‘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.