In panic Lamfhada screamed the magic name and instantly felt his weight lessen, his stride lengthen. He was almost floating over the rocks. Swerving to the left, he leapt ten feet to a boulder, cutting to the right up a narrow trail towards the trees. The horsemen could not follow directly and were forced to skirt the boulder, losing ground on the runner in the process. Once more the chase was on.
Lord Errin spurred his giant black gelding into a gallop and bore down on the runaway, scarcely able to believe the speed at which the youth was moving. Had he known he was this swift, he would never have dreamt of giving him to the Duke but would have kept him and taken him to Furbolg for the races. Too late now, thought Errin, as he closed on the boy.
Hearing the hoofbeats Lamfhada cut left, clambering up a scree slope and clawing his way over the jutting boulders. Errin cursed and guided the gelding on to the treacherous slope but the horse slithered, dropping to its haunches. Another rider galloped up.
‘Give me your bow,’ shouted Errin, taking the weapon and notching an arrow to the string. Lamfhada was almost in the clear as Errin drew back the string, took a deep breath, allowed the air to drift from his lungs and, between breaths, loosed the shaft. The arrow sped to its target, catching the youth high in the back. He staggered, but did not fall and reached the sanctuary of the trees.
‘Should we follow, my Lord?’ asked the Nomad.
‘No, we are not strong enough to face the rebels. Anyway, the arrow went deep; he will not survive.’ Errin threw the bow back to the rider and led the black gelding from the scree slope. ‘What was it the boy shouted?’ he asked.
The Nomad shrugged. ‘It sounded like a name, Lord: Ollathair.’
‘That is what I heard. Now why would a runaway use the name of a dead wizard? And why did his speed increase so greatly?’ Again the Nomad shrugged and Errin smiled. ‘You do not care, do you, Ubadai?’
‘No, Lord,’ the Nomad agreed. ‘I track him. I do my job very good.’
‘Indeed you did. But it is intriguing; I will ask Okessa when we return.’ The Nomad hawked and spat and Errin chuckled. ‘He does not like you either, my friend. But beware, for he is a powerful man to have as an enemy.’
‘A man may be judged by his enemies, Lord. Sooner strong ones than weak ones, I think.’
Errin grinned at him and led the group back towards the safety of Mactha.
Just beyond the tree line Lamfhada stumbled to a halt, a great weariness rising within him. He tried to move on, but his vision blurred and the trees seemed to move and sway before him. The ground swept up at him and his eyes closed.
A slender man stepped from behind a thick pine and advanced towards the fallen youth. He was dressed in a shirt of sky-blue silk, leather trews and silver-buckled shoes, with around his shoulders a fine cloak of sheepskin. His long hair was gathered at the nape of his neck by a silver band, and his eyes were violet. Kneeling by Lamfhada, he saw the blood seeping from the arrow wound and turned away his head.
‘Well, are you going to take it out?’ came a voice and the man jerked and rose swiftly to his feet, turning to face the newcomer - a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with blond hair and a red-gold beard.
‘I don’t know anything about wounds. I think he could be dead.’
Llaw Gyffes grinned. ‘Your face is as grey as a winter sky.’ Ignoring the man, he strode to the stricken youth and ripped away his shirt. The arrow was deep and lodged under the shoulder-blade, the flesh around the wound already swollen and puffy. Llaw gripped the shaft.
‘Wait!’ said the other. ‘If it is barbed, it will rip him to pieces.’
‘Then pray it is not,’ replied Llaw, suddenly wrenching the shaft clear. Lamfhada groaned, but did not wake. Llaw held up the arrow; the head was not barbed. Blood was pouring from the wound now and Llaw plugged it with a piece of torn shirt. Lifting the youth, he draped the body over his right shoulder and walked away into the shadow-haunted forest.
The other man followed. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘There is a settlement about an hour ahead. They have an apothecary and a Wyccha woman,’ Llaw told him.
‘My name is Nuada.’
Llaw walked on without speaking.
The sun was sinking behind the mountains when they crested a small rise above the village. There were seven cabins and a longer hall to the south, while at the northern end was a paddock in which five ponies were gathered.
Llaw turned to his companion. ‘Check if the boy still lives,’ he ordered.
Gingerly Nuada took Lamfhada’s arm, feeling for a pulse. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but the heart is beating erratically.’
Llaw made no comment and began the long walk down the hill. As they approached two men came from the nearest hut; both were armed with longbows and had knives at their belts. Llaw waved at them and, recognizing him, they returned the arrows to their quivers.
Llaw took Lamfhada to the .furthest cabin, mounted the steps to the rough-hewn porch and tapped at the door, which was opened by a middle-aged woman. Seeing his burden, she stepped aside; he entered the cabin and made straight for the narrow bed beneath the eastern window.
The woman helped him to lay the youth on the bed and pulled the blood-drenched plug from the wound. More blood began to flow and she watched it carefully.
‘It did not pierce the lung,’ she said. ‘Leave him here; I will see to him.’
Llaw said nothing. He rose and stretched his neck, then noticed Nuada standing in the doorway.
‘What do you want here?’ he asked.
‘A meal would be pleasant,’ Nuada said.
‘Can you pay?’
‘I usually sing for my supper,’ stated Nuada. ‘I am a saga poet.’
Llaw shook his head and pushed past, stepping into the gathering darkness. Nuada joined him. ‘I am a good poet. I have been welcomed in the palace at Furbolg and have sung before the Duke in Mactha. And I have been east.’
‘Good poets are rich poets,’ said Llaw. ‘It is the nature of things. But it does not matter; I expect the villagers will be glad of a song. Do you know the saga of Petric?’
‘Of course, but I tend towards the contemporaneous. That’s why I am here - gathering material.’
‘Take my advice - and give them Petric,’ advised Llaw, walking away towards the long hall.
Nuada ran to catch up. ‘You are not very sociable, my friend.’
‘I have no friends,’ Llaw told him, ‘and I need none.’
The hall was some seventy feet long, with two stone hearths set on opposite sides at the centre. There were a dozen tables and, at the far end, a long trestle stand behind which were several barrels. Llaw elbowed his way through the crowd and lifted a tankard from a hook on the wall. This he filled with ale from a smaller barrel placed on the trestle table. Nuada saw that he left no payment, so he too gathered a tankard.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked a swarthy man, poking a thick finger into Nuada’s chest.
‘Getting a drink,’ the poet answered.
‘Not with my jug, you don’t,’ he said, snatching the tankard away.
‘My apologies,’ said Nuada. Turning, he saw the blond warrior talking to a man nearby. The man -thickset and with a swelling belly - swung to stare at the poet, then smiled and made his way over.
‘You are a saga sayer?’ the man asked.
‘Indeed I am, sir.’
‘Have you travelled far?’
‘From Furbolg. I sang at the court.’
‘Good. You have news, then. I’ll introduce you. What’s your name?’
‘Nuada. Sometimes called Silverhand - when I play the harp.’
‘We have no harps - but there’s a meal and a bed if you tell us what is happening in the world. Nothing too flowery, mind,’ he warned. ‘Keep it simple.’
Llaw Gyffes sat down on a bench seat against the wall, pushing his long legs out before him. He grinned as he experienced a moment of sympathy for the poet. This was not Furbolg, nor ev
en Mactha. The courtly saga-sayer was about to practise his art before a group of nithings, wolfsheads, men who knew the difference between romance and reality. He watched as Nuada climbed atop a broad table, then the hallkeeper called for quiet and introduced the poet. Conversations ceased momentarily, then began again as Nuada started to speak. Men turned away and a joke told in the far corner of the hall brought hearty laughter.
Suddenly Nuada’s voice rose above the clamour, rich and resonant.
‘When a hero dies,’ he said, ‘the gods give him a gift. But it is double-edged. You!’ he stormed, pointing at a stout man wearing a wolfskin jerkin. ‘Do you know the gift? Yes, you, the pig in wolfs clothing!’ A ripple of laughter sounded and the man’s face flushed red as his hand reached for the dagger at his belt. Nuada swung to point at another man. ‘What about you? Do you know the gift?’ The man shook his head. Then I’ll tell you. When a hero dies, his soul wanders, called hither and yon by saga-sayers and poets. When they speak of him before a crowd - even such a pack of beggars as is gathered here — then his soul appears in their midst. That is magic! That is a kind of sorcery no wizard can create. And why is it double-edged?
‘Because that hero will stand among you and see that you care nothing for his deeds. They are less than shadows.
‘By that fire stands Petric, greatest of warriors, noblest of men. He fought evil and he stood for something greater than glory. And what does he see when he looks around him? Sniggerers and loafers, runaways and lechers. Such a man deserves far better.’
Llaw Gyffes glanced nervously at the fire, but could see nothing apart from the dancing flames. But the hall was quiet now and the poet held that silence for several moments; then his voice softened.
‘It was at the dawn of a different age,’ Nuada began, ‘when Petric walked from the Forest. Tall he was...’
Llaw listened as the familiar tale unfolded. Not a sound disturbed the telling and Nuada’s magic wove its spell. At the close, when he recounted the treachery and the gallantry when Petric was slain at the Pass of Souls, all eyes were on the poet. But he did not end the tale there, with the winged demons closing in on the body. He spoke of Petric’s warrior soul rising from the slain corpse and continuing his battle in a ghostly sky - his sword a blade of moonlight, his eyes two shining stars. When Nuada’s voice finally faded to silence the applause was thunderous.
For an hour he spoke, telling stories of ancient heroes, ending with the tale of the Knights of the Gabala and their journey to slay the essence of evil. Despite himself, Llaw found his own cynicism drowned by the poet’s eloquence and applauded as loudly as the rest when the tales were over.
The hallkeeper brought Nuada a tankard of ale, which he downed swiftly. Then he called for a chair and set it at the centre of the table, sitting down for the questions.
Men gathered around, asking of events in the world outside. He told them of the purge in the capital, of Nomad merchants hunted like rats; of rising prices, and food shortages in the north. He talked of the Great Race and the stallion, Lancer, a giant grey which had beaten the best horses in the empire.
At last he stepped from the table and rejoined Llaw Gyffes.
‘You have talent,’ said the outlaw. ‘But was Petric really here?’
Nuada smiled. ‘He was, if you felt his presence.’
‘How is it that a man of your skills should find himself in such a place as this? You should be rich, and living in a palace.’
Nuada shrugged and his violet eyes narrowed. ‘I have lived in a palace. I have dined from gold plates.’ He touched his blue silk shirt. ‘Once I would have worn this shirt for one day only, and then given it to a slave or thrown it upon a fire.’
Llaw smiled. ‘But you are going to tell me that all this was as nothing compared with the freedom of life in the forest?’
‘Not at all. Look at me, man! What do you see?’
‘You are handsome enough, with that long dark hair and those odd eyes. What is there to see?’
‘I am a Nomad. My father was one of the richest merchants in Furbolg.’
Llaw nodded. ‘I understand; it was all taken from you.’
‘Worse than that. My family were slain. I was not at home when the soldiers came; I was with... a friend. She smuggled me from the city.’
‘These are bad days, right enough. What made you choose this forest?’
‘I heard there was a rebellion here, led by a hero, and I came to learn his tale. Then I will travel east to kingdoms where sanity still rules.’
‘You’ll find no rebellion here. Outlaws and thieves, perhaps, but no heroes.’
Nuada said nothing for a moment, then leaned close to the outlaw.
‘There is a new saga being told in Furbolg and many other towns. It is about a hero who has defied both Duke and King. He slew the Duke’s nephew and was sentenced to death; but he escaped the dungeons of Mactha and released all the prisoners there. All over the country his name is a byword in the fight against tyranny.’
Llaw chuckled. ‘The fight against tyranny? What nonsense is this, poet? Fighting tyrants is like spitting against a storm.’
‘You are wrong. This man exists and I will find him.’
‘He has a name, this paragon?’
‘He is called Stronghand. Llaw Gyffes.’ Nuada’s eyes gleamed as he spoke the name.
‘Good luck in your quest, poet.’
‘Then you do not know him?’
‘No, I do not know the man you speak of. Come, let us eat.’
CHAPTER THREE
The Once-Knight rode along the narrow trails far from any settlements. He lived by hunting his meat with his longbow and taking what herbs he needed from the clearings in the woods and meadows. Time was running short for him now, and the pressure on his throat was greater. But nowhere had he heard of a craftsman with special skills, and the name Ruad Ro-fhessa was unknown. Only the large town of Mactha was left now in the north and he was loth to travel there, for the Duke would remember him - even if his page did not.
It was fifteen days since he had stopped at a town to purchase supplies of salt, a wax-sealed jug of brandy and a sack of grain for his stallion. Grass was plentiful, but a grain-fed horse could outrun any wild beast. The town had been small - some sixteen houses, a smithy and a store - and the prices of his supplies more than double what he expected. But he had paid and ridden on to camp just outside the town in a wooded meadow by a stream.
It was hot and sweat trickled on his scalp under the suffocating helm. As he opened the brandy and drank deeply, his mind fled back to the worst moment of terror in his childhood. He had climbed a dead tree and was traversing from one side to the other when a dry branch snapped beneath him and he had plunged through the leaves and fallen into the rotted heart, his feet hammering through an ants’ nest. His arms were pinned at his sides, the trunk surrounding him like a narrow upright coffin. He had cried out, but he was far from home and had told no one where he was going.
Ants began to crawl over his skin... up along his face, across his eyelids, into his ears. He screamed and screamed, but they crawled into his mouth. With his arms pinned he could not climb out, and he waited for hour upon tormented hour until at last a forester heard his feeble cries. Six men laboured for an hour to cut him free and from that day he had avoided confined spaces. Even into manhood the terror had stayed with him.
And when the Black Gate opened the nightmare had rushed from his memories, engulfing him in a tidal wave of fear.
Yet now he was trapped again, this time by a cylinder of silver steel locked to the neck-plates of his Gabala armour. He could not wipe away the sweat that trickled on his scalp... that felt like ants upon his skin. He drank more of the brandy.
Where was Ollathair? Manannan had tried the sword-jewel often, but so far it had offered no hope. But then the Armourer had to be within a day’s ride of the wielder.
Damn you, wizard! Where did you go?
During his six years of self-imposed exile, Manan
nan had listened avidly to all the news from home; but mostly it concerned the new King, Ahak, fresh from his victory in the last Fomorian War. He had negotiated the dissolution of the empire with rare brilliance, agreeing treaties with all the territories the Gabala had once ruled. But the Knights had passed into legend and of the Armourer there was no word at all. Had he changed his mind and travelled with Samildanach? On that terrible night there was a deep, fine mist; that was how Manannan had been able to slip away unseen.
But no... Ollathair had said he must remain to reopen the Gate when the Evil Ones had been defeated. Five days, he said he would wait. So where could he be after six years?
Manannan sat with his back to a broad oak and continued to drink. After a while he began to sing a ribald song he had learned as a mercenary far to the east. It was a good song - about a girl, her husband and her two lovers, and the various ploys she used to keep them all apart. He could not remember the last verse. The stallion moved away from him, cropping grass at the edge of the stream.
‘It is no joy to sing alone, Kuan. Even in such a beautiful spot,’ said the Once-Knight. ‘Come, stay by me and I’ll give you grain. Come!’
The stallion lifted its great grey head and stared at the man.
‘I am not drunk, I am happy. There is a difference, although I would not expect a horse to understand.’ He struggled to rise, but tripped over his scabbard. Pulling it from his belt, he dropped it to the grass and stood. ‘See? I can stand.’
‘Look at that, lads. He really can stand!’
The Once-Knight turned and peered at the newcomers. There were four men, three of them bearded and the fourth a youngster of maybe fifteen years. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, may I offer you a drink?’
‘Oh, we think you can do better than that, sir. We are in need of money and a fine horse.’
The Once-Knight sank to the ground and chuckled. ‘I only have the one horse, and he is not for sale.’