Arian left him then and made her way to Llaw’s hut, desperate to apologize. She had not meant to ask the question; it had sprung from her concern. Surely he would be able to understand?
But Llaw’s hut was empty, his belongings gone. She ran to the gate and climbed the ladder to the rampart.
Fresh snow was falling, but she could see his footsteps leading away into the darkness of the forest.
Llaw Gyffes pushed on until an hour before dusk, ploughing his slow way through drifts, down icy slopes and across frozen streams, determined to put as much distance between himself and the Dagda as possible. The man was a grim legend in the forest. None knew where he lived, but stories of his travels claimed he had walked the Forest of the Ocean for more than a century. Some said he was a former Knight, others that he was a priest, but all agreed his words were double-edged. Yet still men and women clamoured to hear of their futures - dark or bright, joy-filled or pain-borne. At dusk Llaw had a fire going against the fallen trunk of an old birch. He built a snow wall to the north to shelter him from the bitter wind and settled down to sit out the night.
Damn the girl! Death in the spring... lifeless before an army of enemies he had never courted. What unlucky star had he been born under? Which god had he offended to have his life so ruined? First Lydia -and that blow had been savage - and now a meaningless death.
The stars were bright, the temperature dropping as Llaw built up the fire and gathered his cloak around him. A whisper of movement came from the undergrowth and he drew his axe from his belt and swung his head. Sitting some fifteen feet from the fire, and gazing at him with baleful eyes, was a huge grey wolf. In the light from the blaze Llaw could see that his muzzle was white; he was old, and cast from the pack. From the size of the scarred shoulders Llaw guessed he had once been the leader of the pack; but like all creatures age had withered his strength and a younger male had forced him aside. Llaw reached into his pack, pulling out a section of dried beef which he tossed to the wolf. The beast ignored it. Llaw looked away and added more wood to the blaze. When he looked back the meat was gone, but the wolf still sat.
‘Proud, are you?’ said Llaw. ‘No bad thing, in man or beast.’ He tossed another chunk of meat, this time a little closer. Once more the wolf waited until he looked away before scooping the meat into its jaws. There were few recorded instances of wolves attacking men, and Llaw was not worried about his ability to kill the beast. His axe was sharp, his arm strong. But he was glad of the company. ‘Come, Grey One. Enjoy the fire.’
Another piece of beef landed before the wolf, but to his right, bringing him closer to the warmth. As he moved to the morsel Llaw saw the marks of recent combat on the gnarled shoulders, jagged fang marks deep along the flank. An old scar could still be seen on his right hind leg, causing him to limp. ‘You won’t survive the winter, Grey One. Even a tired rabbit could outrun you, and you’ll bring down no stags. Best you stay with me for a while.’ The wolf settled down on his haunches, grateful for the heat and his first meal in ten days.
The wound on his hind leg had been caused in the summer when a huge brown bear had attacked his mate. He had charged the beast and leapt for his throat, jibut the thick fur had prevented his fangs from sinking home and a swipe from the bear’s talons had opened a long wound in his side. His mate had died, and his own wound had been long in the healing. When the pack had gathered for the winter the challenges had come, as they always did, but he had neither the strength nor the will to withstand them. They had driven him from them many days ago.
He had lived on carrion and the leavings of other carnivores. Then with his strength almost gone he had smelt the man and had been gathering himself to attack him. Now he was unsure... but the meat was good, the fire warm. He settled down warily, his yellow eyes fixed on the man, his hunger now less keen.
Llaw delved into his pack; there were three more pieces of meat. He pulled two of them clear and bit into one. The wolfs head came up and he threw the second piece to it. This time the animal ate it at once. Adding fresh wood, Llaw settled down beside the fire. He did not fear an attack from the wolf. How could he? Did not the Dagda say he had until the spring?
He slept without dreams and awoke in the chill of the morning. The fire had died down to glowing embers and the wolf had gone. Llaw felt a sense of loss. He sat up, shivered and stoked the fire to life, adding twigs he had gathered the previous afternoon. Then he took a copper pot from his pack and filled it with snow, placing it at the edge of the fire. As the snow melted, he added fresh handfuls until the pot was half full with water. Into this he mixed some dried oats, stirring with a stick until it thickened.
The words of the Dagda haunted him still. His enemies were gathering, and he could not avoid them. That left the former blacksmith only one option. He would attempt what the legends said he had already achieved. He would build an army. He would take the war to them.
But how? How could a blacksmith raise such a force? He chuckled, ‘Start with one, Llaw. Find one man... then another. The forest is full of rebels.’ His thoughts went to Elodan, the former Knight. He at least was versed in the ways of war. And the wizard who had helped Lamfhada, he too could be a help. Llaw ate the hot oats, doused the fire and set off to the east.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Duke was mildly drunk as he sat on the ramparts gazing out over the snow-covered countryside. An iron brazier had been set up beside him, but the glowing coals barely countered the freezing wind.
Far in the distance he could just make out the black line of the forest, and beyond it he could picture the sea and the trade route to Cithaeron. The dawn sky was clear and the doves were waking around the tower, wheeling and diving. The Duke shivered and held out his hands to the coals.
Three days ago he had still nursed hopes of riding the storm of the new age. But then the King had arrived, with a thousand riders. The audience had been short, and when the Duke was summoned to his own hall there had been Okessa sitting at the King’s right. And flanking the throne were the eight demonic Red Knights. The Duke had bowed low.
‘This is a troublesome Duchy,’ said Ahak, Lord of the Realm, Captain of Ten Thousand Lances. The Duke looked up into his red-rimmed eyes and could find no words; the shock of the King’s appearance, white-haired and grey of face, unnerved him. ‘Well? Have you nothing to say, kinsman?’
‘I am... heartbroken that you are distressed, my liege. Perhaps the reports have been unnecessarily alarming. We have identified all of Nomad birth, our taxes are collected and have been despatched to Furbolg. Where is the problem?’
Ahak shook his head and turned to Okessa. ‘Where is the problem, he asks. Is he slow-witted?’ Okessa shrugged and smiled and the King swung on the Duke.
‘Where? Is this not the castle from which the rebel Llaw Gyffes made his escape, to form his rebellious army in that cursed forest? Is this not the Duchy that saw your own Lord of the Feast - a man you recommended should supervise my visit, and attend my person - turn traitor?’ Okessa leaned towards the King and whispered something in his ear. ‘Ah, yes,’ hissed Ahak. ‘And what of this wizard Ollathair, who was allowed to escape? And you do not see where the problem lies?’
‘My liege, I cannot dispute we have suffered... misfortunes. But the man Llaw Gyffes was just a blacksmith who killed his wife. And yes, he escaped. But of the men who escaped with him, all but a mere handful were recaptured. And as for Errin, I blame the Lord Okessa for provoking him at the Council. The man was concerned about a woman he loved.’
‘A Nomad bitch! Who knows what foul treason they would have plotted? I am displeased with you, kinsman. But I will consider what action to take when I have studied your Duchy at close quarters. Go now.’ Dismissed from his own hall, he had not been summoned to the King’s presence since then. But he had seen others who were. Two nights ago three young women from the village had been led into the courtyard by one of Okessa’s servants. An hour later, as the Duke lay in bed unable to sleep, he had heard a terrible sc
ream. The girls had not been seen since that night, but the Duke had watched as three sacks were carried from the royal quarters, their contents buried behind the stables. The Duke had slipped out into the courtyard an hour later and found the fresh-turned earth. Digging his ringers into the ground, he had come up with a small skull which he hastily reburied.
The following morning he had ordered his horse saddled for his usual ride across the hills, but was informed by his captain that the Lord Okessa had requested the Duke’s presence within the castle, in case the King should have need to call on him.
He was a prisoner in his own fortress, guarded by his own troops.
It was barely credible but then neither was the change in Ahak. The Duke had always known the King was a ruthless man. Six years ago the rumours had been strong that he ordered the poisoning of his uncle, the previous monarch, but in those days Ahak had been a powerhouse of physical strength, young and in his prime - his hair was raven-black, his eyes clear. Once, at a feast, he had lifted a twenty-gallon barrel of wine over his head and held it there for ten heartbeats. Now he was a shadow of the man he had been. And yet, how old could he be? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? Certainly no more.
As the coals in the brazier died down, the Duke returned to his quarters. His servants brought him hot water and, with the aid of a silver mirror, he shaved carefully around his thin beard, noting the grey hairs that were beginning to appear at his temples.
His face was lean and strong, the eyes deep and set close together above a curved nose. Not handsome, he knew, but powerful. He put down the mirror and rubbed at his face with a warmed towel.
Rebels in the forest! He wished to Hell there was a rebel army ready to sweep down. But all his spies informed him that the legend of Llaw Gyffes was exactly that: a fable. He smiled ruefully. Even if the legend were true, and the army swept into Mactha, he would still be a prisoner. He was a hated man; it was a lesson his father had taught him.
‘A man can rule using either love or fear,’ he had said. ‘But fear is stronger.’ And his words had been proved true. But now, as the Duke waited for news of his fate, he knew there was not a man in Mactha who would assist him and few tears would be shed when his blood ran,
‘Breakfast, my Lord?’ asked a slave-girl, whose name the Duke did not know.
‘No.’ He looked at the girl. She was young, dark and pretty. He knew he had bedded her at some time in the winter, but could not remember much of the event. He wandered to his bedroom. He was glad he had never married; he had planned to, of course, in order to sire an heir, but had decided to wait until he was fifty. At least now he would not have the worry of a family waiting to share his fate.
Hearing the thunder of hooves from the courtyard, he walked to the window. Five hundred of the King’s black-cloaked riders were galloping from the castle and he watched them for a while as they headed for the forest.
He summoned his captain. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked.
‘I understand the King has commanded them to enter the forest and ascertain the strength of Llaw Gyffes’ army.’
‘There is no army,’ snapped the Duke. ‘They will find a few settlements, and they will rape and kill. Gods! The world has gone mad.’ The man said nothing.
The Duke waved him away. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go and report what I have said; I don’t doubt Okessa will reward you.’
The man bowed, moved back and closed the door.
The Duke heard the key turn in the lock...
Manannan pushed back the sheets, lifted the girl’s arm from his chest and rolled from the bed. He poured himself a goblet of the golden Ambria and watched the sun rise in glory over the mountains. Strength flowed through him and he swung round to see the girl awake; she smiled at him and sat up.
‘How are you feeling, Lord Knight?’
He chuckled and returned to the bed, stroking her shoulder and pushing back the long, flowing hair to kiss her neck. Her skin was ivory pale, her body soft. Arousal swamped him...
An hour later he watched her leave and lay back on the bed. Sunlight streamed through the open window, bathing his body, and the music of songbirds came floating from the perfumed gardens below.
Manannan drank more of the elixir, then bathed and dressed in robes of blue silk. Wandering to the terraced garden, he strolled there among the blooms and the flowering trees. He found a small group of poets sitting among the camellias, arguing gently with a number of artists on the question of beauty. For a while he listened, but the sound of distant music lured him to a pavilion where women were dancing.
And the sun shone with incredible brightness.
Ollathair had been right. The tunnel beyond the Black Gate was a nightmare to chill a man’s soul: glittering eyes in the darkness, the sweat of terror upon his brow. But beyond it was a land of surpassing beauty and a city the like of which Manannan had never seen. White stone buildings towered over the landscape, wondrous statues lined the streets, and there were gardens everywhere, and woods of flowering trees.
He had been met at the city gates by Paulus, a poet and a Magister. The man, tall and white-haired, had bowed low.
‘Welcome at last, Manannan. It is a blessing for us that you have come.’
‘You know me?’ he had asked, dismounting.
‘Know you, my dear man? Samildanach has talked of nothing else. Welcome indeed! He will be delighted to hear of your arrival.’
‘He is here? Alive?’
‘Not here,’ said Paulus, smiling. ‘But yes, he is very much alive - as are all your comrades. They chose to remain among the Vyre and help us in our troubles. But you are tired from your travels. Follow me to my home; there you can bathe and take refreshment.’
The Magister’s home was a palace of exquisite beauty, marble-fronted and surrounded by terraced gardens. Young women came out to greet them and Manannan allowed Kuan to be led away to the stables beyond the gardens.
‘You have many slaves,’ he said to Paulus as they walked inside.
‘Not slaves, helpers. Servants, if you like.’ He led the Once-Knight to a suite of rooms and gave him his first goblet of Ambria. As he drank it, Manannan felt strength surge through his limbs.
‘What is it?’ he asked, astonished.
‘It is the bedrock of our civilization. It is life, Manannan. Drink of this and you will never have need of medicine, neither will you age.’
Samildanach and the other Knights were away in the north, he was told, but they would return in about a month. At first Manannan was concerned, and restless. Could he not ride out to meet them? Paulus agreed that he could, but advised him to rest for a few days, gather his strength, and then he would supply a guide. But the days passed and Manannan grew to love the white-towered city. There was something about it that opened his soul: the problems of the Realm seemed so far away, and the world he had left behind so remote and petty.
He bathed in scented water and found no need of food - one drink and his strength returned in seconds. The people here were gentle, and he spent several days roaming the libraries and museums, studying the customs of the Vyre. They were not a warrior race, though once - according to the histories - they had boasted great armies. Now they employed a mercenary force to patrol their borders, but there was little trouble with neighbouring lands.
‘Where is Samildanach?’ he asked Paulus on the fourth day of his stay.
‘He is helping to rescue some people from your own troubled land. Nomads, I believe they are called. He has opened a Gate for them to allow them to settle in our land.’
‘That is kind of you.’
‘It is not just kindness, Manannan. We have suffered ,, terrible plagues here during the last thirty years, and there are few people left to till the earth or supply our | needs. The land needs new blood. There are some two thousand Nomads settled already in the north. Perhaps when Samildanach returns, you can visit the new towns they are building.’
On the fifth day Manannan had been ill at ease. He felt strong as a lio
n, but on edge. He spoke of his feeling to Paulus, who smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You must understand,’ said the Magister, ‘that the Ambria is working inside you, rebuilding your body, making it stronger than it has ever been. It is also making you more aware of your body. What you need is a companion for your bed.’
‘I am pledged to celibacy,’ Manannan had told him.
‘Truly? For what purpose? Man was intended to mate. Trust me, Manannan.’
He had sent Draya to him that night, and she was divine to look at as well as being bright, witty and charming. Together they had finished a pitcher of Ambria and made love throughout the night. And Paulus was right. The tension in Manannan was gone; he felt smooth and relaxed, at one with this new world. After Draya he had enjoyed Senlis, Marin and others whose names he could not now remember.
The joy of it all was almost too hard to bear. The City of the Vyre was close to Manannan’s view of Paradise. It had everything except an all-powerful god and, truth be told, that made it somehow even better than Paradise. There were no judges here; the only law seemed to be Joy.
And the days passed. Manannan read the Books of the Vyre, learned their poetry, viewed their painting and sculpture, made love to their women. The Once-Knight was content for the first time in his life.
Soon Samildanach would return and they would ride to the rescue of Ollathair, put the Realm to rights, and then return here to enjoy the rewards of the blessed.
On the sixteenth evening Manannan fell asleep with these dreams in his mind. He awoke in the middle of the night, shivering and cold, and reached for his Ambria only to find the pitcher empty. He swore and rose - he was sure it had been half full when he fell asleep, but Paulus would have more. As he stood, he saw a figure sitting in the chair by the window - her back to the moonlight, her face in shadow.