The Once-Knight looked on, horror-struck, while Morrigan rose and wiped the blood from her mouth. She turned slowly.
‘Manannan!’
‘Take off that armour,’ he hissed. ‘Now!’
‘Wait!’ she pleaded. ‘Let me explain.’
‘What I saw explained everything. Take off the armour, Morrigan — or I’ll kill you where you stand.’
‘You think you could?’ she spat. ‘I have the strength of the Vyre.’
‘I know I could - and so do you. Take off that armour. Now. You disgrace everything it stands for.’
For a moment he thought she would attack him, but then she dropped her sword and began to unbuckle the silver breastplate. He waited in silence until she stood before him in a simple blue tunic and grey leggings. ‘What now?’ she asked.
‘Now you go from here. You leave the forest. If ever I see you again, you will die. Get out of my sight.’
‘It is not my fault!’ she shouted. ‘I did not choose to be the way I am.’ He did not reply; she moved closer. ‘Manannan, don’t send me away.’
‘If you are still here in one minute, I shall cut your disgusting head from your shoulders. GET AWAY!’ he screamed. She recoiled from his fury and ran from the glade as Manannan slumped to the grass, his hands shaking. He was still there when Elodan found him.
The Once-Knight outlined what he had seen and Elodan sighed. ‘In one way she was right, Manannan. She did not choose to be a Vampyre; it was forced on her. But she had to go. Will you remove my helm?’ Manannan placed his hands on the helmet and twisted it loose of the neck-ring, lifting it clear. ‘Thank you, my friend. I feel more useless than ever in armour. You know, left to myself I would not be able to remove my breastplate.’
‘You are beginning to fight well,’ Manannan told him. ‘That is a boon.’
Elodan lifted his left hand and stared at it. ‘It is beginning to obey me, but I would not like to meet anyone skilled.’ The Lord Knight glanced at Morrigan’s armour. ‘I suppose we should select another Knight?’
Manannan shook his head. He strode to where the breastplate lay and lifted it, carrying it back to Elodan. On the outside the plate shone like polished silver, but inside it was rusted through. Manannan tensed his muscles and gripped the edges hard; the breastplate snapped and fell apart in his hands.
He hurled it aside. ‘The armour reflects the wearer,’ he said.
‘Then why was she chosen at all?’ Elodan asked.
Manannan shrugged. ‘I do not know. But we have lost Groundsel, and now Morrigan. Who is next, I wonder?’
‘Nuada is also dead,’ said Elodan. ‘Lamfhada came to me in a dream last night. The poet was nailed to a tree; he gave his life to save a village.’
Manannan said nothing, pushing himself wearily to his feet. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘The day is not yet over.’ He lifted Elodan’s helm and prepared to place it on the Lord Knight. Elodan’s eyes were sorrowful as he spoke.
‘It must hurt you, Manannan, to see the men who have become Knights of the Gabala: a cripple who cannot dress himself, a thief, a cook, a blacksmith, and a Nomad tribesman who wouldn’t understand the concept of chivalry if it bit him.’
‘You have no idea, Elodan, how proud I am. No idea.’
The King hurled the jewel-encrusted goblet at the general, who knew better than to duck. The missile took him high in the forehead, gashing the skin, but he remained at attention as a trickle of blood moved down his cheek.
‘You imbecile!’ stormed the King. ‘You incompetent! My troops will starve if it’s left to you to supply them. How many convoys have got through to us in the last six days? How many?’
‘One, sire,’ answered the man.
‘One. You have been given five hundred Lancers; you have scoured the countryside. And what have you achieved? What?’
‘Nothing, sire. We captured one of their scouts who told us the Duke of Mactha was leading the force. Under torture he gave us their hiding place. But when we got there, the Duke was gone.’
‘Who?’ hissed the King. ‘Who had gone?’
‘The Du... the traitor Roem, sire.’
‘Get out of my sight - and report to Kar-schen. You are no longer a general; you will take command of the next Turma into the forest.’
‘Yes. sire. Thank you, sire,’ said the man, bowing and backing away through the tent entrance as the King swung to Samildanach, who was standing beside the throne.
‘How do you read our situation, Lord Knight?’
‘The former Duke is a worthy adversary. His raids are lightning-swift and well planned. He has burned over a dozen convoys for the loss of maybe six men. He knows the land. Far more worrying is the news of unrest in Furbolg.’
‘Unrest? A few riots. My troops have seen to them,’ said the King.
‘Even so, sire, the main army is with us here. Should there be a revolt...’
‘A revolt? Why should there be? I am well-loved. Is that not so, Okessa?’
The new Duke of Mactha bowed his bald head. ‘Indeed it is, sire. But the Lord Knight is right to be concerned - there will always be elements inspired by envy or greed.’
‘What do you suggest, Samildanach?’
‘I think you should return to Furbolg, sire — with a thousand Lancers. That should put paid to any problems.’
‘But I want to see Llaw Gyffes and his rebels punished.’
‘You will, sire. Despite their spirited defence, it is now obvious that they lack the numbers to halt a fierce and sudden invasion. In two days the Lancers will advance on the left and right, two miles apart, and converge on the centre. At the same time I will lead the main body of the army into the forest here. The enemy will be forced to fall back.’
‘Then I will stay to see it,’ stated the King.
‘Sire,’ continued Samildanach, ‘that is only the first move. They will not stand to be destroyed at a single blow. The rebellion will be crushed, but it will take weeks to hunt them all down - and I fear the continuous pursuit through the forest would bore you to tears.’
‘Very well, Samildanach, I will heed your advice. But Llaw Gyffes is not to be killed; he must be brought, with the other traitor Knights, to Furbolg for trial and execution.’
‘It will be done, sire.’
‘And what plans have you for the traitor, Roem?’
‘We are sending one convoy from Mactha — but this time, as well as the escort, there will be Lancers a mile distant to the south, west, east and north. He will not escape. I myself will be riding with the convoy.’
‘Send me his head. I shall have it placed on a lance over the main gates of the city.’
‘Indeed I shall, sire.’
Soldiers ringed the former Duke as he stood, holding his sword double-handed and keeping them at bay. A warrior ran in, but the Duke swept aside his thrust and slashed his own blade down through the man’s neck. A half-mile to the west, the smoke from the burning convoy was rising like a giant cobra. Roem grinned. Around him lay the remains of his force; they had fought well, but had been outnumbered and overpowered. Only Roem, in his silver armour, had been able to withstand the many blows.
‘Come then, my heroes,’ invited Roem. ‘Who is next for the swan’s path to glory?’
‘I fear you are,’ said Samildanach, moving inside the circle. ‘Do you wish to surrender?’
‘Dojyou?’ asked Roem.
‘I think not. The King has asked me to send him your head and I promised I would. I am a man who likes to keep his promises.’
‘Truly? Did you not once promise to aid the poor and the dispossessed?’
‘Enough talk, Roem. Defend yourself!’
The Duke of Mactha was a fine swordsman, but never had he faced a warrior more skilled than Samildanach. With increasing desperation he fought off the Red Knight’s frenzied attacks, but as he grew weaker he could sense his opponent growing ever more strong. The dark blade hissed and cut faster and faster. Roem tried to attack, but his blows seemed clums
y and without style against the master he faced. His shoulder-plate was hacked away by a mighty blow, exposing the collar-bone; then his helm was struck, the sword ricocheting to slice open the skin of his shoulder. A second blow loosened the helm and Roem backed away. Samildanach did not follow.
‘Do remove it if it troubles you,’ Samildanach invited him.
Roem plunged his sword into the grass and lifted his damaged helm clear.
‘You are a remarkable fighter, Samildanach,’ he said. ‘I only ever saw one man better.’
Samildanach chuckled. ‘If you fought a better man than I, Roem, why are you still here?’
‘I only practised with him. He will kill you, Samildanach.’
‘And the name of this paragon?’
‘Manannan.’
The smile left Samildanach’s face. ‘The day has not dawned when Manannan could best me - and I am stronger and faster now than ever before. I think you seek to unsettle me, Roem. Is that not so?’
‘You see through me so easily,’ answered Roem with a smile. ‘But I wish I could be there when he forces you to kiss the grass at his feet.’
‘But you won’t!’ hissed Samildanach, leaping forward. Roem’s sword came up - but too slowly... the dark blade swept through his neck and his head toppled to the ground.
Samildanach sheathed his sword and turned his back on the corpse.
‘See that the head is sent to the King,’ he ordered. ‘Today. He should be halfway to Mactha by now.’
For five days a thunderstorm swept across the forest, swelling rivers and streams, making paths and trails treacherous, hills impossible to climb. The fighting became sporadic and the army of the King was forced to halt its advance on both wings. At the centre, under Samildanach and Okessa, the infantry pushed forward slowly.
On the sixth day the sky cleared, the sun blazing down upon the sea of mud that was to be the battleground.
Samildanach decided to wait one more day for the ground to become more firm, and rode for Mactha to report to the King.
In the hills Elodan and Manannan redirected their forces to the east and west, where the advancing wings were meeting little resistance. Lamfhada arrived at the camp at noon.
‘They have two thousand men on each side of us,’ he told Manannan. ‘If we stay here, we will be trapped; the horns will close in, drawing us on to the foot soldiers. We must retreat.’
‘I agree,’ said Elodan. ‘We cannot allow them to force us into a pitched battle; their numbers would swamp us.’
‘I can see that,’ said Manannan, ‘but I don’t like the feel of retreating - and I am not speaking of pride. Most of the men are here as a matter of choice. If they think we are losing, they will run for their homes. Every step we march back will see our army shrink.’
‘There’s truth in that,’ agreed Errin, moving with Ubadai to join them. ‘We’ve already lost some of the warriors from Bucklar’s force. Twenty men headed home last night as the rain ceased.’
Elodan shook his head. ‘You are saying we cannot retreat, yet Lamfhada tells us we are soon to be surrounded and overwhelmed. That does not leave us many choices. We cannot attack. We have not the discipline, or the lines of command. We can only fight as we are. Any suggestion would be appreciated, Manannan.’
Manannan nodded. ‘I think a small victory would serve us well at this stage. May I suggest we shift our position and hit their left wing? While the mud is still deep, their horses will be restricted and it should give our infantry a sound advantage. But there is a danger. It will leave their foot-soldiers with no opposition and they could march into the forest and sack all the settlements between here and the mountains.’
‘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 eas
t 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.