Knights of Dark Renown

by David Gemmell

  ‘I am not a seer, my friend,’ said Ruad softly. ‘You were talking of the Nomads?’

  ‘There is a pit near the mountains. I am told a thousand bodies lie there, with room for many thousands more.’

  ‘It cannot be,’ Ruad whispered. ‘Where is the logic? Who could gain from such a slaughter?’

  Gwydion said nothing for a moment, then he turned towards the Craftsman. ‘The King has decreed that the Nomads are tainted, that they corrupt the purity of the realm. He blames them for all ills. You have heard of the nobleman, Kester?’

  ‘I met him once: an irascible old man.’

  ‘Put to death,’ said Gwydion. ‘His grandfather wed a Nomad princess.’

  ‘I have never heard the like. Is there no opposition to the King?’

  ‘There was,’ replied Gwydion. ‘The King’s champion, the knight Elodan, left his service. He stood up for Kester and demanded the ancient right to champion his honour. The King agreed, which surprised everyone, for there was not a finer swordsman than Elodan anywhere in the empire.

  ‘A great crowd assembled for the combat in the jousting fields outside the city. The King did not attend - but his new Knights were there, and it was one of these who stepped forward to face Elodan. The battle was fierce, but all who saw it - I am told - realized at once that Elodan had no chance against this new champion. The end was brutal. Elodan’s sword was smashed to shards and a blow to the helm sent him to his knees. Then the Red Knight calmly cut Elodan’s right hand from his arm.’

  ‘A Red Knight, you say?’ whispered Ruad. ‘Describe him.’

  ‘I was not there, Ruad. But I am told they appear only in full armour, their helm visors closed.’

  ‘They? How many are there?’

  ‘Eight. They are deadly. Six times now they have fought in single combat for the King and on each occasion a different Knight takes the field. But all are invincible.’ The old man shuddered. ‘What does it all mean, Ruad?’

  The one-eyed Craftsman did not reply. Moving to the window, he pushed it shut, drawing the heavy woollen curtains to block any draught of cold air.

  ‘Treat this house as your home,’ he told Gwydion. ‘If you are thirsty, drink; if you are hungry, there is food in the pantry.’

  Ruad strode through to his workshop, opening the chest by the far wall and rummaging through its contents. At last he found what he was seeking: a gold-and silver-rimmed plate, round and black as ebony. He carried it to his work bench and slowly polished it with a soft cloth.

  Satisfied, he closed his eye and reached into the Colours. The Red almost swamped him but he rose through it, seeking the White. The Colours were shimmering, receding... the White was a slender ribbon now but he fastened to it, finding calm.

  His eye snapped open. Taking a curved knife from the bench he pricked his thumb, allowing a single drop of blood to fall to the plate. As it touched the ebony it disappeared, and the black plate became a silver mirror in which Ruad gazed down at his reflection.

  ‘Ollathair,’ he said. A mist covered his image, then cleared as if a ghostly wind was blowing, and Ruad found himself staring down at the Great Hall in Furbolg. The King was seated on his throne and around him stood eight Knights in red armour. Ruad’s concentration increased; the scene grew closer still.

  The Knights’ armour was of a strange design, yet similar to the work he himself had designed for the Gabala. The helms were round, the neckrings overlapping. The shoulder-plates were perfectly fitted, but boasted a high collar that would stop any swinging blade from harming the neck.

  Suddenly, as his examination continued, the tallest of the Knights swung round; his head jerked up and through the visor Ruad saw a pair of blood-red eyes staring at him. The Knight’s sword flashed up... Ruad hurled himself back from his seat as the plate exploded, shards of burning metal slashing the air. One thudded into the door-frame, smouldering into flame as Ruad rose trembling from the floor. The smell of burning wood hung in the air. Taking a deep breath and steadying himself he moved around the room stamping out the smouldering pieces.

  When he had finished, he returned to his seat. Gwydion entered.

  ‘I am afraid to ask,’ said the old man, ‘but I must. What did you find?’

  ‘Evil,’ said Ruad. ‘And there is worse to come -much worse.’

  ‘Can it be countered?’

  ‘Not by the likes of you and me.’

  ‘Then it must be terrible indeed, if Ollathair is powerless against it.’

  Ruad smiled. ‘I am not powerless, my friend. I am just not powerful enough.’

  ‘Is there any force in the world that could make you so?’

  ‘The Knights of the Gabala,’ Ruad answered.

  ‘But they are gone.’

  ‘Exactly. And I have surrendered the one weapon I had.’

  ‘What weapon is that?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘Secrecy. They know who I am, and worse, where I am.’

  Towards midnight Ruad stirred in his chair. In the back room he could hear Gwydion snoring and outside the autumn winds were rattling the window-frames. He could not recall dropping off to sleep, but he had awoken refreshed and now he stretched and rose. The fire was dying down; he thought of the old man, and his inability to take the cold. Stepping outside, he walked to the wood store and gathered an armful of logs. The night was cold and, but for the sighing of the wind, quiet. Three times more he carried wood to the hearth, building up the fire so that some warmth would remain at the dawn.

  Wide awake now, he wandered outside to the well. Just as he was about to lower the bucket he glimpsed a moving shadow to his left and stood stock still, not turning his head. Then he sat down on the well wall and waited.

  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 belon
gings. 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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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 b
last 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.’