Knights Of Dark Renown (38 page)

‘True,’ said Elodan. ‘And the men will desert in their hundreds - they will have to, in order to save their families.’

‘The enemy is short of food,’ Errin put in. ‘They cannot march too far, for they will need supplies. They cannot live off the land as we do. We have scattered the herds, driving them north, and there are no crops as yet.’

‘Food will no longer be so great a problem for them,’ said Lamfhada softly. ‘The Duke of Mactha has been slain by Samildanach, and all the men with him are lost to us.’

Errin cursed. The others said nothing. Finally Manannan spoke. ‘I do not think they will attack in force today; they will wait for the mud to dry out. It seems to me we have only one choice: we must attack them. Hit their camp. But it is a risky venture, my friends, and our losses will be high.’

‘I am not a military man, Manannan,’ said Errin, ‘but I have an idea — it is probably foolish.’

‘Speak, Errin,’ Manannan invited.

They listened in silence as Errin outlined his thoughts. Ubadai, who had been quiet throughout, stood and walked away.

Towards dusk Okessa left his tent, lifting his long purple robes to prevent them from scraping the mud, and walked out to the hill at the centre of the camp. From here he could see the neat lines of tents and the regularly spaced cook-fires, the long trestle-tables where the men gathered to collect their meagre rations, the picket lines set at right-angles to the tents and the latrine ditches dug downwind of the camp. Tomorrow would see the end of the rebels and the beginning of Okessa’s dream. Already he was the Duke of Mactha, and he had the ear of the King. Soon the army of the Gabala would march into neighbouring lands, sweeping out to the sea - and the riches of Cithaeron. Okessa longed for the day when the King would make him Satrap of a foreign realm - almost a king in his own right. His two acolytes joined him on the hilltop, leading a white goat. They lifted it to the crude altar and Okessa slit its throat, then he disembowelled it and tore the liver from its innards. Dropping the carcass, he carried the liver to where an acolyte held a burning torch. But the organ was diseased and covered with black spots. Okessa swallowed hard and swung on the acolyte. ‘Fetch another goat,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now.’

The man nodded, handed the torch to his master and ran down the hill, slithering in the mud.

‘How are the King’s fortunes, my Lord?’ asked the second acolyte, approaching his master. Okessa’s pale eyes fixed on the man.

‘I did not sacrifice the goat for the King,’ lied Okessa, ‘but for the enemy.’ He showed the man the bloody liver and the acolyte grinned.

‘Tomorrow should be a fine day, sir.’

‘Yes,’ Okessa agreed. Dropping the liver to the ground, he wandered to the brow of the hill. Below, the soldiers were gathering in rings around the camp-fires. From the west came a troop of Lancers riding slowly, almost wearily. ‘Go down to that officer,’ called Okessa. ‘Tell him to report directly to me.’ The acolyte bowed and made his way down the hill towards the approaching riders.

The troop rode into the camp. Some of the men dismounted and gathered torches; others moved on towards the picket lines where more than five hundred horses were tethered. Okessa watched in astonishment as three riders drew their swords and cut down the picket sentries. Fires leapt from several tents to the west, the wind fanning the flames. Suddenly the camp was in an uproar as men surged from the cook-fires, running to their tents to rescue their possessions. The westerly breeze caught the flames, lifting them from tent to tent. A shout went up from the east and Okessa swung to see the horses thundering towards the forest, being chased by a dozen riders - no, not chased, herded! At the centre of the camp all was chaos. Okessa could see swords flickering in the firelight and men falling.

Then he saw the troop thundering from the camp. His own tent caught fire and he began to run down the hill, but his foot slipped in the mud and he tumbled headlong, spinning and sliding until he came to rest at the foot of the rise. His robes were ruined. Cursing loudly, he got to his feet and strode into the camp to see his tent was blazing, his books and scrolls destroyed.

An officer ran by and Okessa grabbed his arm, but the man tore himself free and continued on his way. Thick smoke curled around him and tears started from his eyes as he coughed and spluttered, backing away from the inferno. To the east men were tearing down their tents in an attempt to halt the advance of the blaze. Just as it seemed they were winning, a tremendous crack of thunder rolled across the heavens and the rain lashed down, dousing cook-fires and torches. The flaming tents hissed and spat, but could not compete with the torrent; within minutes the entire camp was plunged into darkness.

Okessa’s fury rose, but there was no one to vent it upon. The storm lasted for more than two hours. When at last the moon broke clear of the retreating clouds Okessa, drenched and filthy, located the general, Kar-schen. He ordered the night sentries to be put to death and the captain of the watch flogged.

He watched the executions at dawn, but they did not lift his spirits.

How could they?

He had seen the King’s future.

*

In Mactha, King Ahak was in a better mood. The upper rooms were warm, the food plentiful and the evening promised heady pleasures. He did not need Nourishment, but what had need to do with joy? To take a woman, use her in the way the Gods intended, fill her with new life and then draw her life from her, filling himself. Never had he believed such joy possible.

He remembered the day Samildanach came to him, with the gift of Ambria. That had been incredible. But the first time he had sucked the life from another living being . . . that was indescribable. Now he had it all. Immortality. Power. The King for Ever. Everlasting. He savoured the feel of the words on his tongue.

Strolling to the window, he stared down into the courtyard. Where in Hell’s name was his manservant? He should have found a girl by now.

He poured himself a goblet of strong wine and drained it. There was a time when wine had seemed like the nectar of the Gods. But that had been before Ambria, before the pleasures of the Vyre. Now it served only to whet his appetites.

A light, tapping sound came from the door. ‘Enter!’ called the King.

The door opened and his manservant, Mahan, stepped inside and bowed. ‘My Lord, if it please you, there is a woman from the village who wishes to enjoy the pleasure of your company.’

‘Bring her in,’ said Ahak, sweeping his purple cloak over his shoulder and drawing himself up to his full height.

Mahan stepped aside and ushered in the woman. She was tall and slender, yet full-breasted, her hips delightfully curved. As Ahak moved forward and took her hand, she averted her eyes from his gaze, looking down towards the floor.

‘Do not be shy, my dear,’ said Ahak. ‘I find it a delight to meet my subjects and listen to their cares and worries. It aids me in this lonely role.’ He lifted her chin and was rewarded by a soft smile. Dismissing Mahan, he led the woman to the window. ‘Will you join me in a drink?’

‘If it please you, my Lord.’ Her voice was soft and mellow and fired his passions but he fought them down, savouring the moment. Reaching out, he took her hand, lifting it to his lips. He pulled her close to him, his right arm circling her waist.

‘Would you do anything for your King?’ he whispered.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

He released her hand and ran his fingers down her body, squeezing her breasts, stroking her belly. ‘You know what I desire?’

‘Yes, Lord,’ she said, loosening the ties on her dress. When he pushed it back from her shoulders, it fell to the floor and she stepped from it. He led her to the bed, unfastened his cloak and removed his clothing.

For a moment he stared at her.

‘You have no idea of the pleasures in store,’ he said, sliding alongside her.

‘I think I have, my Lord,’ replied Morrigan.

Samildanach dismounted and led his stallion to the stable. Then he mounted the steps and pushed open the main doors to the hall. Mahan moved to get him.

‘Where is the King?’ asked the Red Knight.

‘He is in the Duke’s upper bedchamber, Lord. He has a woman with him.’

‘I will wait,’ said Samildanach. ‘Bring me some wine.’

‘Yes, Lord. It may take longer than normal; the woman is exquisitely beautiful.’ Mahan grinned.

‘Exquisite? Here in Mactha? That is a surprise.’

‘Yes, Lord. I think the King’s luck has scarcely been better. I found her waiting outside the castle; she was just sitting by the roadside.’

‘Describe her,’ said Samildanach. ‘Tall, with the most beautiful golden hair. She is young and yet it is already streaked with silver . . .’

‘Dear Gods!’ shouted Samildanach and drawing his sword he raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the upper corridor and ran to the bedchamber, but the door was locked. Leaning back, he crashed his foot against the brass key-plate and the door burst open. Samildanach leapt inside . . .

The King’s hideously withered corpse lay on the bed. Morrigan was sitting naked on the floor, blood pooling at her feet from the deep slashes in her wrists.

Samildanach dropped his sword and walked over to her. ‘Why?’ he whispered.

Her eyes struggled to focus. ‘Why? Can you not see what... we have become? Oh, Samildanach! We are corrupting everything we ... touch.’ She sagged sideways and he caught her, drawing her to him. Her head fell to his shoulder. ‘I loved you,’ she said, ‘more than life. And now ... I don’t even know what it means.’

‘Don’t talk. Let me bind your wrists; we can save your life.’

‘There is nothing to save. I died back in the City of the Vyre when I became one of the Undead -just like you, my love.’

‘You don’t understand. We will build a new Gabala . . . New . . .’

‘Do you remember loving me?’

‘I remember,’ he said.

‘Not in the Vyre - but before. In the garden on the night you left. You remember?’

‘Yes. It was another age.’

‘What happened to that glorious young Knight?’

‘He is still here, Morrigan. He... Morrigan? Morrigan!’ He laid her gently to the floor and closed her eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

It was two full days before the King’s army was ready to march, the infantry pushing ahead down the long valley in phalanx formation with shields locked in four great squares.

Manannan, Elodan and the other Knights sat their mounts to the north of the advancing army, and the mood was sombre. Llaw had sent scouts east and west to gauge the strength of the enemy cavalry and the first report had been swift. Nearly two thousand riders were pushing in from the west. From the east, there was no word.

‘We must pull back,’ said Manannan. ‘We do not have the numbers to break those squares.’

Reluctantly Llaw agreed.

A forester ran from the trees, his face red, his eyes bright with excitement.

‘Llaw! Llaw!’ he shouted. ‘The Lancers have been crushed!’

‘What? What’s that you say?’

‘There are five thousand rebels, led by a man named Ramath. They smashed the Lancers; they are on their way here now.’

‘Ramath? I’ve never heard of him.’

‘The whole forest north of us is ablaze with news of a miracle - something about Nuada and the Tree of Life. I don’t understand all of it - but they’re here!’

‘Where?’ asked Manannan and the man turned and gestured to the eastern hills where armed men poured out from the trees, racing down the slopes towards the enemy.

‘Damn!’ shouted Elodan. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces!’

‘Sound the advance!’ ordered Llaw. ‘We’ll hit them from all sides.’

‘If they hold formation, they will turn us back like water from a dam,’ said Manannan.

‘Then pray they don’t,’ Llaw told him. ‘Forward!’ He spurred his stallion into a run, the other Knights following, and behind them some eighty riders in stolen armour.

At the centre of the first square, Okessa saw the attackers and blanched; there were thousands of them. ‘Back! Back!’ he screamed and the marching square faltered. They could hear the panic in the Duke’s voice and this, coupled with the wild screams of the charging horde, caused them to break and stream back down the valley. Two other squares sundered themselves but the third, under the general Kar-schen, held firm.

Okessa spurred his mount towards the safety of the plain, outdistancing the running soldiers. He was almost clear when a slender figure loped down the hill and drew back on a bow. The arrow took his horse in the chest and the beast stumbled, hurling him over its head. He hit the ground hard, rolled and came to his knees to see that his attacker was a woman. He fumbled at his belt. ‘I have money here,’ he said. ‘Take it all.’

‘You killed my sister,’ said Sheera, notching another arrow. Okessa rose and began to run back the way he had come . . . the arrow took him to the left of his spine, cleaving through to his heart.

Sheera turned and ran back up the hill, but none of the soldiers gave chase - they were too intent on escape. Kar-schen saved the day for the King’s army, fighting a steady retreat back down the valley. Hundreds of panicking soldiers, looking back, saw the general’s courageous rearguard and, finding their courage once more, joined him. The army suffered fearful losses, but was still intact when dusk gave way to darkness.

Samildanach and the Red Knights arrived near midnight and Kar-schen gave his report.

‘There was little I could do,’ said the burly, ageing general. ‘The Duke panicked and the men fled with him. But we still have an army - and we have been joined by two thousand Lancers. If we go in tomorrow, I believe we will rout them.’

‘I do not believe that will be necessary,’ Samildanach told him. ‘You did well, general; very well. I will see that the King rewards you.’

‘His Majesty is well?’

‘Yes, he is resting in Mactha.’

At dawn Samildanach rode into the valley, halted his horse and planted a white banner in the earth. Then he waited. It was more than an hour before a Knight in silver armour cantered down to him.

‘Welcome, Manannan. How are you faring?’