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 . . .
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 re-established. 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.’