‘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?’