Knights of Dark Renown

by David Gemmell

  Porteron staggered back as if struck and stumbled from the room. Errin had guessed that Porteron was out of favour when he had been instructed not to invite him to the Feast. But this?

  ‘You mentioned two noble families, Lord Okessa?’ said the young Lord Delaan.

  ‘It is no one present, sir,’ said Okessa. ‘I refer to the Lady Dianu, whose mother was of Nomad extraction.’

  Errin felt his heart hammer in his chest and his hands began to tremble.

  ‘The Lady Dianu’s mother died in childbirth,’ said Errin. ‘She was from Cithaeron, and there is no record of any Nomad involvement in her blood line.’

  ‘Sadly that is not the case,’ said Okessa, unable to keep a triumphant grin from his thin lips. ‘She was the daughter of a man named Kial Orday, who was born on the eastern steppes into a Nomad tribe called the Wolves. There is no doubting her tainted line; she has been summoned to Mactha and will be sent to Gar-aden.’

  Errin bit back any further argument. ‘My congratulations, Lord Seer. As ever, you have been meticulous in your endeavours.’

  ‘Meticulous enough, Lord Errin, to have discovered that you planned to marry this woman. Thankfully you are now spared the prospect of coupling with a Nomad whore.’

  The words were sent like arrows, but Errin had been expecting something of the like. ‘Indeed, my Lord. I can hardly think of the words to thank you.’ Okessa’s disappointment was obvious and it brought a taunting grin from Errin, who leaned forward holding to the Seer’s gaze. ‘Happily, sir,’ said Errin, ‘there is no doubt as to your bloodline. Your mother was a fine Gabalan of good stock, who plied a trade among the sailors near the docks at Furbolg. I am confident they were all good rabalan sailors, and there was not a Nomad among them.’

  ‘How dare you?’ stormed Okessa, surging to his feet.

  ‘How dare I? How dare the son of a common prostitute abuse the name of a noble lady of this realm!’

  ‘I take it, Errin, that you will champion her? You will demand trial by combat?’ Okessa’ hissed.

  Errin froze as the words hammered home. All he had been taught as a Knight and the son of an earl seremed at him to accept the challenge in the name of chivalry, but all that he had learned as a man warned him to beware. He was no swordsman and he knew what had happened to the champion Elodan. He took a deep breath. ‘I will consider that option,’ he said. Aware that all eyes were upon him, he transferred his gaze to the table and fought to quell the anger within.

  ‘You will consider the option,’ sneered Okessa. ‘How gallant of you!’

  ‘That is enough,’ snapped the Duke. ‘The Lord Errin has every right to take time on this issue. We are... were... all fond of the Lady Dianu. But if her blood is tainted, then it is right that she travel to Gar-aden. The King’s word is law; we all accept that. Now let us move on.’

  Errin sat in a daze throughout the rest of the meeting, images racing through his mind. Dianu had told him that evil was rampant in the land, and now she would pay, perhaps with her life. He thought of her being brought to Mactha, derided and alone, to endure the sneers of serpents like Okessa. And what would she find in Gar-aden? Stripped of wealth and privilege, she would be forced to live in a desert hut making a living as best she could among other Nomads. But what skills did she have that could make her life bearable? None — save her beauty. They might just as well kill her, he realized. When she was brought to Mactha he would have to avoid seeing her; he would not be able to meet her eyes. And when they took her away, he would have to live every day of his life in the knowledge that he had done nothing to save the woman he loved.

  Love. At the thought of the word and the emotions it conveyed, his throat swelled. He swallowed hard. Yes, he loved Dianu. He always had, ever since they were children together. Could he bear to live, knowing he had done nothing to aid her?

  In that moment he knew he did not have the courage to turn away from her.

  He blinked and stared around the table. The meeting was obviously over and all eyes were on him as his voice came surprisingly clear and strong.

  ‘My sword will speak for the Lady Dianu,’ he declared.

  Okessa smiled as he sank back in his chair and switched his gaze to the stunned Duke.

  ‘My Lord, you must name someone to champion the King’s cause.’

  ‘Retract, Errin,’ whispered the Duke. ‘This is madness.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘I think you should,’ said Cairbre softly. ‘For I must champion the King’s cause, and that will mean us facing one another.’

  Errin shrugged. ‘What will be will be.’

  ‘I hope,’ said Cairbre, ‘that you are a fine swordsman. But think on this. I am the man who cut the hand from Elodan, and he was the best I ever fought.’

  A storm broke over the forest as Ruad, Gwydion and the three magic hounds reached the shelter of the trees. Ruad led the way east into the thickest of the woods, seeking a haven from the driving rain. Mortally tired, Gwydion slipped on a muddy slope and fell heavily. Ruad walked back to help him to his feet.

  Calling one of the golden hounds, Ruad lifted Gwydion to its back.

  ‘Such is the fate of old men,’ said Gwydion, with a weak smile, ‘to be mounted on a dog.’

  Ruad chuckled. ‘At least it is a magic dog.’

  ‘Have you been here before, Ruad?’

  ‘Two years ago I came looking for herbs. There is an old cabin about a mile further along the trail. It was uninhabited then. Now?’ He shrugged.

  ‘This is a gloomy place,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘It will look better by sunlight, I promise you.’

  They continued on the trail and Gwydion found his mount not entirely to his liking. The metal back made a poor seat, the plates grinding and pinching the skin of his thighs. But it was a great deal less arduous than walking.

  Ruad’s recollection of the distance was faulty, and it was two hours and almost midnight before they came to the cabin. It was no longer empty and no longer solitary; four other homes had been built close by.

  ‘I hope we will be welcome,’ said Gwydion.

  Ruad did not reply. Boldly he stepped to the first door they came across. Warm golden light showed through the gap in the shutters of the window as he rapped his fist against the door.

  It was opened by a young man, carrying a broad-bladed knife.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the man. Then he saw the golden hounds; his mouth gaped and he stepped back, the knife forgotten. ‘A wizard!’ he shouted to someone behind him.

  Ruad moved swiftly into the house. ‘Indeed I am,’ he said, forcing a broad smile to his face. ‘But a friendly wizard, seeking shelter for the night. We mean no harm to any here, I promise you. And we will pay for shelter.’ Inside the one-roomed cabin was an elderly woman, three young children and a younger woman in a bed by the fire. The man was in his early twenties, stockily built, with thick dark curly hair.

  ‘What else can go wrong?’ he shrugged, dropping the knife to a rough-cut table. ‘For what it is worth, you are welcome. But the beasts stay outside.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ruad helped Gwydion into the house and the hounds sat outside the door, the rain streaming from their metal hides. Inside once more, Ruad removed his soaked leather jerkin and stood before the fire, enjoying the warmth. The children sat quietly staring at him, their eyes wide and fearful, while the old woman returned to the bedside, where she sat dabbing at the brow of the younger woman.

  ‘Is she sick?’ Gwydion asked. The young man looked away and sat at the table staring at the wall. Gwydion struggled out of his white woollen robes and laid them over a chair by the fire. Dressed only in a loin-cloth, he dried himself by the blaze and then moved to the bedside. The young woman was skeletally thin, her skin almost translucent. Dark rings had formed beneath her eyes. When Gwydion lifted her wrist, the pulse was weak and fluttering like a trapped butterfly.

  ‘May I take your seat?’ he asked the old woman. ‘I am weary from my travels.’
She looked up at him, her eyes dull, then stood and moved away, shepherding the children to their beds by the other wall. Gwydion placed his hand on the dying woman’s brow, closing his eyes and seeking the Colours. The Red was still powerful, yet less so than in Mactha; he rose through it to the outer edges of the Harmony, fastening to the Green. Slowly he linked with the woman, flowing with her blood, pulsing with the rhythms of her life. He found the cancer; it had spread across both lungs and down into her stomach.

  ‘Fetch me a piece of meat,’ he said.

  The young man ignored him, but Ruad walked to the table and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Bring some meat to my friend.’

  ‘Dying people give him an appetite, do they?’

  ‘It is not to eat. Do as I ask. Please?’

  The young man rose and fetched a joint of ham from a hook in the pantry, carrying it to Gwydion. ‘Put it in a bowl on the bed,’ said the elderly Healer. The old woman fetched a bowl and the ham was placed in it. Ruad joined them. Gwydion soared into the Colours. One bony hand rested on the woman’s brow, the other on the meat in the wooden bowl. Gwydion’s face grew ever more pale and he began to tremble. Ruad moved alongside him, waiting. The young woman groaned.

  ‘What is he doing?’ the young man asked.

  ‘Be silent!’ hissed Ruad.

  The old woman gasped and stepped back, her hand over her mouth. The meat in the bowl began to writhe and darken; white maggots appeared, and the stench of corruption filled the room as the ham grew slimy, edged with blue. Maggots crawled over the old man’s fingers.

  The young woman’s face seemed less translucent now, and her cheeks showed colour. Gwydion’s hand slipped from her brow and, as he toppled, Ruad caught him and carried him to the fireside, where he laid him on the goatskin rug before the hearth. ‘Get a blanket!’ ordered Ruad. The old woman brought two and covered the sleeping Healer with one, making a pillow of the other which she eased under his head.

  ‘Ahmta!’ cried the young man, as his wife’s eyes opened.

  ‘Brion,’ she whispered. ‘I have been dreaming.’

  The young man’s eyes filled with tears and he leaned over the bed, taking Ahmta in his arms. Turning, the old woman began to weep. Ruad patted her shoulder and moved to the bedside.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked the woman.

  ‘Tired, sir. Who are you?’

  ‘Travellers, passing through. Sleep now. In the morning you will feel better.’

  ‘I doubt that, sir. I am dying.’

  ‘No,’ Ruad told her. ‘Tomorrow you will wake and rise, and all will be as it once was. You are cured.’

  The woman smiled, disbelieving, but faded into sleep as Brion lifted the blankets around her, then rose.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asked, his face still wet with his tears.

  ‘I do not lie. Well... not often. Gwydion is a Healer, a great Healer.’

  ‘I have no way to repay you. I... do not even own this cabin. Food is short. But what I have is yours.’

  Ruad grinned. ‘A roof for the night and, perhaps, a little breakfast. I am afraid the ham is ruined, and I should take it from the house before the stench reaches us all.’

  The young man took the decomposed meat from the house and hurled it into the undergrowth. When he returned, he offered Ruad a goblet of water. ‘We have no wine or ale,’ he apologized.

  This will suffice.’

  ‘Are you truly men?’ asked Brion.

  ‘Yes. Do we look so strange?’

  ‘No, not at all. It is just... you are an answer to prayer, and it comes to me you may be... gods?’

  ‘If I was a god,’ said Ruad, grinning, ‘would I have made myself so ugly?’

  Ruad lay beside the sleeping Gwydion on the floor by the fire, his thoughts sorrowful.

  Gwydion had cleansed the cancer from the woman, Ahmta, but to Ruad the scene was only a grim reminder of the malignancy eating at the heart of the realm. And Ruad knew that he, as the Armourer Olla-thair, had helped that cancer to grow. Despite his wisdom - perhaps even because of it — he had fallen victim to the god of Folly - Pride.

  When the new King, Ahak, fresh from his triumph in the Fomorian Wars, sent word to Ollathair of the world beyond the Gate, it had seemed the answer to prayer. All his life Ollathair had sought to excel - first to impress his father, Calibal, and then to be the greatest Armourer in the long history of the Knights.

  He could still recall with total clarity the night the King’s messenger brought him the letter. A visitor had come to Ahak, claiming to be from a land called the Vyre; this land was beset, said the messenger, by great evil. They needed the legendary Knights of the Gabala to come to their aid. In return they offered gifts of medicine and knowledge that would eradicate sickness and disease, that would bring a new era of peace and contentment to the Gabalan people.

  At first Ollathair had been sceptical, but the King sent a silver mirror imbued with a magic more powerful than anything Ollathair had ever experienced. Using the mirror, he could focus on any part of the realm and see it clearly. More, he could pierce the mystic curtain between the worlds of the Gabala and the Vyre. And he found, as the messenger said, a land of great wonders: a white, many-towered city, peopled by angelic beings, was surrounded by impenetrable forests in which dwelt creatures of nightmare. It was the jewel of Paradise, set amidst the horrors of Hell.

  Ollathair made contact with a man named Paulus, a councillor of the Vyre Elders. Paulus begged the Armourer to send his Knights and Ahak also urged the Armourer to respond.

  For Ollathair this was an opportunity his pride forbade him to ignore. He had the chance to outdo his father, Calibal, and to earn his place in history as the greatest Armourer. He had called Samildanach to him, and the Lord Knight had questioned him until dawn. If Hell surrounded the Vyre, how could they survive? How could they combat the screaming demons with their long talons? How could they return, once Ollathair was no longer with them?

  He answered all questions with promises: he would make finer armour, he would create swords that would never dull, he would re-open the Gate between Worlds at prearranged times, beginning one month after they had passed through. And he would stay in contact with them, using the magic mirror.

  Samildanach was enchanted with the idea, and with the gifts promised by the Vyre. He longed to be the Knight who brought an end to disease and despair.

  Ollathair had opened the Gate on Midsummer’s Eve six years ago and Samildanach had led the Knights through — never to return.

  Ollathair had hurried back to the Citadel and taken up the mirror, but only his reflection stared back at him. He tried the Colours: Black under the moonlight; Blue under the sun; Red with his own blood; but the mirror had lost its power.

  Fear began to gnaw at him and he tried in every way to breach the Gate with his spirit, but it seemed that a wall - invisible and yet impenetrable - had been set before him. He contacted the King, to see if the messenger was still at Furbolg, but the man had returned to his own land. Ollathair was beside himself; all his powers wer useless.

  He had one great hope - Samildanach, greatest of warriors, finest of men. A descendant of kings and the most complete Knight Ollathair had ever known. Whatever perils lay beyond the Gate, the Armourer was sure Samildanach would overcome them.

  The days drifted by with agonizing slowness until the month had passed and Ollathair cast the spell that opened the Gate. Screeching creatures of nightmare gathered in the darkness beyond, but the Armourer’s powers hurled them back. Of the Knights there was no sign.

  Night after night Ollathair conjured the Gate, until his powers were spent, his strength wasted.

  Finally he had travelled to Furbolg. The King had greeted him like an old friend and had entertained him royally for several weeks. But then he had been asked to create weapons of power for the monarch and he had refused. As the Armourer of the Gabala Knights, he was not under Ahak’s rule.

  The King had ordered him arrested, claiming his refus
al bordered on treason. For days he had suffered torture - his eye burned from his skull, hot irons scorching his flesh. Then he had feigned death and been hurled into a shallow pit outside the city walls.

  He had escaped, but it was almost a year before his strength and power returned. Then he had taken the name Ruad Ro-fhessa and moved to the north. And for three years had explored every means of breaching the world beyond.

  At last he was forced to the inescapable conclusion that the Knights - his Knights - had been slain.

  Samildanach, Edrin, Pateus, Manannan, Bersis, Cantaray, Joanin, Keristae and Bodarch - all dead. Ruad Ro-fhessa carried the blame like a burning coal in his heart.

  Yet now, here on this wooden floor, the pain was worse than ever before. For the King had embarked on a reign of terror and had gathered to him other Knights, dread warriors strengthened by sorcery. And the world needed the true Knights more than ever.

  At last Ruad fell asleep, but his dreams were of fire and blood and Knights in crimson armour hunted him with knives of cold steel. He awoke sweating in the pre-light of dawn. Gwydion slept on, as did the household. He sat up and added tinder to the ashes, stirring them and blowing the flickering embers to life. Brion awoke and stared down at his sleeping wife. He kissed her lightly and her eyes opened.

  ‘It was true,’ she whispered. ‘I am healed.’ Ahmta sat up. ‘There is no pain.’

  ‘When I woke I thought it was a dream,’ Brion said, cupping her face in his hands.

  Ruad grinned and rose from the floor. ‘Good morning to you both. You slept well, I trust?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Brion, sliding from beneath his blanket and standing. ‘I promised you breakfast and you shall have it - eggs, bacon, and I shall borrow ale from Dalik.’

  A low metallic growling came from outside and Ruad ran to the door and opened it. A small crowd had gathered silently to examine the hounds, and one man had tried to prise a golden scale loose. As Ruad appeared the crowd fell back. Brion ran from the house and swiftly explained the presence of his visitors, and the magic they had wrought.