Knights Of Dark Renown (6 page)

‘Thank you for this advance intelligence,’ said Errin, forcing a smile. ‘Be assured I shall act upon it.’

‘I hope that you do. By the way, this matter of Ollathair intrigues me. Tell me, would you know of any craftsman or landholder around Mactha with only one good eye?’

‘I do not make it my business to mix with the lower orders, Lord Seer, but I shall have enquiries made for you.’

‘Thank you. Would you treat the matter with some urgency-?’-

‘I will indeed.’

Errin had gone straight to the Duke, who took him to his private apartments in the west tower.

‘It is not for us to question a royal decree,’ the Duke pointed out. ‘And let us not forget the question of increased wealth. You and I are in a fortunate position. Neither of us has any Nomad blood in our family lines; we can only benefit.’

Errin had nodded. He had always known the Duke was a hard and cruel man, but he had believed there was also a certain nobility of spirit in him. Now as he looked into the Duke’s dark eyes he saw only greed. The Duke of Mactha stood and smiled. Taller than Errin - who had once been his page - he was a handsome man approaching forty years of age, with a carefully cut and combed forked beard. ‘Do not fret about a few peasants, Errin. Life is too short.’

‘I am thinking of my manservant, Ubadai. He has been a faithful companion - and he saved my life. You remember? The bear hunt, when my horse fell? The beast would have torn me to pieces, but Ubadai leapt from his horse to the bear’s back.’

‘A brave move, but is that not what we expect from our followers? Give him money and send him to Gar-aden. Now, let us move to happier matters. The King is coming to Mactha in the spring and I want you to be the Lord of the Feast.’

‘Thank you, my Lord. You do me great honour.’

‘Nonsense, Errin, you are one of the finest organizers I know. The worst swordsman and the finest cook!’ The Duke had chuckled, and Errin had bowed and left the room.

Now, here before the fire, his heart was heavy and his mind full of foreboding.

Okessa was a snake, and it would be long before Errin would forget the malevolence in his eyes as he had asked, ‘You know of such families?’ It was that alone which had saved the one-eyed Craftsman, Ruad Ro-fhessa. Errin would never deliver any man into the hands of the Lord Seer. But where did that leave him?

Lost in thought, he did not notice Ubadai approaching. ‘Food,’ said the servant, placing a silver tray beside Errin’s chair.

‘I am not hungry.’

Ubadai looked long into Errin’s pale face. ‘Some bad thing, hey? No drink. No food.’

‘You must leave Mactha. . . tonight. Take all Nomad servants with you and make for the forest. Beyond it is the sea. Get as far from the realm as you can.’

‘Why?’

‘To stay is to die. All Nomads are to be herded to Gar-aden. It is a place of death, Ubadai; I can feel it. Prepare the servants.’

‘It is done,’ Ubadai assured him.

Ruad adjusted the silvered mirror and stropped his shaving blade against the leather hanging from the wall. Satisfied with the edge, he wetted his face with warmed water and carefully cut away the black and grey stubble.

The face he saw was one that merited a beard, he thought: a heavy, all-disguising beard, to cover the lantern jaw and mask the gash of a mouth with its crooked teeth.

‘You are uglier now than ever,’ he told his reflection. Returning to his table he pushed aside the remains of his breakfast and removed the bronze eye-patch, polishing it with a soft cloth until it gleamed. Replacing it, he poured himself a goblet of apple juice and watched the coming dawn, the shadows shrinking back from the trees outside his window.

He had been happier here than at the Citadel, for the old fortress held too many memories of his father. Calibal had been a stern parent to the son he had not wanted and the boy - ugly and awkward - could do nothing to please him. Every day of his youth had been spent trying to win his father’s love. At last he had succeeded in the Colours, proving himself a greater magician than Calibal; then his father’s indifference had turned to hatred, and he put the boy from him. Even when he was dying, he would not allow his son to sit by his death-bed.

Poor Calibal, thought Ruad. Poor, lonely Calibal.

He stood and forced the memories from his mind. For three hours he worked on his designs, then wandered out into the meadow beyond the woods to sit and enjoy the autumn sunshine. Soon the dark clouds would gather, the north wind howl and the blizzards cover the mountains with freezing ice and snow. Already the leaves were turning to gold, the flowers fading.

A distant figure caught his eye, making slow progress up the hill. Ruad waited as Gwydion approached.

‘Lazing in the sunshine?’ said the newcomer, his lined face red with the exertion of the climb, his white shoulder-length hair shining with sweat.

‘You should buy yourself a horse,’ responded Ruad, rising to his feet. ‘You’re too old for mountain walking.’

The old man smiled, took a deep breath and leaned on his staff. ‘I have not the energy to argue,’ he admitted, ‘but a glass of your apple juice will revive me.’

Ruad led him into the house and poured him a drink, while Gwydion sat down at the table.

‘How is life treating you?’ the old man asked.

‘I do not complain,’ said Ruad. ‘You?’

‘There is always work for a Healer - even one with fading powers.’

Ruad cut several slices of dark bread and a wedge of cheese, passing them to Gwydion. While the man ate Ruad walked to the doorway, scanning the road to Mactha. All was still.

‘Okessa is seeking news of a one-eyed craftsman,’ said Gwydion as Ruad returned.

‘I do not doubt it. I made a mistake.’

‘You gave magic to the boy, Lug?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was not wise.’

‘Wisdom should be tempered with compassion,’ observed Ruad. ‘Did you come all this way to warn me?’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Gwydion. ‘I would have sent a message, but there is a pressing matter you might help me to resolve.’

‘You speak of the change in the Colours?’

‘Then it is not all in my mind? Good,’ said Gwydion. ‘So my powers are not fading as fast as I believed?’

‘No. The Red is swelling, the other Colours fading. Green is suffering the worst, for it is the furthest.’

‘What is the cause?’ Gwydion asked. ‘I know that the Colours shift and dance, but never in such an extreme way. The Green is now a shimmering thread - I am hard pressed to heal a sick calf. ‘

Ruad moved to the hearth, cleared away the ash and prepared a new fire. ‘I do not have any answers, Gwydion. There is an imbalance; the Colours have lost their harmony.’

‘Has this, to your knowledge, happened before? I have never heard of such a thing.’

‘Nor I. Perhaps it will right itself.’

‘You think so?’ asked Gwydion. Ruad shrugged. ‘There is an ugly feeling in the air,’ whispered the old man. ‘In Mactha there have been three murders in the last week. There is fear, Ruad.’

‘It is the influence of the Red; it stirs the emotions. I have felt it too - an impatience, an anger, that affects my work. Lately I have been unable to use the Blue, so I have resorted to the Black, but even that is fading.’

The old man shivered as a cold wind blew through the open doorway. ‘Light the fire, Ruad. These ageing bones cannot take the cold.’

Lifting a thick branch from the hearth, Ruad ran his fingers along its length. Fire leapt instantly from the wood and he thrust it into the prepared tinder. ‘The Red, of course, still has its uses,’ he said, adding fuel to the blaze.

Gwydion grinned. ‘Not for Healing, from which I earn my meagre income.’

Ruad closed the door and pulled two chairs before the fire. Gwydion seated himself, holding out his hands to the dancing flames, and Ruad joined him.

‘You will, of course, stay the night? You are most welcome.’

‘Thank you,’ Gwydion accepted.

‘What other news have you?’

The Healer shivered. ‘None that is good, I fear. A traveller from Furbolg says the city is in the grip of terror — a killer is stalking the streets. So far the bodies of eleven young women have been found, and five young men. The King has promised to hunt down the killer, but as yet there is no sign of any success. Added to this are rumours concerning the Nomads. More than a thousand were taken to Gar-aden to what was described as a settlement. I have it on good authority . . .’ Gwydion shuddered. ‘Strange how fire does not warm me as once it did. Do you think I am close to death, Ruad?’

‘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.