Knights Of Dark Renown (33 page)

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.’

‘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.

In the stunned silence that followed Manannan rose, walked to his stallion and mounted.

He bowed once to the King and wheeled his horse. The Duke leapt from the cart to the saddle of his own mount and the two riders thundered across the field towards a high picket fence.

‘Stop them!’ shouted Okessa and the crowd ran at them, but the riders approached the fence well ahead. The Duke leaned forward in the saddle and his horse surged up and over the barrier. Manannan followed him, almost losing his balance.

Then they were away and clear.

Manannan glanced back. The King’s riders had reacted swiftly and the chase was on.

Bavis Lan was sick of the forest. For sixteen days he and his men had hunted down traitors, destroyed villages and butchered the inhabitants. And at no time had they come across any sign of a rebel army. It was galling to think of the long ride back to Mactha and the sterile report to be made to the King. Two days ago they had captured the leader of a small settlement and he had been tortured to death. Throughout his ordeal, Bavis had questioned him concerning Llaw Gyffes and his army. The man had known nothing.

Bavis hitched himself round in his saddle, looking back at the four hundred and eighty-three men riding behind him. Only seventeen had died during the brief campaign, and that included young Lugas whose severed arm had turned blue with corruption. He hac? died screaming three nights ago. The slight losses alone should ensure that the King believed his tale: there was no rebellion.

The column wound its slow way down the forest paths and out on to the open ground before a range of wooded hills. Here Bavis raised his arm and signalled a halt for the midday meal. As he did so, three riders came galloping from the woods to the right. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight and tried to identify the men, thinking them to be his scouts. As they neared, he saw that they were dressed in foresters’ buckskins -and each carried a bow.

The riders hauled on the reins of their mountain ponies some thirty paces from the column and loosed their shafts. Bavis ducked low over his stallion’s neck and an arrow took the man behind him in the throat. The three attackers turned their mounts and thundered away towards the trees.

‘First Turma, after them!’ yelled Bavis and sixteen riders promptly peeled away from the column and spurred their horses into a gallop. The tall horses of the soldiers were stronger and faster than the ponies, and Bavis could see that the enemy would be overtaken just before they could reach the safety of the trees. The foresters wheeled their ponies and loosed a second volley of arrows. Two soldiers were shot from their mounts; a third swayed in the saddle — a shaft lodged in his shoulder.

Suddenly six Knights in armour of shining silver rode from the trees and Bavis blinked. The newcomers hammered into the charging lancers, swords bright in the sunlight. Horses reared and men died and the charge broke.

‘Advance!’ roared Bavis Lan, and the entire column galloped towards the fray. The six Knights cut and hacked their way clear of the First Turma and rode back into the forest, their grey mounts barely cantering. Fury filled Bavis. Dragging his sword clear of its scabbard, he screamed a battle cry and set off in pursuit. The trail within the trees was wide and the Knights were just ahead.

A terrible groaning noise came from Bavis’ right and he swung in the saddle in time to see a huge tree crashing down behind him. Men were swept from their saddles, horses crushed beneath the falling giant. A second tree fell - and a third. Panic swept through the column as riders dragged on their reins and tried to steer a path away from the trail. Arrows tore into them from the undergrowth. Bavis was lost. The thunderous noise of crashing trees, the pitiful screams of the trapped and dying, the chaos of the ambush, left him unable to think clearly.

‘Back!’ he yelled. ‘Retreat!’ But there was nowhere to go. An arrow glanced from his breastplate and tore up into his cheek.

He had to get away! He dragged at the reins and found himself facing the six Knights, who had turned and were once more moving in for the attack. Bavis kicked his horse into a run and swerved from the trail; an archer loomed up before him, but he lashed his sword across the man’s face.

Now he was clear and racing for the safety of the open ground beyond. He glanced back to see a single Knight following him. His horse stumbled, righted itself and ran on; the beast was sweating heavily, and foam showed on its neck; the charge uphill had drained its strength. Bavis looked back once more . . . the Knight was gaining.

‘Dear Gods of Heaven, save me!’ he pleaded as his stallion cleared a fallen tree and galloped out into the open. Far now from the screams, Bavis steered his mount towards a stream at the foot of the valley. If he could just make the stream, he could lose the Knight in the thick undergrowth beyond.

Another look behind him showed that the Knight had not closed the distance between them - but he was still there, grim and deadly.

Bavis’ stallion splashed into the stream and stumbled up the bank beyond. The Knight was closer now. Bavis ducked low over the saddle as branches tore at him. The trail narrowed, cutting left and right. He dragged the stallion to a halt and leapt from the saddle, then slapped his hand against the beast’s rump. It took off at a run and the general hurled himself into the undergrowth. He heard the Knight canter past, then rose and began to make his way deeper into the trees. The ambush had been terrible and he began to realize the awesome implications for his own career. H$s thirty Turmae had been destroyed utterly, of that he was in no doubt. The King would not take it kindly that the pick of his lancers had been wiped out by a band of peasant rebels. Bavis sat down on a large rock. He might have won his way clear of the enemy, but his life would be forfeit upon his return to Mactha.

It was all so galling. The success of his foray into the forest had lulled him into a sense of false security. He was convinced there was no rebel army; why in the devil’s name had he charged up that hill?

His thoughts were interrupted as a young woman stepped into the glade. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with long golden hair curiously streaked with silver.

‘Are you lost?’ she asked, moving towards him. He was struck by the sensual grace of her movements.

‘Yes. Where are you from?’

She came close and reached up to touch his bare arm. A shiver of pure pleasure came to him as her fingers stroked his flesh. His mouth was dry - the Knight forgotten.

His hands fumbled at her tunic.

How strange, he thought, that arousal could come at such a time.

Morrigan’s arm circled his neck and drew him down towards her.

Elodan turned away as Groundsel cut the throat of a wounded soldier.

‘Squeamish, Lord Knight?’ asked the outlaw leader.

‘Yes,’ answered Elodan. ‘I was not trained for butchery.’

Groundsel laughed. ‘You would never guess it! Your strategy was perfect - only one escaped.’

Everywhere the rebels were stripping the dead, gaining armour and swords. Thirty horses had survived the massacre, and these were loaded with weapons and armour and led away, back towards the camp in the high meadow. Elodan walked from the bodies to where Llaw, Errin and Ubadai were sitting in a sheltered glade by a tiny stream.

Errin looked up. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘You planned it well, Elodan.’

‘I feel no pride in it,’ owned the Lord Knight. ‘So many dead.’

‘All enemies,’ declared Ubadai. ‘I shed no tears.’

‘No,’ whispered Elodan, ‘nor does Groundsel. He’ll be searching the corpses for gold teeth next.’

Errin grinned. ‘Not an easy man to like, our Groundsel. But he fights well.’

‘There is more to being a Knight than that!’ snapped Elodan. ‘You should know that, Lord Errin. I am ashamed to wear this armour.’

‘Do not say that!’ stormed Llaw Gyffes. ‘Not ever! I know how you feel - but put yourself in my place. I am a blacksmith and an outlaw. As far as history is concerned, I am also a wife killer, t do not know how to be a Knight - but I will do my best not to dishonour the armour. That is all any man can do. Content yourself with this victory; it will give heart to the men.’