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 - bu
t 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.’
‘I hope Morrigan is all right,’ remarked Errin, as the silence grew. ‘One of us should have gone with her.’
‘I think you will find she is capable,’ said Elodan. ‘I watched her during the first encounter. She uses a sword like a veteran and her size belies her strength.’
‘Even so, she is a woman,’ said Errin.
Llaw chuckled. ‘Do not confuse women like Morrigan with the wasp-waisted courtesans you have known, Errin. No - nor Arian nor Sheera. They are women to walk the mountains with. Strong.’
‘I am no expert on mountain women, Llaw. I bow to your knowledge.’
Groundsel joined them, removing his helm and rubbing at his sweat-drenched hair. ‘When do we eat?’ he asked.
‘How can you think of food with the stench of death in the air?’ responded Errin.
‘I think of food because I am hungry. What has the smell to do with it?’
‘There is the woman,’ said Ubadai, pointing to the hillside. Morrigan rode into the glade and dismounted and Elodan rose and strode to meet her. She raised her hand arid lowered the helm visor masking her face.
‘Did you catch him?’
‘Yes, he is dead.’
‘Are you well, Morrigan?’ asked the Lord Knight.
‘I am fine. The sun is bright on my eyes, that is all. When do we leave?’
‘Most of the men are returning to the camp, but I would like you and Groundsel to head west. I am told there is a large settlement there, on a mountainside. It can only be reached by a bridge of chains. Some of the men have been there and they claim that the leader, Bucklar, has more than two hundred warriors. It would be good for us if he could spare a hundred for our cause.’
‘West?’ she queried. ‘That will bring us close to Pertia Port. I thought the enemy was there in force.’
‘So I understand. Take what supplies you will need.’
‘Does it have to be Groundsel? Why not Errin or Llaw - or even the Nomad?’
Elodan grinned. ‘Being the Lord Knight has certain advantages, Morrigan. I do not want him around me, so you have the pleasure of his company.’
‘He may not survive the journey,’ she said.
The Duke dismounted by the cave and stared long and hard at the blond youth waiting for them. ‘What do you want of me?’ he asked.
The youth smiled. ‘I want nothing, my Lord. All I ask is that you step into the cave and make a choice.’
‘No.’ The Duke turned to Manannan. ‘What is in there?’
‘A suit of armour,’ said the Once-Knight.
‘And I am to wear it? I am expected to fight alongside peasants and outlaws?’
‘More than that,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘You will be expected to die for them, if necessary.’
‘What madness! I am grateful that you saved my life - but I did not ask for your help and therefore feel no obligation to you. Why should I fight for your cause?’
Lamfhada stepped forward. ‘There is no reason why you should,’ he said. ‘If you desire to ride on, then you may. We will even give you supplies for the journey.’
‘And if I fight for you, what do you offer me?’
‘Nothing at all,’ came the answer.
‘You amaze me, boy. Tell me, Manannan, this suit of armour, is it silver like your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are asking me to become a Knight of the Gabala? It is beyond belief. Ask any man who ever served me and he will tell you I ani a hard man, maybe even a cruel one. I have lied and I have cheated and I have killed. All these things I have done to maintain my position - and had Okessa not turned on me I would still be serving the King. Is that the sort of man you wish to wear the silver helm? I think not.’
‘That was yesterday, Lord Duke,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Now let the armour choose.’
‘What do you say, Manannan? Should I enter the cave?’
‘Why should my opinion make a difference?’
‘Because you are a Gabala Knight. Do you want me for a companion?’
‘No, my Lord. But I am only a man. The armour is imbued with magic and it will choose. Enter the cave.’
The Duke stroked his thin beard and looked at the cave mouth. Then he shrugged. ‘Very well, I will look. But build no hopes, my friends.’
Swiftly he walked into the darkness and approached the solitary suit of armour. It was cold inside the cave and he shivered. Two flickering torches lit the walls, and reflected flames danced upon the breastplate. As a child he had been enchanted by tales of the Gabala Knights, but his father had always dismissed them.
‘Fools,’ he would say. ‘Lite is too short to spend riding the country interfering in other men’s disputes. What does it matter if a peasant loses a farm, or wins one? Who will care a hundred years from now?’
The words seemed to echo inside the Duke’s mind. He remembered his father’s funeral; not one tear had been shed.
‘And who will cry for you, Roem?’ he asked himself, then shook his head. What did it matter? Tears for the dead were a waste of time. The question now was a simple one - did he stay and fight, or leave for Citbaeron? Across the sea, with no wealth, he would find few friends. He would be forced to seek service with other rebels, perhaps as a captain of the guard, or as a Sabreur for some petty tribal chieftain. And here? Here he would fight alongside peasants and outlaws, men with no breeding: men not fit to kiss his hand.
Yet, at least, here he had a chance to regain his position, to win back his father’s Duchy.
He sat on the cold stone floor staring up at the armour. What chance of victory did these rebels have - even with the Knights reborn? Realistically? Against Ahak’s legions, his lancers and his scouts? Little or none. So what was the real choice? Alive in Cithaeron or dead in the Gabala!
Alive? Penniless and without honour - that was not life.
So then, what else is there, Roem? You can either live out your span, despised by your fellows, or fight alongside men you despise.
He stood and walked to the armour, seeing his lean angular face reflected in the breastplate. ‘Put a cloak over your contempt, Roem,’ he whispered. ‘Stand alongside these men and win back your birthright. And then, when the battle is won, the peasants can be herded back into their place.’
He reached out and touched the armour.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Outside the cave in the village beyond, the victorious rebel army had arrived safely home. Women and children streamed to meet them. Manannan sat down on a boulder and watched as Elodan, Llaw, Errin and Ubadai rode up to the cave.
‘It is good to see you safe,’ Elodan greeted them, stepping from the saddle. ‘Did your mission go well?’
‘He is in the cave,’ said Manannan.
‘What of Cairbre?’
‘I killed him. Let us talk no more of it.’
‘Who is in the cave?’ asked Llaw. ‘What was this mission?’
Lamfhada moved in front of Llaw. ‘The Duke of Mactha,’ he said softly.
All colour fled from Llaw’s face. ‘What mockery is this? The whoreson sentenced me to death for a crime he knew I did not commit. He is a King’s man!’
‘No,’ said Manannan. ‘He was on trial for his life; the King was to have him executed.’
‘Which just shows that even a bad King cannot be wrong all the time. This is a mistake, but I will put it-to rights. Get out of my way,’ said Llaw, drawing his sword.
‘Put it down!’ Elodan commanded. ‘This instant!’
Llaw swung on him. ‘So? You patricians want to stick together, do you? Fine. What else should I have expected?’
‘You are wrong, Llaw,’ said Elodan softly. ‘I am the man you asked to lead your army. Your army. But I am also the Lord Knight of the New Gabala. If the armour chooses him, then he is with us. If not?’ He shrugged. ‘Then he is yours. Does that suit you?’
Llaw backed away. ‘If the armour chooses? Had I known he would be among us, I would never have agreed to wear it myself.’ Slamming his sword in its scabbard, he stalked to his horse, mounted and rode for the village.
‘Thank you, Elodan,’ said the Duke, stepping out into the open, his armour blazing in the sunlight.
‘Lord Duke,’ said Elodan, ‘welcome to the Order.’
‘I am the Duke no longer. My name is Roem,’ he said, holding out his hand. Elodan shook it. Errin removed his helm and strolled forward.
‘I see we have a fine cook,’ commented Roem. ‘We must be a force to be reckoned with.’
Arian found Llaw Gyffes high on the south meadow in a grove of beech trees overlooking the forest. He was sitting by a small fire, staring into the flames, and did not hear her approach. She sat beside him and reached out to touch him, but stopped. Encased as he was in his armour, there was no point.
‘Llaw?’ she whispered but he did not turn his head. ‘Come, Llaw, speak to me.’
‘There is nothing to say. I am lost, Arian... lost.’ She moved closer to him.
‘No, you are not! You are Llaw Gyffes, the strongest man I have ever known. How can you be so downhearted? You have triumphed over your enemies and your army grows by the day.’
He shook his head. ‘None of it matters. My life was destroyed when Lydia died. And now I too must die -just as the Dagda said. And you know what will happen then? Nothing. If the King should prove victorious, the world will go on as before. If we should defeat him, then the Duke of Mactha - or someone like him – will rule and the world will go on as before. We change nothing by what we do.’