They came in a rush, seven swordsmen all wearing the livery of the Duke - a black raven, wings spread on a field of green.
‘I need you!’ bellowed Ruad. From the rear of the house came the sound of wood being splintered and three golden forms bounded into the clearing. Shaped like hounds, yet larger than lions, they ran to Ruad and stood facing the armed men — jaws gaping, steel teeth shining in the moonlight.
‘Good evening to you,’ said Ruad, standing to face the soldiers.
They stood very still, gazing at their leader, a slim young man carrying a longsword. He licked his lips nervously, tearing his eyes from the golden hounds. ‘Good evening, Craftsman. We have been sent to escort you to Mactha.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘The Lord Seer, Okessa, has ordered your presence. I do not know his reason.’
‘But he asked you to come in the dead of night? Armed and ready for war?’
‘He said you were to be brought at once, Craftsman,’ said the young man, avoiding Ruad’s gaze.
‘Return to Mactha and tell the Lord Okessa I am not subject to his bidding. Further, tell him I like not his method of invitation.’
The young man stared at the golden hounds and their slavering steel jaws. ‘You would be wise, Craftsman, to come with us. You will be declared a nothing, an outlaw.’
‘I think, boy, it is time for you to leave.’ Ruad knelt by the hounds, whispering words that the soldiers could not hear. The beasts moved forward, their eyes gleaming like red stars, and suddenly a ferocious howling came from them. As the men panicked and fled, sprinting down the hill, the golden hounds bounded after them, baying in the moonlight.
Gwydion walked from the house to stand beside the Craftsman.
‘How did they find you with such speed?’
‘I do not know; but it does not matter now. I must leave here at once.’
‘I will come with you - if you think I will not slow you down.’
Ruad grinned. ‘I would be glad of the company.’
‘Those hounds . . . they tore through the back of the house. How many of those men will get back alive?’
‘All of them. I did not order the hounds to kill. They will follow the men until they reach their horses, then they will return. Come, you can help me to gather my belongings. I wish to leave nothing behind me that can be used by the Duke or Okessa.’
Together the two men gathered the smaller artefacts in Ruad’s workshop, placing them in a large canvas bag. There were also gold and silver ingots hidden behind the chest and these Ruad loaded into two saddlebags, carrying them out on to the main porch.
The hounds returned after an hour and stood like statues under the stars.
‘Can I approach them?’ asked Gwydion.
‘Of course; they will not harm you.’
The old man knelt by the lead animal, running his fingers over the overlapping plates of the beast’s neck. ‘This is marvellous workmanship. Are the eyes rubies?’
‘Yes. You think it overly dramatic? I had thought to make them emeralds, but they are scarce.’
‘They are perfect. I take it you cast the limbs from actual bones?’
‘No, I copied a design of my father’s. Hounds were his speciality. I just made them bigger.’
Ruad carried the saddlebags from the porch, draping them across the gleaming backs of two hounds. Then he tied the canvas bag to the back of the third.
‘Wait here,’ he told Gwydion. The Craftsman returned to the house and the old Healer saw a bright flame spring up in the main room. Ruad wandered from his blazing home without a backward glance.
‘Let us go,’ he said. The hounds silently padded alongside him.
Lamfhada awoke, his eyes unfocused, his vision swimming. Lines ran above his head - dark lines, like the panelled lid of a coffin.
‘No!’ he groaned, struggling to rise. A gentle hand pushed him back, and soothing words calmed him. His head rolled on the pillow and he saw a young woman with dark brown eyes who stroked his brow.
‘Rest,’ she whispered. ‘You are safe. Safe. Rest. I am with you.’
When his eyes opened again he saw that the lines were timbers, supported by a central beam. He turned his head, hoping the young woman was close by. Instead he saw a man sitting by his bed, a handsome man in a sky-blue shirt; he had long, shoulder-length hair and was beardless; his eyes were violet. He smiled as he saw Lamfhada looking at him.
‘Welcome back to the world, my friend.’ The voice was soft and almost musical. ‘I am Nuada. I found you in the forest.’
‘You saved me,’ Lamfhada whispered.
‘Not quite; there was another man with me. How do you feel?’
‘My back is sore.’ Lamfhada licked his lips. ‘Thirsty,’ he said.
Nuada brought him a cup of water, supporting his head as he drank. ‘You were struck by an arrow which lodged deep. You have been in a fever for five days but Arian says you will live.’ Nuada spoke on, but sleep once more overcame the youth and he dreamt of golden birds flying around the sun.
He awoke during a storm, hearing the shutters on the windows rattling and the rain pounding on the slanted roof. This time there was another man beside his bed - yellow-haired, with a red-gold beard and eyes the colour of storm-clouds.
‘It is time you roused yourself, boy,’ the man told him. ‘You are costing me dear.’
‘Costing?’
‘You think Arian and her mother do this for love? Much more time in bed and I will be penniless.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Truly. I will repay.’
‘With what? I have already sold your dagger.’
‘Leave him be, Llaw,’ said a voice and Lamfhada saw a middle-aged woman come into view. ‘He’s not ready yet; it will be days before he can rise. Get out with you!’
‘Into the storm? Your charity fails to impress me. And the food smells too good to miss.’
‘Then behave.’ The woman came to the bedside and rested a calloused hand on Lamfhada’s brow. ‘Good, the fever is passing.’ She leaned over the youth and smiled. ‘You will be weak for a few days, but your strength will return.’
‘Thank you, lady. Where is ... the other woman?’
‘Arian is hunting. She will not be back tonight; she will have taken shelter from the storm. But you will see her tomorrow.’
‘A few more days,’ snapped Llaw. ‘Already he is thinking of a pretty face. Put some broth into him and I’ll wager he’ll proposition her.’
‘Why should he not?’ replied the woman, grinning. ‘Every other man has - but for you, Llaw Gyffes.’
‘I have no need of a woman,’ he said, and reddened as she laughed.
Lamfhada slept again.
The storm had passed by the time he woke. He seemed to remember being fed, but the memory was hazy and his hunger was great. He sat up, but winced as a sharp pain pulled at his back. The young woman was kneeling by the hearth, striking flint against iron to light the tinder in the grate. Lamfhada watched as a thin spiral of smoke rewarded her efforts and, bending over the hearth, Arian blew the fire to life. He found himself staring at her hips, and the stretched buckskin trews she wore.
‘It is rude to stare,’ she said, without turning.
‘How did you know I was staring?’
‘The bed creaked as you sat up.’ With the fire lit she rose smoothly and walked to his bedside, pulling up a chair. Her hair was honey-gold, her eyes deep brown, her mouth full, her smile an enchantment.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Well, what?’ he stammered.
‘Am I fit for market?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You are staring at me as you would a prize cow.’
He looked away. ‘Forgive me. I am not usually rude.’
She laughed and took his hand. ‘And I am not usually so easily offended. I am Arian. You?’
‘Lu . . . Lamfhada.’
‘Are you sure? There seems to be some confusion.’
‘I am sure. I was called Lug, but I gave myself a good name - a man’s name.’
‘Very wise. Lug does not suit such a pretty face. Why did you run away?’
‘I was sold to the Duke. I thought it was better to run. Where am I?’
‘In the Forest of the Ocean. Llaw Gyffes brought you to my mother. You nearly died. He should not have pulled the arrow out; you almost bled to death.’
‘I do not know why he saved me. I seem to be causing him trouble.’
‘Do not concern yourself with Llaw; he is a contrary man and few people understand him. What are your talents?’
‘I can cook . . . clean - and I have skill with horses. I play the flute.’
‘Can you hunt? Make clothing, fashion wood?’
‘No.’
‘Can you work clay?’
‘No.’
‘What about herbs? Would you recognize amarian or desarta?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ the young man admitted.
‘Then life will be difficult for you, Lamfhada. It would seem you are about as useful as a dead sparrow.’
‘I can learn. Will you teach me?’
‘You think I have nothing better to do?’
‘Of course you have. But will you?’
‘We will see. Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous!’ he admitted. She brought him some cold venison and cheese, then gathered her bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘Where are you going?’
She looked at him and smiled. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said, holding up the bow. ‘I’m going to pick flowers!’
After she had gone, Lamfhada pulled back the blanket and eased himself from the bed. He looked around for his clothes, and padded across to the hearth. His trews lay across the back of a chair and he slipped them on; his shirt was hanging on a hook by the far wall and he saw that someone had expertly sewn the hole made by the arrow. Once dressed, he sat down by the fire; his legs felt weak and unsteady. He added wood to the blaze and sat quietly, thinking of the terror of his flight and the sudden hammer-blow as the arrow struck his back.
He had been saved by Llaw Gyffes, the man he had come to join, but - as Arian had pointed out - he had little to offer the rebel leader. He felt suddenly foolish and, worse, useless. The door opened and a blast of cold air touched him.
‘How the young recover,’ said Nuada. ‘Good morning to you!’
Lamfhada smiled. ‘I remember you . . . like a dream. You were sitting by my bed. Nuada, isn’t it?’
‘It is.- I can see you’re feeling stronger, but you shouldn’t overstretch yourself. You really were extremely ill. Arian tells me you are called Lamfhada. A good name. A Gabala Knight, no less - one of the first, I think.’
‘Yes, so I am told. Are you a rebel?’
Nuada chuckled. ‘You know, I think that I am. But I fear I will strike no terror in the hearts of the King’s soldiers. Saga poets are rarely swordsmen.’
‘You are a poet?’
Nuada bowed and sat down beside the youth. ‘I am. Probably the best in the realm.’
‘Do you know many stories?’
‘Hundreds. When you are feeling better you must come to the hall. I perform there every night. I have become famous here and men travel from settlements all over the forest to hear me. If they had any money, I would be rich.’
Tell me of the Gabala Knights.’
‘A rather wide area, covering two hundred years. Could you not be more specific? The tale of Lamfhada, perhaps?’
‘Tell me of Ollathair,’ said Lamfhada.
‘Ah, a student of modern history,’ commented Nuada. ‘Do you know the origins of the Knights?’
‘No, not really. Weren’t they rebels at one time?’
‘Not quite. The Order was formed in 921 by the then King, Albaras. They were judges; there were nine of them and they travelled the land adjudicating on disputes in the name of the King. But in 970, during the War of the Rebellion, they saved the King from execution and spirited him away to Cithaeron. When he returned in triumph in 976, he granted the Knights lands for a Citadel and freed them from the jurisdiction of monarchs. They were still judges and they travelled the nine Duchies of the realm. They were the arbiters, scrupulously fair. As the years passed, the Order gained more rules. No wealth, for that could lead to corruption. Wives were forbidden to the Gabala Knights, for families could be threatened in order to extort favourable decisions. It was an honour to be chosen, but the price was high.’
‘But what of Ollathair?’ Lamfhada asked.
‘Patience, boy. The Knights were chosen by the Armourer. When one died, or was killed, the Armourer would travel the lands to find a successor.’
‘Why the Armourer? Was he not a servant?’
‘The Armourer was the Father of the Order. He supplied not only the magic armour they wore, but also the spiritual armour. He alone could command the Gabala. Ollathair was the last Armourer.’
‘What happened to the Knights?’
‘No one truly knows. But the King sent a messenger to Samildanach, the Lord Knight, requesting a special favour. It is said that his request took the Knights to a world of demons, where they battle still for the good of the Realm. I do not know what became of them. It was the first year of the new King’s reign. Perhaps he had them poisoned, for they ruled against him in several disputes. Or perhaps they were killed by assassins. Perhaps they fled to another land. Whatever their fate, the Armourer Ollathair was taken by the King’s men and imprisoned. He died in Furbolg. Why the interest in a dead sorcerer?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lamfhada lied. ‘It just interests me.’
‘The Realm could do with them now - the Knights I mean,’ said Nuada.
‘Just what we need,’ agreed Llaw Gyffes sardonically, pushing shut the door behind him and walking to the fire. ‘A handful of Knights in pretty armour! I am sure they would sway the King.’
‘They were more than Knights,’ said Nuada, ‘and greater than heroes. Do not mock them.’
Llaw warmed his hands before the fire. ‘You poets never see reality, do you? Everything is part of some great Romance. You came here looking for a rebel leader and found only an outlawed blacksmith. That is reality. The Knights were just men, and they knew greed and lust and despair just like all of us. Don’t make gods of them, Nuada.’
‘I’ll agree to that, Llaw Gyffes. But do not make fools of them either, for they were all better men than you.’
‘That is not difficult,’ Llaw agreed, slapping Nuada on the shoulder. ‘But I am alive, when many better men are dead. And I will remain so - by looking after my own interests and leaving the heroics to you and your sagas.’
The Once-Knight rode up the hill, dismounting before the charred remains of the house of Ollathair. The stallion, Kuan, stood nervous and afraid; as the acrid smoke swirled to his flaring nostrils, he whinnied and backed away. The Once-Knight stroked the stallion’s neck.
‘It’s all right, Greatheart. It is only the ruins of a house; there is no harm here. Wait for me.’ Carefully he picked his way through the embers, searching for any sign of a body. But there was nothing.
Returning to the stallion, he loosened the saddle cloth and lifted his food sack from the pommel. There was precious little left: three honeycakes and a canvas bag of oats. He fed one of the cakes to Kuan and ate the other two. Then he drew water from the well and drank, leaving the bucket for the stallion to slake his thirst.
Ollathair was gone. Taken by the armed men? He doubted it. Would they have destroyed the house? Perhaps. But there was no sign of a struggle. He saw tracks close to the well and knelt by them. Paw-marks, deep and sharp. Lions? Here, so close to a town? He stood and followed the tracks for a little way. Men running, slipping and sliding down the hill, the beasts bounding after them. He grinned, then laughed aloud, but this increased the pressure on his throat and he calmed himself. The beasts had padded back to the house, where two men had stood. The Once-Knight knelt again. The paw-marks suddenly became deeper. He thought for a moment, then noticed that some of the boot-marks coming from the house were deep also. Ollathair had loaded the lions with packs and set off towards the forested mountains . . . four, maybe five hours ago.
Kuan whinnied, his head turning towards the trail to the town. The Once-Knight stood and saw a party of riders galloping towards the gutted house. Swiftly he dragged his foot over the tracks; then he tightened Kuan’s saddle cinch and mounted, leading the stallion forward to disturb the ground still further.
As the riders neared, he saw they were all wearing breastplates bearing a painted raven on the chest. There were some fifteen men in the party.
‘Good day to you,’ said the Once-Knight.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded a lean, hawk-faced man.
‘I saw the smoke and wondered if anyone needed help. I take it you are upon the same business?’
‘My business is none of your concern. Who are you?’
‘I, sir, am a man of manners,’ the Once-Knight replied, ‘and ill suited to conversation with men of no breeding.’
The riders sat very quietly, waiting for a response from their captain. His face burned red and his dark eyes narrowed as he heeled his mount forward.
‘It ill becomes a stranger to insult an officer of the Duke. Apologize, sir, or I shall be forced to deal with you.’
The Once-Knight leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. ‘When last I met the Duke, he had won the Silver Lance for his prowess on the jousting field. I recall him saying that a gentleman should learn three things: honour, that he might bring it to his name; swordsmanship, so that none could take his honour from him; and humility, so that he could always see where honour lay.’
‘You are a friend of the Duke?’
‘I am the man he beat in the tourney - but then I was always better with the sword than with the lance.’
The captain thought for a moment, then came to a swift decision. ‘My apologies, sir, if my words caused offence, but we are hunting an outlaw and the Duke has charged me with his capture.’
‘Your apology is accepted - and allow me to offer my own. I have travelled far and I fear my temper is short. Tell me, do you seek a heavy-set man, travelling with three large beasts?’