Knights Of Dark Renown (3 page)

He found his way back to the main street, brushing aside beggars as he walked. Hyam was right; Mactha was becoming a running sore.

The Street of Ore was. near deserted and Ruad was surprised to see boards being hammered across the . windows of Cartain’s establishment. The front door was open and he stepped inside. The former Nomad was supervising the packing of several large crates, but he spotted Ruad and waved him through to the back room.

Cartain joined him there, and poured a goblet of apple juice which he passed to the bemused Craftsman.

‘You are leaving, too?’ said Ruad. ‘Why?’

The tall, angular merchant sat down at his desk, his dark slanted eyes fixing on Ruad. ‘You know why I am rich?’ he asked, stroking his hawk beak of a nose.

‘I have always disliked my questions being answered by questions,’ Ruad snapped.

Cartain grinned, showing a golden tooth. ‘I like you, Ruad - but answer my question.’

‘You buy cheap and sell dear. Now, why are you leaving?’

‘I am rich,’ said the merchant, smiling at Ruad’s increasing annoyance, ‘because I read the wind. When it blows fresh there is money to be made; when it blows bad, there is money to be made. But when it does not blow, it is time to move on.’

‘You are an irritating man,’ Ruad told him, ‘but I shall miss you. Where now shall I peddle my toys?’

‘I will send someone to you. Your work is still highly sought after. Do you have something for me?’

‘Perhaps. But I need gold ingots and more bronze — also a quantity of that Eastern oil.’

‘How much gold?’ Cartain asked, leaning back and averting his eyes.

‘You will earn three hundred Raq for my little singer. I will take the equivalent of one hundred.’

‘Show me.’

Ruad opened the leather pouch at his side and took from it a small golden bird with emerald eyes. He stroked its back and stood it on his palm. Then, lifting it to his lips, he whispered a word. The bird’s metallic wings spread and it rose from his hand to circle the room. Soft music sang from its beak and a heady perfume filled the air.

‘Beautiful,’ said Cartain. ‘Simply exquigite. How long will the magic last?’

‘Three years. Four.’ Ruad lifted his hand and the bird spread its wings and glided to his palm. He passed it to Cartain.

‘And the words of command?’

‘The name of its maker.’

‘Perfect. You are a Master. There is a king far to the east who desires a giant eagle to carry him into the sky. He would pay in diamonds as large as skulls.’

‘It is not possible,’ said Ruad.

‘That cannot be true, my dear partner. All things are possible.’

Ruad shook his head. ‘You do not understand the limits. Magic is a finite power. A long time ago Zinazar sought to extend it; he used the blood of innocence. It did not work then and it will not now.’

‘But supposing a thousand people were willing to give their blood?’

‘There are not a thousand people in all the world who can drink the Colours. Forget his diamonds, Cartain. How rich can one man be?’

Cartain chuckled. ‘He can have all the wealth of the world - and one copper piece more.’

Ruad drained his apple juice. ‘Now tell me why you are leaving - and not a single word about the wind, if you please.’

Cartain’s smile faded. ‘There are bad times coming and I want no part of them. My messengers tell me of evil deeds in the capital. This in itself would be of no consequence to a Nomad like me, but King Ahak’s mismanagement has left him with a thin treasury. Several Nomad merchants have been arrested, accused of treason and tortured to death. Their wealth has accrued to the King. Old Cartain will not feed the vulture’s treasury.’

‘I had my problems with the King,’ said Ruad. ‘He is arrogant and headstrong, but he is no despot.’

‘He has changed, my friend,’ Cartain told him. ‘He has surrounded himself with men of evil - even recruited men for a group he called the Knights of the New Gabala . . . and they are terrible. It is said he was gravely ill and a sorcerer cured him, but his soul died. I do not know. These stories abound. But then men will always talk of kings. What I do know is that the climate is not good for Nomads - or those of Nomad blood. I have seen these things before — in other lands. No good will come of it.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Across the Inner Sea to Cithaeron. I have relatives there . . . and a young wife.’

‘You have a wife here, as I recall?’

‘A rich man cannot have too many wives! Why not come with me? We could make a fortune.’

‘I do not desire a fortune,’ Ruad told him. ‘Have my goods sent to the mountains tomorrow.’

‘I will. Take care, Craftsman. All secrets have a habit of becoming known and yours, I fear, will prove no exception. And this time you would lose more than an eye.’

Ruad left the merchant and wandered back towards the stables, stopping to eat at a small inn.

Cartain’s planned departure bothered him, leaving him uneasy. Cunning as the merchant was, he was also a man to be trusted. There were few like him, and Ruad needed him. He finished his meal and sat staring at the gathering clouds.

All secrets become known.

There was truth in that, but it was a problem for another day. He paid the innkeeper and, carrying a sack of provisions, returned to the stable. Hyam had gone, but his youngest son saddled Ruad’s mare. The boy was sharp-eyed, with a flashing smile.

‘You should buy a new horse,’ said the lad. ‘This one is worn out.’

Ruad mounted and grinned down at him. ‘This is the beast your father sold me two months ago, swearing on the souls of his sons that she would run for ever.’

‘Ah,’ replied the boy, ‘but then Father is not as young as he was. Now, I have a gelding that was sired by Buesecus and even a man of your size could ride him all day and see not a mark of sweat upon him.’

‘Show me,’ said Ruad, following the boy back into the paddock. The black gelding was almost seventeen hands high, with a strong back and good legs.

Ruad dismounted. ‘Is it true?’ he asked the horse, ‘that your sire was Buesecus?’

The gelding swung its head. ‘No,’ it replied. ‘The boy is as big a liar as his father.’

The lad backed away, his eyes wide and fearful.

Ruad shook his head. ‘And you looked so innocent!’

‘You are a sorcerer?’ the boy whispered.

‘Indeed I am. And you have offended me,’ said Ruad, fixing the boy with a bleak look.

‘I am sorry, sir. Truly. Please forgive me.’

Ruad turned away and remounted his mare. ‘Your father may be old, boy, but he was never stupid.’ He heeled his mount and set off for the mountains. The lad was gullible and deserved to be fooled. Even as a child Hyam would have known the difference between magic and trickery.

All secrets become known.

He calmed his mind and reached into the Colours. It took’him time to find the White and ease his fears. At the top of a rise he swung in the saddle to look back at Mactha. The sun was dropping behind the mountains and the town was bathed in crimson.

Ruad shivered and, before he could steel himself, a vision shook him. Eight Knights in red armour, theft-faces ghostly white, their eyes filled with blood, were riding across the sky with dark swords in their hands.

With a great effort Ruad tore himself clear of the vision. Rubbing the sweat from his face, he kicked the mare into a run.

The six soldiers lay sprawled in death near the carriage and the two women stood side by side facing the attackers. Groundsel waited with his men behind him, eyeing the women with deep appreciation.

That they were sisters was as obvious as the fact that they were patricians. The taller of the two, dressed in a billowing skirt of green silk and a white blouse gathered at the throat, was holding a short sword she had swept up from the ground. The other was standing beside her, no sign of fear in her wide grey eyes. Both were beautiful. The girl with the sword had short curly hair, dark and glowing like a beaver pelt. Her sister wore her raven hair long, curling to her shoulders; she was dressed in a flowing robe of ash-grey silk, gathered at the waist with a belt braided with gold.

Groundsel felt arousal washing over him. He had never enjoyed sisters before — and these would fight, scratch and claw. He swallowed hard. Which of them should be first? The tall, proud one or the smaller, well-rounded woman with the haughty grey eyes?

One of his men darted forward and the taller woman’s sword snaked out in a fierce backhand cut. At the last second the man hurled himself aside, the blade slicing open his brown leather jerkin. He scrambled back on all fours, to the laughter of his comrades. Yes, thought Groundsel, the swordswoman would be first.

The sound of a trotting horse came to him and Groundsel swung to see a rider entering the hollow. He was a tall man, riding a tall horse, and though he was dressed in tunic and trews he wore a silver helm with the visor raised. He halted his grey stallion some ten paces from the twelve outlaws.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Are you in need of assistance?’

Groundsel stepped forward. ‘Be on your way,’ he hissed, ‘or we’ll drag you from the saddle and leave you for the crows.’

‘I was not addressing you, peasant,’ said the rider softly. ‘Where are your manners?’

Groundsel reddened and drew his two short swords, while the eleven outlaws spread themselves out in a circle. The rider slid from the saddle and drew a longsword that shimmered in the sunlight; he held it double-handed.

Just then the thunder of hooves filled the clearing.

‘Back!’ yelled Groundsel and the outlaws sprinted away into the undergrowth as a troop of soldiers rode in.

Manannan sheathed his sword and walked over to the women. He bowed.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ replied the smaller of the women. ‘Our thanks for your gallantry. I am Dianu; this is my younger sister, Sheera.’

Manannan turned. ‘My compliments on your sword-skills, lady. You have a fine wrist.’

A slender fair-haired man joined them; he was cleanshaven and wore no sword, but carried a fine bow of horn. His clothes were of the softest tan leather and, though unadorned, were cut to perfection. His eyes were brown, flecked with gold, making them tawny like those of a great cat. He took Dianu in his arms and kissed her cheek, then he turned to Manannan; his smile was warm and friendly, the eyes open and honest.

‘Thank you, sir. Your courage does you credit.’

‘As does your timing,’ responded Manannan, holding out his hand.

‘I wish it had been better - these loyal men would still be alive. I am Lord Errin of Laene,’ he said.

‘You have grown since last I saw you. Were you not page to the Duke of Mactha?’

‘Indeed I was - the year he won the Silver Lance. I am sorry but I do not recall you, sir.’

‘My name is Manannan. I was clad somewhat differently then and sported no beard. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way.’

‘Surely not?’ said Dianu. ‘You cannot ride alone in this forest. That robber was Groundsel and even now he will be watching us. You would be in great danger.’

‘As will he, my lady, if he crosses my path again! But do not fear for me. I have no wealth and Kuan rides far - and very fast.’

‘You are welcome to stay with us, sir Knight,’ put in Errin. ‘My estates are less than half a day away. Shelter for the night, and a good meal?’

‘Thank you, but no. There is a man I must find.’ Manannan bowed to the women and walked to his horse.

Dianu watched as he rode away. ‘A strange man,’ she said. ‘He could not have defeated them all - and yet he was prepared to take them on.’

‘I do not remember him,’ mused Errin. ‘Perhaps he was a sentry, or a soldier on duty.’

‘He would have been more than that,’ Sheera said. ‘He walks like a prince.’

‘Well, he must - I fear — remain a mystery,’ said Errin. ‘Come, let us get out of this cursed forest before Groundsel returns with more cut-throats.’

For a week Ruad stayed in his cabin workshop -melting his ingots, creating gold and silver wire, delicate leaves and curious rings. On the eighth night he awoke from a light sleep to hear the sound of horses galloping on the trail. He swung from his bed, stretched, pulled a cloak about his shoulders and moved through the cabin and out into the yard beyond.

Six riders had pulled up before the dwelling.

‘Whom do you seek?’ asked Ruad, straining to recognize the men.

‘Who says we seek anyone?’ asked a rider, leaning forward across his saddle.

‘It’s late for hunting,’ offered Ruad, ‘and I’m tired, so state your business.’

‘He’s here,’ hissed the rider. ‘Where else would he be? I’ll search the cabin.’ He swung down from the saddle and marched across the yard. Ruad stepped aside, but as the man drew abreast of him his left hand flashed out to circle the rider’s throat and lift him from his feet.

‘I didn’t hear you ask permission,’ said Ruad softly. The man’s feet lashed out weakly and his fingers scrabbled against Ruad’s iron grip.

‘Let him go!’ ordered another man, heeling his horse forward. Just then the moon broke clear of the clouds and by its light Ruad recognized the speaker.

‘I would not have expected an educated man to be riding with dross such as this, Lord Errin,’ said Ruad, flinging his victim aside. The man fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Craftsman, but a slave escaped today after the auction and he is said to frequent your company. We thought he might be here.’

‘Does this slave have a name, Lord Errin?’

‘I believe he is called Lug - an ugly name for such an attractive boy.’

‘Did you buy him?’

‘Yes; he was to be a present for the Duke. Unfortunately, now he will not be suitable. It will be necessary to brand his head and perhaps hamstring him.’

‘Harsh treatment indeed,’ said Ruad, ‘but warranted. Please search my cabin and then allow me to return to my bed.’

‘I would hardly doubt your word, Craftsman. If you assure me he is not here, we will leave you in peace.’

‘Be assured, Lord Errin, I have not seen the boy since last Tiernsday. Now, good night to you.’ Ruad walked to the fallen man, who was struggling to sit; hoisting him to his feet by his hair, he led him to his horse and bundled him over the saddle. Lord Errin grinned, tugged on the reins of his stallion and galloped from the yard.

The man with the bruised throat lagged behind, then rode to where Ruad stood.

‘I tell you . . .’ he began. Ruad cut him short.

‘Please,’ he said, spreading his hands, ‘do not promise we will meet again. Insults make me angry, but threats bore me. And when I am bored, I am sometimes violent. And neither of us wants that, little man.’ The rider jerked the reins savagely and kicked his mount into a canter.

After he had gone Ruad wandered to the well, hauled up a bucket of cool water and sat on the wooden bench to drink and watch the stars.

Lug had been right to be fearful. The Duke would have been a poor slave-master. The Craftsman closed his eye and searched through the Colours. The boy would be frightened, his emotions racing. Ruad never liked to use the Red, for it always led to paths where evil walked. But the Red was strong and it knew fear. He found the current and concentrated on Lug. Within seconds he snapped clear and turned.

‘Come out, boy,’ he called, and the door of the woodshed opened and Lug stepped into the moonlight. ‘You almost made a liar of me!’

‘I had nowhere else, Master. But tomorrow I will find Llaw Gyffes — if he will have me.’

‘Come inside,’ said Ruad softly. ‘I have a few . . . toys . . . that may help you on your way.’

Inside the cabin, Ruad stoked the coals to life and hung the old iron flat pan above the flames. Into this he scooped a little fat and as it began to sizzle he cracked four eggs into the pan.

‘I take it you are hungry, young Lug?’

‘Yes, Master. Thank you. But, with respect, I reached my majority yesterday. I am Lug no longer; I am a man, and it is not fitting to carry a child’s name.’

‘Indeed it is not,’ agreed Ruad. ‘What name have you chosen?’

‘Lamfhada, Master. I have long coveted the name.’

‘LongArm. Yes, it is a good name. The first Knight of the Gabala was called Lamfhada. If you bring to it a fraction of his fame, you will do well.’

‘I will do my best, Master. But I am no hero.’

Ruad slid the eggs from the pan to a wooden platter. Then, slicing several pieces from the dark loaf he had made the day before, he passed the meal to the newly-named Lamfhada.

‘Do not judge yourself too harshly yet. I knew no Knights who sprang, fully-armoured, from the womb. All were striplings once.’

‘Have you known many Knights?’ Lamfhada asked.

‘Many,’ agreed Ruad, pouring a goblet of water and cutting himself a slice of bread.

‘Why did they leave, Master?’

‘You are full of questions, young man. And stop calling me Master — a man such as yourself may now address me as Craftsman. Or, as when you completed the bird, you may call me Ruad.’

‘You would allow me to use your given name?’ whispered the boy.

‘It is not my given name,’ Ruad told him, ‘but I would be pleased if you used it.’ The boy nodded and finished his meal, wiping the bread over the platter to scour the last traces of egg-yolk.

‘I hope my coming here will not bring you trouble. They will use the Seer, Okessa, to find me; he will know I was here.’

‘No,’ said Ruad, showing his crooked teeth in a wide grin. ‘They do not have a Seer good enough to penetrate my secrets - not even Okessa. Do not fear for me. Now, let me give you a present. Come.’ He led the runaway through to the workshop where he opened an oak chest that lay against the far wall. From it he took a pair of doehide boots, edged with silver thread. ‘Try them on,’ he told the boy.

Lamfhada pulled off his sandals and struggled into the boots. ‘They are a little big.’

Ruad pressed his fingers against the boy’s toes.

‘Thick socks should make them more comfortable, and you can grow into them.’

‘Are they magic, Ruad?’

‘Of course they are magic,’ snapped the Craftsman. ‘Do I look like a cobbler?’

‘What will they do?’

‘There is a word which I will write down for you, and when you say that word, the boots will give you speed and strength. You will be able to outrun any man and, over rough ground, even a horseman.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you. They must be priceless.’

‘Unfortunately they are a failure. Yes, even I fail, young Lamfhada. They will not hold the magic. They will give you an hour, maybe two; then they are just boots. But they are good boots.’

‘Can I not restore the magic?’ asked the lad.

Ruad grinned. ‘It will be good practice for you to try, at least. You need the Power of the Black, which is Earth Magic. But the Black is capricious and not easily drawn . . . and you can only find it at night, under moonlight. I used gold thread, and there is no metal better attuned to the Currents. The difficulty is control. Too much gold and the power is such that no man could wear them and still keep his balance; one leap would carry you so high you’d die of the subsequent fall. Yet too little and the power is exhausted within an hour. The problem has irritated me for a decade.’

‘And the Word?’ Lamfhada asked.

Ruad took a piece of charcoal and wrote it on the table-top. ‘Do you know how to pronounce it? And don’t do it!’

‘I know,’ said the runaway, his blue eyes locking to Ruad’s face. ‘That is your given name, is it not?’

‘It is, boy, and no man must know of it. That is why I asked you never to talk of your work here.’

‘You have shown great trust in me, Ruad. I will not betray it. How is it that men think you dead? And why would you want them to?’

‘You and I are no different, boy,’ Ruad told him. ‘All men are slaves. My joy is that I understand magic better than any man alive. I love to create things of beauty. The Knights of the Gabala were beautiful — their armour beyond compare, their hearts as pure as the hearts of men could be. But there are in the world other powers, aligned to the Red, linked to the Dark-light. My work was sought after by those powers and it still is. But you do not understand me, do you? And indeed, why should you?’

‘Your skill was desired by evil men,’ said Lamfhada. ‘I understand that.’

‘I was captured five years ago by the King’s men and taken to Furbolg; there they burned out my eye. The King wanted magic weapons, but I would give him none.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘By dying. My body was thrown into a pit beyond the castle walls.’

Lamfhada made the sign of the Protective Horn and shivered, but Ruad chuckled. ‘By appearing to die! No heartbeat. No breath. They buried me - thankfully -in a shallow grave. I dug myself clear and staggered to the home of a friend. He nursed me for eight days; then I was smuggled out of the city and made my way here.’

‘One day they will find you, Master. Why not come with me to Llaw Gyffes?’

‘Because I am not ready. And I fear there is something I must undo. But you go. Live your life. Be free — or as free as any man can be.’

‘If only the Knights were still here,’ said Lamfhada sadly.

‘It is childish to dream of what can never be,’ Ruad whispered. ‘Now it is time for you to go.’ He opened a drawer under the bench, taking from it a long knife of razor-sharp steel. ‘Here, you may need this.’

‘Is it magic also?’

‘The worst kind of magic there is. With one thrust, you can destroy a lifetime of dreams and hopes.’