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.’
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.’