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.’
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.’