the dawn was 
breaking over the mountains. He walked down to Elodan and found the 
Knight on his knees, weeping piteously. 

Lamfhada sought out Gwydion in the hospital area behind the lines. 
Finding the old man resting on a hillside beneath the stars, he sat with 
him and outlined all that had happened since the appearance of the 
enemy Knight, Samildanach. Gwydion placed his hand on the youth’s 
shoulder. ‘And this deed surprised you?’ he asked. 

‘Of course. The man is evil.’ 

‘Yes,’ Gwydion agreed, ‘he is evil. And what does that tell you?’ 

‘I don’t know, Gwydion. That is why I came to you. Is there some 
deep, cunning plan behind his action? Did I do wrong to follow his 
bidding and restore Elodan’s hand?’ 

The old man sat in silence for a moment, staring at a distant star. He 
stroked his white beard and then pointed to a wolf, silhouetted by 
moonlight on a distant hill. ‘Is he evil?’ he asked. 

‘The wolf? No. He is an animal, he kills to live.’ 

‘And what makes a man evil?’ 

‘His deeds judge him,’ answered Lamfhada. ‘Cruelty, lust, greed — all 
these things signal what is in a man’s heart. Samildanach is a killer 
and a drinker of souls. His deeds show him to be vile.’ 

‘All this is true,’ agreed Gwydion. ‘And are you evil?’ 

‘I do not think so. I seek only to defend against them.’ 

‘But are you capable of evil deeds? Did you not once say - when Ruad 
was slain — that you wished you could wield a sword so that you could 
kill every King’s man?’ 

‘All men are capable of evil, Gwydion. We all have desires we must 
resist.’ 

‘And that is the point, my boy,’ explained Gwydion. ‘I spoke to 
Manannan about his journey to the Vyre; he was given a drink they 
called Ambria. Even in the few days he was among them, the drink 
had its effect. It erodes and destroys a man’s perception of right and 


wrong. As far as I can understand, it promotes the sense of Self. What 
is enjoyable becomes what is right, what is desired becomes what is 
needed. Can you understand that? It almost happened to Manannan and 
he could not see it until Morrigan saved him. But make no 
mistake, Lamfhada, had Morrigan not warned him he would now be 
riding with Samildanach.’ 

‘What are you saying? That Samildanach is not evil?’ 

‘Of course I am not. By our perceptions - and those of all civilized men 

-he is a demon. But by his own perceptions, he is still Samildanach, 
Lord Knight of the Gabala, acting in what he sees as the best interests 
of the Realm. He is still a Knight; he will still retain something of his 
past.’ 
‘Then there is still some good in him, you think?’ 

‘Think of Groundsel: a killer, a rapist, a thief. Yet there was some good 
in him and Nuada found it. No man is entirely good - or bad. 
Ultimately most men act out of self-interest - and that is the breeding 
ground for all that is iniquitous. But most of us - happily -have an 
ability to judge ourselves and our deeds. We have a moral sense which 
stands like a wall between us and what is unjust. To commit an evil 
deed we have to climb that wall, knowingly. But for Samildanach and 
the others, the Ambria destroyed the wall, obliterating all knowledge 
of it. They are as much victims of the evil as we are.’ 

Lamfhada fell silent. A chill breeze blew across the hillside and he 
shivered. Finally he spoke. ‘But if Samildanach believes that all he 
desires is good for the Realm, how could he help Elodan, whom he 
must see as a traitor?’ 

‘I cannot answer that, Lamfhada, save with a hope. Samildanach was 
the finest of men - just and righteous, noble of spirit and bearing. In 
any age he would have been numbered among the greatest of knights. 
I do not believe even the dark power of the Ambria could completely 
destroy such a man. Aiding Elodan was a fine deed. I hope it means 
that, deep within himself, Samildanach is searching for the wall -
struggling to rebuild it.’ 

‘Then perhaps he will not fight against Elodan?’ 

‘He will fight,’ said Gwydion sadly. ‘With all the strength and skill he 
can muster.’ 

‘And Elodan will die,’ Lamftiada said. 

‘Did you not tell me you had seen the future Lamfhada? Surely you 
already know the outcome?’ 


‘If only it were as simple as that, Gwydion. When I fly the Gold, I see 
so many possible futures, like ripples in a rushing river. But which will 
it be?’ 

‘Have you seen any in which Elodan conquers?’ 

‘No, but then I saw none in which I gave him back his hand.’ 

‘And now you do not wish to fly the Gold?’ 

‘No. I cannot. . . will not. I will watch tomorrow-’ 

‘Today,’ said Gwydion, pointing at the red streaks of dawn beyond the 
mountains. 

Samildanach waited as the other Knights of the Crimson entered the 
tent. Edrin, Cantaray, Joanin, Keristae and Bodarch all seated 
themselves in a circle around him. 

‘There is a girl being brought to you, Samildanach,’ said Keristae. ‘She 
is young and full of life.’ 

‘And shall remain so,’ declared the Lord Knight. ‘I have no need of 
Nourishment.’ 

‘With respect, Lord,’ said Edrin, ‘I think you are wrong.’ 

‘You think I need aid to kill a cripple?’ 

‘It is not that, Samildanach. It is just. . . you are behaving strangely. 
Indeed, there are similarities between your actions and those of our 
brother Cairbre. We fear for you.’ 

‘I will have you all with me,’ said Samildanach. ‘I will carry the 
strength of your souls.’ 

Joanin leaned forward. ‘Is all well with you? You have not seemed ... 
at ease since you returned from the King?’ 

‘At ease? No. You are correct, Joanin. I think we all need to return to 
the Vyre. As soon as Elodan is dead and the rebels routed, we will go 
home. Now, I have need of your strength for the combat ahead.’ 

The Knights bowed their heads and Samildanach felt their souls 
flowing into his body. A long time ago the transfusion would have filled 
him with many emotions — now he felt only the rawness of power. 
Rising, he moved to the tent entrance. The sun was rising. He looked 
back at the silent, still figures; their lives depended now on his skill. 

Across the valley Elodan sat with Llaw, Errin, Ubadai and Manannan. 
Lamfhada moved to join them. 

‘I thank you for this miracle,’ said Elodan. ‘Even if I die today, it will be 
as a whole man.’ 


‘I am glad for you,’ said Lamfhada uneasily. ‘I hope it was the right 
deed.’ 

‘Why should it not be?’ Manannan asked. ‘It gives us hope in the battle 
with the demon.’ Lamfhada opened his mouth to speak, but the words 
would not come. 

‘Tell us, Manannan,’ said Llaw. ‘What will Samildanach be doing now?’ 

‘He will be preparing, as we are preparing -and he will enter the field 
as The One.’ Glancing at the faces around him, he saw they did not 
understand him. ‘It is a mystic ritual. All his Knights give him their 
souls, their strengths, their beliefs; the very essence of themselves. If 
he dies, they all die.’ 

‘And this makes him stronger?’ asked Llaw. 

‘Of course.’ 

‘Then should we not do the same?’ suggested Errin. 

‘You do not know how, and I do not have the years to teach you,’ 
replied Manannan. 

Lamfhada rose to his feet. ‘I can help you with that,’ he said softly. ‘I 
can join you. But the risks are very great.’ 

‘Do it,’ Manannan told him. 

‘No!’ cried Elodan. ‘It is a burden I could not bear. To risk death myself 
is one matter, but to know that all of you could die? No, I will not 
agree.’ 

‘I am not a brave man,’ said Errin, ‘but the cause is more important 
than the lives of five men. And if we can give you strength, then let us 
do it.’ 

Elodan looked from one to another. ‘Only if all are agreed,’ he said, 
switching his gaze at last to Ubadai. ‘You speak, my friend. Always you 
are silent at our meetings. And yet, when Errin led his troop into the 
enemy camp, you insisted on going with him. You never shirk danger. 
I would value your counsel.’ 

Ubadai grinned. ‘I say no, and it is no?’ 

‘Exactly,’ said Elodan. 

The Nomad turned to Errin. ‘You want this?’ 

‘I do.’ 

‘You too?’ Ubadai asked Llaw. 

The warrior shrugged. ‘I don’t know what extra strength I can supply - 
but, yes, I am willing.’ 


‘All is madness,’ said the Nomad. ‘But I am mad too. Angry mad. Let 
us kill the whoreson together.’ 

Lamfhada walked to the centre of the circle and sat down. ‘I want you 
all to join hands,’ he said, ‘then close your eyes and picture Elodan in 
your minds.’ Lamfhada’s spirit rose from his body; he covered the 
circle in a glowing sphere of Gold and moved to Manannan, then to 
Llaw and Errin, and finally to Ubadai. 

Elodan felt the influx of power from the Once-Knight in a surge of 
confidence that bordered on arrogance. The strength of a man who 
had never been bested in battle flowed through him. But he rode 
above it - for he had lost, and in that knowledge of despair lay 
strength. Llaw’s soul came next and with it the extraordinary 
endurance of the common man - born without wealth or privilege, yet 
possessing the ability to withstand the many and varied perils of this 
bloody time. Like an oak was Llaw, deep-rooted and enduring. Errin 
followed. Nobility of spirit and the courage to overcome his fears 
flowed with him. Lastly the Nomad Ubadai, fiercely loyal to the master 
he loved and ready to die to protect him. 

Elodan’s eyes opened and he gazed at Lamfhada. ‘You did well, 
Armourer,’ he said. ‘I thank you.’ The other Knights were lying back on 
the grass, scarcely breathing. 

Rising, Elodan said, ‘It is time, I think.’ 

‘The Source of All Life be with you, Elodan,’ said Lamfhada. 

Elodan strode to his stallion and mounted. He saw Samildanach 
waiting, and behind him the army of the King stretching across the 
valley. 

Touching spurs to his mount, the Lord Knight of the Gabala rode down 
the long hill. 

Samildanach watched as the Lord Knight of the Gabala cantered his 
mount towards him. He had been prepared for combat, but had not 
anticipated the tremendous shock of seeing his own armour on 
another man. Worse, he had the impression that he was watching 
himself ride out to battle. He remembered the sense of pride he had 
experienced when first he donned the silver helm. 

Images ripped through his mind: Morrigan in the garden, andj then 
dying on the floor of the King’s bedchamber; Cairbre lecturing him on 
points of duty and honour, Cairbre in the pale coffin; Manannan 
debating the chivalric code, Manannan calling him a demon. 

Somewhere deep inside him a chain snapped and he shook his head, 
fighting to force away the memories. 


Ollathair, gentle Ollathair, smiling at the success of a golden bird as it 
soared under the sun; Ollathair sagging to the ground, Samildanach’s 
knife in his belly. 

Stop it! Leave me alone! 

Elodan dismounted and walked some yards to the left, drawing his 
sword and plunging it into the earth. From the forest all around them 
came the fighting men of the rebellion. Silently they marched down to 
sit facing the army of the King. Samildanach lifted his leg over the 
pommel of his saddle and slid to the ground. Kill him, he thought. 
Return to the Vyre. There they will tend your restless spirit. 

The voice of the girl child as she was led into his chambers the first 
time he needed Nourishment came to him: ‘Please don’t hurt me! 
Please don’t hurt me. 

‘Are you ready?’ Elodan asked. 

‘Yes,’ Samildanach answered. ‘I am ready.’ Now Morrigan’s voice was 
echoing in his mind: 

‘Can you not see what. . . we have become? Oh, Samildanach! We are 
corrupting everything we . . . touch . . . I loved you more than life. 
And now ... I don’t even know what it means.’ 

‘Don’t talk. Let me bind your wrists; we can save your life.’ 

‘There is nothing to save. I died back in the City of the Vyre when I 
became one of the Undead -just like you, my love.’ 

‘What is wrong with you? Draw your sword,’ said Elodan. 

The dark blade snaked into the air and Elodan blocked, but only just in 
time, and the combat commenced. He fought for his life against the 
greatest swordsman he had ever known. Cairbre had been more than 
talented, but Samildanach’s skill was astounding. Speed, balance and 
lightning reflexes confounded all Elodan’s attempts to attack. The dark 
sword crashed against his breastplate, smashing a hinge and severing 
the brass-edged leather straps. The armour sagged. Elodan ducked 
under a sweeping blow and thundered a stroke against Samildanach’s 
shoulder that ripped loose a crimson plate. Samildanach staggered 
back. 

‘What happened to that glorious young knight?’ whispered Morrigan, 
from the caverns of his soul. 

The dark blade flashed forward, but Elodan blocked it with ease and 
sent a counter that tore through a curved hip-plate, sending it 
spinning to the grass. Samildanach returned to the attack with a 
riposte of blistering speed, his sword ripping into Elodan’s helm. Stars 


exploded before the Lord Knight’s eyes and his vision swam. He hurled 
himself back and -more by luck than skill -blocked a sweep that 
would have torn his head from his shoulders. Samildanach moved in 
for the kill - and stopped. 

‘Please don’t hurt me!’ came the child’s voice from his memory. 

‘Leave me alone!’ screamed Samildanach. 

Elodan staggered and drew a deep, shuddering breath. His vision 
cleared and he saw his opponent staring at the sky: ‘Leave me alone!’ 

‘Samildanach!’ 

The Red Knight swung. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he shouted and once more the 
battle was joined. Elodan fought off the frenzied attack, landing 
counter-blow after counterblow against the crimson armour. A great 
crack appeared down the centre of Samildanach’s breastplate and his 
visor was hacked away. Yet still he came on. A second blow loosened 
Elodan’s helm, which twisted, partially blocking his vision. Samildanach 
ran in, holding his great blade doub|f-handed; Elodan ducked sharply, 
and the hissing sword swept over his head. Off balance for the first 
time, Samildanach stumbled to the earth. Elodan swiftly dropped his 
sword and lifted clear his damaged helm. Bareheaded, he gathered his 
blade as Samildanach regained his feet. 

‘You are not me!’ screamed Samildanach. ‘You can never be me!’ 

‘I would not wish to be,’ replied Elodan, staring into the haunted eyes 
of the Red Knight. 

‘None of us is what we would wish to be,’ said Samil-danach. ‘And now 
it is time for you to die.’ His sword hissed down with tremendous force 
and Elodan dropped to his knees, sweeping his blade above his head 
to block the killer blow. The swords clanged together . . . and Elodan’s 
silver blade snapped a foot above the hilt. 

Samildanach’s sword swept up, his eyes gleaming with the joy of 
triumph. 

‘What happened to that glorious young knight?’ Samil-danach froze . . 
. and swiftly Elodan rammed the broken sword through the crack in 
the Red Knight’s breastplate, plunging it deep into his chest. Blood 
welled from the wound, spilling over Elodan’s hand. Samildanach 
staggered, but the dark blade rose again above Elodan’s unprotected 
head. 

Down it flashed — to stop an inch short of Elodan’s neck. The blade 
tapped gently on Elodan’s right shoulder, then crossed to touch lightly 
on the left. Samildanach dropped to his knees. Inside him all was 


turmoil, and he could feel the souls of his Knights struggling to be free 
of his dying body. But he held them trapped. 
Elodan moved to him. ‘Why did you let me live?’ he asked. ‘Why?’ 


‘What happened to that glorious young knight?’ 
‘I died ... a long . . . time ago,’ whispered Samildanach, falling forward 
into Elodan’s arms. The Lord Knight laid the corpse on the grass and 
rose to a roaring cheer from the rebels. 


A stout middle-aged man walked out from the King’s army. He halted 


before Elodan and bowed. 
‘My name is Kar-schen. The war is over, sir Knight. I offer myself-and 
my regiments - to your cause.’ 


‘I have no cause,’ said Elodan. ‘I am the Lord Knight of the Gabala.’ 
‘Welcome back,’ greeted Kar-schen. 



EPILOGUE 

Llaw Gyffes refused the opportunity to march on Furbolg and seize the 
crown, and Kar-schen returned to the city and the Ebony Throne. Errin 
and Ubadai surrendered their armour and rode back to Errin’s estates. 
Kar-schen gave Errin the Duchy of Mactha and the new Duke asked 
Sheera to be his Duchess. She pondered the proposal for four months, 
and they were married in the temple of Furbolg on the last day of 
autumn. 

Arian and Llaw were wed in a simple ceremony attended by Bucklar, 
Ramath and the other rebel leaders, after which they journeyed deep 
into the mountains to build a home where the air was clean, the rivers 
pure and the stars close. 

Lamfhada renounced his role as Armourer and became the Dagda, the 
Guardian of the Colours. He roamed the Forest of the Ocean as a 
Healer and a Seer, and waited ninety-four years, eleven months and 
three days to pass on the mantle to a surprised youth who did not 
want it. 

Elodan and Manannan rode through the Black Gate to aid the Nomads 
brought as victims for the Vyre. 

They did not return.