Knights of Dark Renown

by David Gemmell

  Errin was too tired and cold to argue; he hitched his saddlebags to his left shoulder and walked on. After another quarter of a mile they came to a bend in the trail, and there ahead of them was a small stone-built house nestling against the side of a sheer rock wall.

  Before it, on the snow, sat an old man in faded blue robes. His head was bald and round, but a white forked beard grew to his chest.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Errin asked, as Ubadai approached the man.

  The old man’s eyes opened.

  ‘No, I am not dead,’ he snapped. ‘I was thinking, I was enjoying the solitude.’

  ‘My apologies,’ offered Errin, bowing low. ‘But are you not cold sitting there?’

  ‘What has my condition to do with you? This is my home and this is my body. If it is cold, that is its own affair.’

  ‘Indeed it is, sir,’ agreed Errin, forcing a smile. ‘Look, my companions and I are in need of shelter. Could we prevail upon you to allow us to spend the night in your home?’

  ‘I do not like company,’ the old man replied.

  ‘Then sit out here in the snow,’ said Ubadai. He turned to Errin. ‘Why waste time on a stupid old fool? Let’s get inside.’

  ‘No!’ said Errin. ‘We will find a cave or something.’

  The old man grinned. ‘I have changed my mind,’ he announced. ‘You may stay. I expect you will want to light a fire. There is no wood and you will need to gather some. I believe there is an old axe inside.’

  Ubadai muttered something under his breath and strode into the house, emerging moments later with the weapon. Errin bowed once more to the man sitting in the snow.

  ‘Why did you change your mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I am capricious by nature. Now go away and let me think.’

  Errin and Sheera moved into the dwelling. There was only one large room, neatly laid out with a bed in one corner and a table with two bench seats set in the centre. The hearth was cold and empty, and there was sign of neither cooking utensils nor food of any kind.

  ‘I’ll gather some tinder,’ said Sheera. Nodding, Errin dumped his saddlebags against a wall. The stone house was colder than death; ice had formed on the northern wall, where water had flowed through a crack in the roof. He walked over to the bed, where a single threadbare blanket was casually laid. There was no mattress, merely a line of wooden slats.

  Errin looked around; the room was stark and inhospitable. He walked out into the gathering dusk, skirted the seated figure and joined Sheera in her wood gathering. In the distance they could hear the steady thud of the axe. For some while they gathered what dead-wood could be found and carried it into the house. Sheera started a fire, but its warmth took an age to penetrate the grim cold of the dwelling.

  Ubadai came in after an hour and threw the axe against the far wall. His face was red and shining with sweat. ‘Need help,’ he muttered. Errin and Sheera followed him to a clearing where he had cut down a dead tree, and reduced it to manageable chunks and sections. It was dark by the time they had ferried the fuel to the house, and the fire was blazing brightly in the hearth.

  The trio sat round the blaze long into the night, and every once in a while Errin would rise, walk to the door and stare out into the moonlight where the old man was still sitting. It had begun to snow. At last Errin went out to where he sat and squatted down in front of him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  The man’s dark eyes opened. ‘You again? What is it now? You have the house - what more do you want?’

  ‘Are you trying to die?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘I... I know that is your own business, but the house is now warm and I would feel more comfortable if you joined us. Perhaps we could talk. Death is very rarely an answer to anything.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, boy. Death is the final answer to everything. It is the end of every journey; it is peace and an end to strife.’

  ‘Yes,’ Errin agreed, ‘but it is also an end to laughter and joy, to companionship, to love. And most of all it is an end to dreams and hopes.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but then death holds no terrors for a man without dreams and hopes. Has it occurred to you that the more we love, the greater is our sadness? For ultimately all things end. No dream is ever completely fulfilled.’

  ‘Could it not be said the other way around?’ offered Errin. ‘The greater our sadness, the greater our joy. How can we recognize one without the counter-balance of the other?’

  ‘Answer me this, young debater: if a man loves a woman for forty years, adores her, lives for her, how great is the pain when she dies and leaves him alone? Given the choice to go back and start again, would he not be wise to avoid the first meeting and live his life without love?’

  Errin smiled. ‘Does a man who lives in winter regret the summer? Would he choose to spend his life in a perennial autumn? The argument is not a good one, sir. Come inside and enjoy the fire.’

  ‘The fire is immaterial, but I will join you.’ The old man rose smoothly, brushed the snow from his clothes and followed Errin inside. Sheera was asleep by the fire and Ubadai was sharpening the old axe. He looked up at the old man.

  ‘Not dead yet, then?’ said the Nomad.

  ‘Not yet,’ the man agreed.

  Errin pushed shut the door and walked over to the fire, holding out his hands to the welcoming blaze. He removed his cloak and outer tunic, allowing the heat to wash over him. ‘How could you sit there so long?’ he asked as the old man sat beside him.

  ‘Feel my hand,’ said the stranger. Errin took it and found it was warmer than his own. ‘Incredible. How do you do it?’

  ‘He is a wizard,’ said Ubadai. ‘I could have told you this.’

  ‘Are you a sorcerer, sir?’ asked Errin. ‘Of a sort. I am the Dagda. But I cast no spells -you are safe here.’

  ‘What form does your magic take?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ snapped Ubadai.

  ‘I tell the truth,’ the Dagda answered, ‘and I see all the spinning colours in the circle of life: the past, the present, and all of the futures.’

  ‘You tell fortunes,’ said Errin. ‘Could you tell mine?’

  ‘I could, Lord Errin. I could tell you everything that lies in store for you.’

  ‘Then do so, please.’

  ‘No. You see, I like you.’ He turned to Ubadai. ‘But you I will tell, should you desire it?’

  ‘Pah! Not me. You shamen are all alike. Death, despair, and bad luck. You say nothing to me, old man.’

  ‘Very wise, Ubadai,’ said the Dagda, smiling. ‘Will you answer me one question?’ asked Errin. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Can the King’s evil be defeated?’

  ‘You are sure Ahak is evil?’

  ‘Do you see his deeds as good?’ countered Errin. ‘We are talking of the man who led the last victorious army and successfully negotiated a peaceful end to the days of empire. We are talking about the King who introduced legal reforms to aid the poor, who set up a special tax so that food could be distributed among the poverty-stricken. And have you forgotten the free medicines for the sick and needy?’

  ‘I have not forgotten,’ replied Errin. ‘But nor can I forget the massacre of the Nomads, nor the disgusting events now taking place in the capital.’

  ‘And what does that tell you?’

  ‘That the King has become evil.’

  ‘Indeed, Lord Errin, it does. But the important word is become. There is something that has entered the realm, corrupting all it touches.’

  ‘I have no knowledge of that,’ said Errin softly, ‘but from wherever it comes, can it be defeated?’

  ‘The answer must be yes. Most evil springs from the hearts of men. And all men must die - therefore their evil dies with them. But your question was perhaps more specific. Can this evil be destroyed swiftly, by Llaw Gyffes? The answer, as we sit here, is no.’

  ‘But it could change?’ pressed Errin.

  ‘There are many futures, and every man has an opportunity to
fashion his own. The Colours are shifting, the Harmony gone. But, yes, it could change. You see, the success or failure of your venture depends on the whim of a thief and a murderer.’

  ‘Llaw Gyffes?’

  ‘No. Get some sleep, Lord Errin. In the morning I will be gone. Rest here until you are ready to leave, then travel east. You will find the man you seek.’

  ‘And where will you go?’

  ‘Wherever I choose,’ answered the Dagda.

  Groundsel found himself strangely reluctant to part with the golden-haired child he had carried from the blizzard, but once the refugees had been found quarters in the stockade an elderly woman approached him, naming herself as the girl’s grandmother. The child’s name was Evai, and Groundsel felt both pain and gratification as she wept when her grandmother took her to the makeshift huts being erected against the north wall.

  He watched from the doorway as the old woman and the child made their way across the snow, waving when Evai looked back. Arian saw him there and joined him.

  ‘It’s going to be very crowded here for a while,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll make my way back home.’

  ‘There’s another blizzard coming,’ he told her, pointing to the lowering sky. ‘Two or three days and it should be safe for a journey. Come inside and share a goblet of wine. It’s good; ten years old.’

  Without waiting for a response he moved back into the hall and wandered to a blazing fire. For a moment Arian stood in the doorway, unsure. But she was lonely; Llaw avoided her company and now Nuada was living with the dark-eyed refugee, Kartia. Removing her sheepskin cloak, she went over to the fire, accepting a silver goblet filled with blood-red wine. She sipped it and sat facing Groundsel.

  ‘An old woman like that is no guardian for a child. She may not last the winter,’ he said, staring into the dancing flames.

  ‘You would be a better mother?’

  His dark eyes swung on her. ‘Do not mock me, girl,’ he hissed.

  She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean it the way it sounded.’

  He shrugged and the anger faded from his gaze. ‘Truth in it, though. I couldn’t raise a child; I wouldn’t know how. But you could.’

  ‘I’ll have children of my own, when I’m ready.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it; you’ve the hips for it. But that’s not what I meant. You could stay here... with me. We could raise the child - and some of our own. There is no better catch for you in the forest. I have everything here. And when I am ready I’ll sail for Cithaeron. And, by the gods, I’ll be one of the richest men there!’

  Arian took a sip of wine, her mind racing. How could this ugly ape believe that she would marry him? The thought of him touching her made her feel ill. Yes, he was strong - and yes, he would undoubtedly become rich with his thieving and slaying. But a partner for life?

  ‘I have no love for you,’ she said, at last, bracing herself for his anger. But his response surprised her.

  ‘Love? You believe it is an arrow from Heaven? It is not. I have seen men and women without love living contented lives. Anyway, love is something that grows through companionship. I do not love you, Arian; I desire you. But that is a beginning. And I know what you see when you look at Groundsel; I am not blind. I am not tall and handsome like Llaw Gyffes, nor a talented wordsmith like Nuada. But I am strong, and I’ll still be here when they are long dead.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I could not marry you. You talk of desire as a beginning. I believe that... and I do not desire you. Your wealth does not interest me, nor a life of riches in Cithaeron. I wish I could say this in a manner less hurtful, but I am not clever with words.’

  He nodded, his face showing no emotion. Then he smiled. ‘For most of my life I was denied all that I desired. When I broke away and came here, I decided that never again would I be denied anything. I have asked for your hand - as a man should. But I will have you, Arian, with or without your consent. So take a few days to think over my proposal.’

  ‘I do not like being threatened,’ she said, eyes blazing. ‘And if you think to take me, think again. I will kill you.’

  ‘You think you could?’

  Suddenly she laughed. ‘Take me to your bed, Groundsel, but be careful never to sleep.’

  ‘It might still be worth it,’ he told her. ‘You’ll never know,’ she retorted, rising. Sweeping her cloak over her shoulder, she moved back into the daylight. Snow was falling fast as she trudged towards her hut. As she approached it, she saw two sentries pulling open the main gates and watched as they bowed to an old man in faded robes of dyed blue wool. His head was bald, but a long, forked white beard flowed to his chest. The sentries backed away from him and Arian stood transfixed. The stranger seemed to float over the snow, leaving barely a trace of footsteps. He stopped in the centre of the village and sat down in the snow. One of the sentries ran to him, bringing him bread; other villagers came from their homes and clustered round him. Puzzled by the commotion, Arian strolled over and Llaw Gyffes joined her.

  ‘What is he doing?’ asked Arian, as the old man spread out some thirty black stones on the packed snow before him.

  Llaw grinned. ‘You have heard of him, Arian - now is your chance to see. He is the Dagda. Have you the courage to question him?’ She glanced up into his mocking gaze.

  ‘I’ll follow you,’ she said, but he shook his head.

  ‘I have no wish to know the future, and I’ve not the skill to question the old man. He knows it all, right up to the moment of every death.’

  ‘He’ll freeze sitting there,’ she said.

  Llaw turned, then tapped Arian’s shoulder, pointing to the hall. Groundsel was walking forward bearing a heavy sheepskin cloak. ‘It’s part of the ritual in any village he stops in - he will wait for the head man to invite him to his quarters. Very few will refuse.’

  ‘Why? Does he curse them?’ she asked.

  ‘Worse than that... he tells them the truth.’

  The crowd pa’rted for Groundsel, who bowed to the Dagda. The old man gathered his black stones, tipping them into a leather pouch; then he rose and accepted the cloak. The crowd followed as Groundsel led the yay to the warmth of the hall.

  ‘Would you like to see his skills in action?’ asked |Llaw. Arian nodded.

  Inside the hall a space was cleared by one of the | fires and once again the old man squatted down and spread the stones. He looked up at Groundsel, who shook his head. The crowd stirred. Groundsel pointed to Arian, waving her forward. Llaw came with her and they sat before the Dagda.

  ‘You first,’ said Arian and Llaw cleared his throat. The Dagda gave a thin smile.

  ‘Pick eight of the stones,’ he said, his voice hissing like a wind through the branches of a dead tree. Llaw looked down at them; they were flat and mostly round, obviously gathered from a stream-bed. Slowly he picked his eight, then the old man turned them over one by one, examining the different runes on each. His pale eyes came up.

  ‘Ask me of your life, Llaw Gyffes.’

  Llaw swallowed. ‘I do not know what to ask, Dagda,’ he muttered, reddening.

  ‘Then shall I tell you all?’

  ‘No!’ snapped Llaw. ‘All men die - I have no wish to know the time and the place. Tell me if we will have a good spring, with game aplenty.’

  ‘The spring will be fine,’ said the Dagda, with another thin smile. ‘It will come early, and the game will be more than plentiful. But you will have little time to hunt, Llaw Gyffes, for your enemies are gathering. And they will be here as the snows melt.’

  ‘I have no enemies,’ stated Llaw.

  ‘Your enemies are terrible: men of awesome evil. They fear you, Llaw; they fear your army and they fear your name. They must destroy you, and they will come to you with bright swords and dark magic.’

  ‘Then I shall leave for Cithaeron. Let them come there.’

  ‘You will never see Cithaeron, Llaw Gyffes.’

  ‘Can I defeat these enemies?’

  ‘All men can suffer def
eat. I see two armies. Do you wish to know the outcome?’

  ‘No. Thank you for your counsel.’

  The Dagda smiled and turned to Arian. He turned the stones and spread them under his long, bony fingers. She chose her eight and waited.

  ‘Ask, Arian, and I shall enlighten you.’

  ‘Will Llaw win?’ she asked. Llaw cursed and pushed himself to his feet, but before he could retreat out of hearing the old man’s voice sounded.

  ‘I see him lifeless on the ground before the forest, and a demon stalking the hill: a red demon with a dark sword.’

  ‘You foolish child,’ snapped Llaw, his angry eyes fixed on Arian. ‘A curse on you!’

  He strode from the hall and Groundsel knelt by Arian. ‘Ask him about us,’ he whispered. Her face white, Arian shook her head. ‘I don’t want to know any more. I am sorry, Dagda.’

  As she tried to rise to follow Llaw, Groundsel held her arm. ‘Ask him! I will abide by what he says.’

  She shook herself loose and took a deep breath. ‘Tell me of Groundsel,’ she whispered. The outlaw leader blanched.

  ‘He too will die in the spring. I see a horse, a white horse - and a rider in shining silver. And a child on a hillside. The demons are gathering, and a great storm will descend on the forest. But Groundsel will not see it.’

  ‘What should we do?’ Arian asked.

  ‘Whatever you will.’

  ‘Does Llaw have to die?’

  ‘All creatures die. Some die well, others badly.’ He looked up at Groundsel. ‘Would you like to hear more, my new Lord Groundsel?’

  ‘I never asked you about me, but for years you’ve been longing to tell me, you bastard! Well, I’ll outlive you. And when this shining silver rider comes to me, I’ll kill him too. I do not believe you, Dagda. Nothing is writ in those stones that a strong man cannot change. I will make my own decisions.’

  ‘Indeed you will. Think on that point when you meet the silver rider.’ The old man turned his attention to Arian. ‘You asked what to do. I do not advise, I merely tell what is. But I see a one-handed swordsman and a Child of Power. I see a Craftsman, a wizard with a burden. All must come together. A balance must be restored.’