Knights of Dark Renown

by David Gemmell

  On the afternoon of the fifth day Errin sat down beside the path and checked the soles of his riding boots. One had worn through, the other had split at the seam.

  ‘Look at them,’ he said to Sheera. ‘You know how much these cost?’

  She chuckled. ‘Poor Errin! The forest life does not suit you.’

  ‘Be silent!’ hissed Ubadai, drawing his short sword from its scabbard.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Errin asked. Three men leapt from the undergrowth and Errin dived aside, rolling to the earth. As he rose and reached for his belt, two more attackers jumped to his back, bearing him to the ground. He twisted his head to see Ubadai at bay, his sword ready.

  ‘Don’t fight!’ shouted Errin. ‘Put up your sword!’ Ubadai muttered something inaudible and spat, but he sheathed the blade and allowed the newcomers to pin his arms. Errin was hauled to his feet as a young woman stepped from the bushes. She was tall, with honey-blonde hair, and dressed in tunic and trews of buckskin.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Looking for Llaw Gyffes,’ said Errin. She smiled.

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘That is no concern of yours,’ he answered. She drew a wickedly sharp hunting knife and placed it against his throat. ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, ‘why make a mystery of it? We are here to join the rebels.’

  ‘I think you are spies,’ she said. ‘You are no forester, you are a King’s man.’ Errin managed a smile. The man on his right had firm hold of his bicep, but his forearm was free and carefully he slid his hand to his belt buckle.

  ‘Ollathair,’ he said.

  ‘What was that?’ asked the woman, but her voice had slowed and deepened. Errin surged free of the men holding him and brushed aside the knife. The man to his left aimed a clumsy blow at his head, but Errin ducked and crashed a fast right-hand punch to his assailant’s jaw. The man dropped slowly to the grass. Errin leapt and cannoned his foot into the face of the second attacker, who spun and toppled to the ground with graceful lack of speed. The woman was moving in, her knife sweeping up towards Errin’s belly, but he grabbed her wrist, twisted and caught the blade as she dropped it. Raising it to rest against her long neck, he touched the belt buckle.

  ‘As I said,’ he told her, ‘I am here to join Llaw Gyffes. Will you take me to him?’

  ‘You are very fast,’ she said, lifting her hand and gently pushing the knife from her neck.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But I am no spy. My name is Errin.’

  ‘May I have my knife back... Errin?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, reversing the blade and handing it to her. She moved to the fallen men and knelt by them. One was stirring. Errin wandered to where Ubadai and Sheera were still being held. ‘Would you be so kind as to release my comrades?’ he requested. Ubadai shook himself free and stalked away, muttering curses beneath his breath. Sheera approached Errin and took his arm.

  ‘You are a constant surprise to me,’ she whispered. ‘I am so relieved she didn’t hit you. That would have been embarrassing.’

  He grinned. ‘I enjoy surprising you.’

  ‘I’ll kill the bastard!’ Errin spun as one of his earlier attackers stormed to his feet, dragging a knife from his belt.

  ‘No!’ shouted the woman. ‘We’ll take them to Llaw.’ The man hesitated, but he was unconvinced. Errin swallowed hard and rested his hand on his belt.

  The man walked forward. He was tall and black-bearded and his eyes were angry. ‘I won’t forget this,’ he hissed. ‘You and I will settle it - you understand me?’

  ‘I believe that I do,’ said Errin. The man nodded, rammed his knife into his belt and pushed past them.

  The woman approached. ‘My name is Arian; I am a friend of Llaw’s. If you follow I will take you to him.’

  As she walked away ahead of him, Errin’s eyes were drawn to her swaying hips. ‘I think I’d follow her anywhere,’ he said. But Sheera did not smile. Errin looked closely at his companion, but said nothing.

  They crested a hill and found themselves looking down on a bustling community. Homes were still being erected, and elsewhere archers were loosing shafts at crudely made targets. On the hillside some wild cattle had been gathered, alongside some bighorn sheep. Errin halted as light flashed from something bright and metallic on the hillside opposite. Four figures in silver armour seemed to be fighting each other; but watching for a few moments, he realized they were merely practising their skills.

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked Arian.

  ‘I have no idea. Let’s find Llaw.’

  It seemed to Errin that the young woman was more than surprised to be directed to the hillside, and to find the legendary Llaw Gyifes arrayed in silver armour.

  ‘What the Hell... ?’ she began, but Llaw gestured her to silence and approached Errin.

  ‘I think we’ve been expecting you,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Errin shook it. ‘You have?’

  ‘Our Armourer told us two would arrive today. I suggest you go up to the cave and speak to him.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Errin.

  ‘Unless you have other, more pressing, plans?’

  ‘No, not at all. We will speak later.’ Errin, Ubadai and Sheera began the long walk to the cave, while Arian remained behind with Llaw.

  As the trio approached the cave mouth, a youth strolled out to meet them. Errin stopped in his tracks, his heart sinking.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Sheera asked.

  ‘This is the boy I shot.’

  Lamfhada moved to meet them. ‘Welcome, Lord Errin, welcome to the Forest of the Ocean.’

  ‘Nice to see you again. Can you direct us to the Armourer? I’d love to stop and talk about old times, but...’

  ‘I am the Armourer. And do not fear "old times". The past is dead. And no one here knows that you hunted me.’

  ‘I see. What do you require of me... of us?’

  ‘Stand for a moment... and listen,’ said Lamfhada. Nonplussed, Errin allowed the silence to grow. The sound of distant music came to him; he strained to hear it, but it drifted like the echo of an echo.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. Lamfhada said nothing. ‘Can you hear it?’ he asked Sheera; she shook her head.

  ‘I can,’ said Ubadai. ‘It is something in the cave.’

  Errin moved to the cave mouth. The sound — if sound it was - was stronger here. It seemed to whisper in the caverns of his soul... calling, drawing him in. He turned to Ubadai, who was now standing beside him.

  ‘You can hear it?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the Nomad. ‘Let us get away from here.’

  ‘It does not feel threatening.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Ubadai.

  ‘You should listen to him, Errin,’ advised Lamfhada. ‘If you enter the cave, your life will be changed for ever. Worse, it may bring you pain and an early death.’

  ‘He’s right. Let’s go,’ said Ubadai, grasping Errin’s arm.

  ‘No,’ whispered Errin. ‘I must go in.’

  ‘Why you such a fool always?’ shouted Ubadai, but Errin pulled free of him and walked into the cave. It was torchlit, the shadows dancing like ghosts in the dark. Errin walked on until he stood before the three remaining suits of armour. He heard a sound from beside him.

  ‘It is the armour calling you,’ said Lamfhada.

  ‘It is Gabala armour; I cannot wear it.’

  Lamfhada nodded. ‘It is little known, Lord Errin, but one of the most important virtues of all Knights of the Gabala was that not one of them ever expected the honour. To expect it was to lose it. And what you have just said has been said before, a hundred times, by every man who wore the silver.’

  Errin turned. ‘I am a Lord of the Feast, not a warrior. Never a warrior!’ He laughed and pointed to his belt. ‘I wear a sorcerer’s charm that gives me speed. But it is not from me - not from within.’

  ‘I know all this, Errin. But you have been chosen.’

  ‘By whom? By y
ou?’

  ‘Not by me. But now it is your choice. You can walk away - and no man will judge you.’

  ‘What of the men whose armour this is? What of the real Knights? Supposing they return? Can I give it back?’

  ‘They have returned, Errin. They are the enemy: the Knights of the Red.’

  ‘And I will have to go against them? Cairbre? I fought him once. He is unbeatable; he even gave me his own sword.’

  ‘Then choose your path.’

  Errin swung to stare at the armour. Licking his lips, he tried to draw back, but his mind was full of raw memories: Dianu at the stake, the jeering, chanting crowd, Okessa... His hand reached out, his fingers touching the metal. Warmth flowed through him and tears started in his eyes.

  ‘Damn you!’ shouted Ubadai. ‘Always the fool!’ The Nomad strode forward and pushed past Errin. He walked to a suit of armour and slapped his hand against it. ‘This is mine!’ he hissed.

  ‘Why?’ whispered Errin. ‘You did not have to join me.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ said the Nomad. ‘Locked in a pantry, you would starve to death.’

  The grey stallion walked into the glade with head held high, ears pricked. It saw the man waiting and approached him boldly, secure in its power. The man rose and held out a hand, rubbing the stallion’s nose and stroking its neck. The touch was sure.

  Manannan smiled. ‘You are not Kuan, my friend,’ he said softly, ‘but I think you will do.’ He swung himself to the stallion’s back and the beast reared suddenly, but the Once-Knight was ready, his thighs gripped hard to the horse’s flanks. ‘Steady, now,’ he soothed. ‘Steady.’

  Riding bareback, he headed the horse down from the hills to the ruined village. Several dead horses lay where they had fallen, but Manannan dismounted downwind of them and selected a saddle and bridle.

  Within the hour he was riding from the forest towards the distant fortress of Mactha.

  He was worried, as he rode - and not just for his life, though his peril did not escape his anxiety. His thoughts were of Lamfhada and the new Knights. Only Elodan had the skill and the training for the role — and he was crippled. The outlaw Groundsel was a man full of barely concealed bitterness, while Nuada was a poet who could never take up arms. As for Llaw Gyffes? Manannan liked him; there was iron in him. But was that enough for a Gabala Knight? A man could eat sparrows and convince himself they were turkeys - but the question of taste remained. And Morrigan... poor Morrigan.

  For several days Manannan had endured the pangs of withdrawal from Ambria. For Morrigan, the nightmare must have been infinitely worse. And yet she had not complained once. But then the Once-Knight had heard of the disappearance of a man from Groundsel’s group, and his fears had begun.

  He reached the edge of the trees and looked back. Somewhere within the vast forest an enemy force was riding. Manannan wished he could have ridden against it with Elodan and the others.

  Instead he must ride into the lair of the enemy and fight a duel with a man who had been a brother. It would be Pateus, who had now resumed his former name, Cairbre: Cairbre the thinker, the oldest of the Knights. Cairbre the kind, always the first to entertain the village children with stories. Now he was Cairbre the Drinker of Souls. It was almost inconceivable.

  Manannan dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks.

  And rode for the castle...

  The Duke of Mactha was brought out into the field and the crowds jeered and hissed. He wore a simple tunic of black wool edged with silver braid, dark grey riding trews and boots, and a short leather cape lined with fur. His head was held high and he looked neither left nor right as he was led to the execution cart set before the King’s pavilion. Climbing into the cart, he stood facing his monarch. All around the field were the newly arrived soldiers of the King’s army, waiting eagerly to see the execution. The Duke glanced to his left at the scaffold and the huge vat of boiling water beside it. A shiver went through him and he looked away. As soon as this farce of a trial was over, he would be taken to the scaffold and hanged. But before he could die, he would be cut down and plunged into the boiling water. Then his arms and his legs would be hacked away. Hanged, drawn and quartered... the traditional end for traitors.

  The Duke returned his gaze to the King. On his right sat the eight Red Knights; on his left the Lord Seer, Okessa.

  Okessa rose and fixed his pale eyes on the Duke. ‘You have been brought here before your peers and your liege lord to answer charges of treason, of aiding and giving counsel to traitors. How do you plead to these accusations?’

  The Duke smiled thinly. ‘I say that they are nonsense. Now shall we get on with the execution? You are beginning to bore me, Okessa.’

  ‘We will see how bored you will become,’ Okessa snapped. ‘Let us hear from the witnesses.’

  For the next hour the Duke listened to a variety of stories from his servants and his soldiers: that he went to Errin and offered to help him escape, that he had condemned the King publicly, that he had suggested to his first officer that if the King were assassinated while at Mactha there was a good chance the Duke himself would be declared the next monarch.

  As each witness finished his testimony, the Duke was asked if he had any questions. He had none. At last the ritual came to its close, and now Okessa rose once more, demanding that the traitor should meet his fate at once. The King had sat silently through the trial.

  Now he rose - his white hair shining in the sunlight, his pale face glistening with sweat.

  ‘Has the prisoner no words to say in his own defence?’ he asked. ‘Does he not wish to beg for clemency?’

  The Duke laughed aloud. ‘I have stood here and wasted a beautiful morning, my liege, listening to lies and deceits. I will not spoil it further by adding the truth. To be honest, though, for a moment, I think this is rather a good day to die. So let us...’

  His words faded away as the sound of a trotting horse came to him. He turned and saw a Knight in silver armour riding slowly across the field. The crowd was silent as the Knight approached.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ demanded the King.

  ‘I am Manannan, a Knight of the Gabala.’

  ‘That is a lie. The Gabala Knights have gone. You are an imposter.’

  ‘I see Samildanach sitting beside you, my lord. He will vouch for me.’

  The King swung to the Red Knight, who rose and removed his helm. His hair was close-cropped and white, his eyes a brilliant blue.

  ‘What do you do here, Coward Knight?’ asked Samildanach. ‘Have you come to pay homage to your betters?’

  Manannan ignored him and fixed his gaze on the King. ‘I am here, my Lord, to champion the cause of the Duke of Mactha, and demand the right to trial by combat.’

  ‘A traitor has no rights,’ screamed Okessa, but the King waved him to silence.

  ‘You wish to go against Sir Cairbre, who is the King’s champion in this Duchy? Is that wise, Sir Knight?’

  ‘Who knows, sire? It would certainly add some spice to the proceedings,’ Manannan replied.

  ‘That is true - and it should not be said that the King decries the customs that made our ancestors masters of the world. Very well. Let the fight commence.’

  ‘It is customary, my lord King, for a horse to be brought to the accused, for should he be proved innocent he may desire to ride from his place of execution and not walk like a prisoner between guards.’

  ‘Let it be so done,’ said Ahak. ‘Are you ready to champion my cause, Cairbre?’ he asked. The Red Knight stood and bowed. ‘As always, my liege.’

  Manannan dismounted, tethered his stallion to the execution cart and waited until a second horse had been brought for the Duke.

  ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ asked the prisoner. ‘I do not know you.’

  ‘But you do, my Lord. A long time ago, you and I jousted and you unseated me. But that is the past. I do it because it needs to be done. When the battle is over, mount the horse and ride like the devil towards the forest.’<
br />
  ‘What of you?’

  ‘With luck I shall be beside you.’

  ‘Can you defeat Cairbre?’

  ‘There is -always a first time,’ replied Manannan, pulling shut his visor and striding out to the centre of the field, where he drew his longsword and plunged it into the ground by his feet. Cairbre walked slowly down the pavilion steps and marched to stand before him. His visor was open, and Manannan was shocked to see that his old friend appeared to have become once more a youth.

  ‘Surprised, Manannan? You should not be. Paulus, whom you so cruelly slew, could have given you this for yourself. Immortality, Manannan - that is what you threw away.’

  ‘I did not kill him, Pateus; Morrigan did that. And such immortality as you have, I would not desire. Come, let us cross blades and be done with it.’

  ‘I do not desire your death, Manannan, but I have no choice. I will make it swift for you, I promise you that.’

  ‘Youth has changed you, Pateus; it has given you arrogance.’ Cairbre smiled and raised his sword and Manannan’s blade swung up to rest against it. Both men looked to the King.

  ‘Begin!’ he shouted. Cairbre’s sword slashed down, but Manannan blocked the cut with his cross guard and sent a wicked blow crashing into Cairbre’s side. Crimson armour-plates sundered and split - but the sword was halted by the chain-mail beneath.

  The crowd began to bay and cheer as the Knights circled one another, swords ringing and clashing in the discordant music of battle. Cairbre was slimmer and faster, but Manannan was powerful and his defence sure. Time and again the swords hammered against the defensive plate worn by both men, but neither combatant could land a deadly blow. The battle wore on. Manannan’s blade blocked a thrust aimed at the groin, and lashed out to crash against Cairbre’s waist. Again the crimson plates parted, and now blood began to seep through the mail-shirt where the rings had been driven into the flesh beneath. Cairbre circled to his left, trying to guard the wound, but Manannan launched a fresh attack - feinting a blow to the head, only to bring the sword slicing down to rip into Cairbre’s injured side. This time blood sprayed from the wound.

  Manannan surged forward - only to suffer a riposte that all but tore his helm from his head. Even wounded, Cairbre was not an opponent to take lightly. Manannan moved in more cautiously; Cairbre was growing desperate, and the Once-Knight knew that the battle was reaching its climax. Now Cairbre had only one chance - a swift attack and a killing blow to the neck-plates. Manannan gave him the opening. Cairbre’s sword flashed in the sunlight. The Once-Knight ducked beneath the slashing blade and rammed his own sword, point first, into Cairbre’s side, driving the blade up, and up, tearing through Cairbre’s lungs. As the Red Knight sagged to his knees, Manannan pushed him to his side and tore loose the sword. Cairbre groaned and tried to speak, but blood fountained from his mouth.