‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Never mind. Just let me get a drink and I will talk to you.’
‘You need a drink to be able to talk?’ she responded, her voice low and deep. Something stirred in Manannan’s memory, but it danced like morning mist, dispersing as he reached for it.
‘No, of course not. But I am cold.’ He moved towards the door.
‘Then put a blanket around your shoulders. You look foolish standing there naked, holding that pitcher.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a friend, Manannan. The only friend you have here.’
‘Nonsense. I have made more friends here than in all my life.’
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Sit and talk.’
‘I need a drink.’
‘There is fresh water,’ she offered.
‘I don’t need water,’ he snapped.
‘No,’ she admitted, ‘you need Ambria. You need the Nectar of the Gods. Is it too late for you, Manannan?’
‘Do not speak in riddles, woman. I have no time for this; I did not ask you here.’
‘You did not. Nor did I ask to be here in this cursed city. But such is the game of life. You are a Knight of the Gabala and once that meant something to the world. Only the strongest, the noblest could dream of donning the silver armour. Are you strong, Manannan?’
‘I have never been stronger.’
‘Then let me set you a task - not a difficult task. Sit here with me until the dawn - do not leave this room until the sun rises. Is that too difficult, sir Knight?’
‘What a ridiculous question. Of course it would not be difficult, but I have no wish to play this game. Now leave me in peace.’
‘The call of the Ambria is strong, is it not? I know. I cannot resist it. For me it has been too long, and no one warned me of its terrible properties.’
Manannan hurled the pitcher aside. ‘Damn you, woman, does your prattle never end?’ He stormed across to her and dragged her to her feet. It was then that she turned towards him and the moonlight fell upon her face. Manannan recoiled as if struck. ‘Morrigan? Dear Gods, Morrigan?’
‘I am grateful that you remember me.’
‘How did you come here?’
‘Samildanach brought me. Ten days after you... they... passed the Black Gate. He came to me in the night, took me in his arms and told me he loved me. He said he would show me Paradise.’ She laughed grimly. ‘Instead we came here.’
‘But... this is not an evil place.’
‘Because they are cultured and have treated you well? They have done a terrible thing to you, Manannan.’
‘Not so. I am strong, and I am happy. What terrible thing is that?’
‘And why did you come?’
‘To find Samildanach.’
‘In order to return home?’
‘Yes.’
‘To combat the evil in the realm caused by the King and his Red Knights?’
‘Yes.’
Morrigan sat down and stared out over the moonlit garden, silent for a while. Then she looked up at Manannan. ‘The Red Knights are led by Samildanach. They are your friends, my dear; they are the Knights of the Gabala.’
‘I do not believe it. Paulus says they are in the north, resettling Nomads.’
‘Indeed they are... or they were. But you have not heard it all yet, Manannan. The Nomads are coming here in their thousands... but not to till the land. They are the Ambria... they are the food for the Vyre. That is what we are here, Drinkers of Souls. That is immortality, Manannan. We suck the essence of life itself from other human beings. We are not immortal, we are merely Undead. That is the drink you lust after — if you still want it. Go and find it.’
‘You are lying. It cannot be as you say. It cannot.’
‘I want you to try to remember the man you were when you rode here - the dreams that you had. Think back to all you held dear. Think of me as I once was. You have been corrupted, even as Samildanach and the others were corrupted - great men, noble men, who now spend their days gathering human souls for Paulus and the Vyre. Look at me, Manannan!’
Suddenly she rose, gripped him by the shoulders and bared her teeth.
As he watched, her incisors lengthened into fangs, pointed and hollow. He thrust her from him.
‘Can you not see?’ she screamed.
‘Get away from me! You are a demon - you are not Morrigan at all. Begone!’
‘It is too late for you, Manannan,’ she whispered as she moved past him to the door. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Wait!’ he called, as she moved into the doorway. ‘Please, Morrigan.’ She turned. He was sweating now and beginning to feel nauseous. Taking a deep breath he walked back to the window, sitting down on the sill and breathing deeply of the scented air. She came back into the room, pushing the door closed behind her.
‘I cannot believe you,’ he said softly, ‘but I will listen. And I will accept your challenge to sit out the night.’
She nodded and sat facing him in the moonlight. Her face was pale, and there were silver streaks in her long golden hair, but her eyes were as he remembered — large, dark and almost slanted.
‘Samildanach brought me through the Black Gate. Everywhere there were monsters, demons, but he held them at bay with his silver sword and we rode for the city. I could not believe its beauty, and was astonished at the greeting we received. Paulus and several others opened up their homes to the Knights. They fed us Ambria, and we were happy. Never before, or since, have I tasted such happiness. And we changed, Manannan, even as you are changing. I tried to stop drinking the Ambria, but I could not. It fastens to the soul, corrupting... distorting. New realities appeared and we learnt that the Vyre were dying, their food sources disappearing. Soon there would be no Ambria.’
Manannan leaned forward. ‘How did this happen? Are there not people in this land?’
She smiled. ‘The half pitcher you had when I came here would have cost maybe fifty lives. This is a large city, Manannan. To feed it would take a nation of - shall we say - lesser beings? Hence the Nomads. Samildanach and the others returned to the realm, taking with them Ambria for the King. They had new armour then, the magical garb of the Elder Vyre, the warrior race who first conquered this land. They were greeted well and the King took them to his counsel. But the Ambria ran out and the King learned - as did Samildanach - how to draw life from living victims.’
‘That is what is so hard to believe,’ said Manannan. ‘He was always the most noble of men.’ He clutched his stomach and groaned. ‘Where did you put the Ambria? I just need a mouthful; I will be fine then.’
‘Wait! Be strong. You will see. Breathe deeply, Manannan.’
‘I cannot. The smell from the garden is too sickly.’
‘That is what I am saying. The Ambria shifts perceptions. Look around at the room.’ He did as she bade him. The white walls seemed greyer now, and he noticed mould above the window. The silken sheets on the bed were filthy and soiled and the room smelt of decay. He turned back to Morrigan to see that her pale ivory skin was dry, her eyes dull, her lips tinged with blue.
He swallowed hard. ‘But is this real? I don’t know any more.’
‘It is real,’ she whispered. ‘You are living in the City of the Undead. You are in Hell, Manannan. Samildanach almost saw it, but the Ambria took him.’
Manannan looked out into the garden, where the rockery steps were choked with weeds. He staggered to his feet. ‘Is there any water?’
‘Yes,’ she said, fetching him a pitcher from the outer room. ‘But be careful; it will not taste good to you for the Ambria is jealous.’
He drank deeply, and choked.
‘Have some more,’ she urged him. ‘It will do you good.’
His stomach rebelled, but he forced down the water. ‘We must get out,’ he said, ‘back to the Gate.’
‘I would not know how to open it,’ she told him, ‘but Paulus would.’
He groaned again. ‘What is happening to me? There is such pain.’
>
‘You were becoming one of us. Now your body -your life — is fighting back.’
His head dropped and he rubbed at his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this for me? How is it that you are not affected by the Ambria?’
She laughed and rose. ‘Not affected, Manannan? Oh, but I am. I drank your half pitcher. When I look around this room I see only beauty - and a man I desire. But I can remember how I felt when first I came here... when Samildanach was a god to me. I cling to that memory and I do not want to see you — my oldest and dearest friend - riding out to gather souls for the Vyre.’
‘Help me to dress.’ He looked around, searching the room. ‘Where is my armour?’
‘You will need no armour where you are going,’ said Paulus from the doorway. Beyond him were several warriors in black armour, helms down, swords in their hands. ‘We offered you immortality, Manannan. Now you will merely aid our own.’
The warriors surged forward to pin the arms of the i Once-Knight.
Paulus shook his head. ‘Such a pity. I thought you were strong like your brothers. But no - even a fallen woman can turn your head from the glories of what could have been for you. Your stupidity offends me. Take him away!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nuada was surprised when the Dagda summoned him, following the poet’s evening performance in the hall. The old man had been allocated quarters close to the hut Nuada shared with the girl, Kartia, and a sentry had come to them just before midnight.
‘I don’t think you should go,’ Kartia told Nuada, taking him by the arm. ‘He is a demonic man, and the Lord Groundsel says he never gives good news.’
Nuada shrugged. ‘I have met very few genuine seers; I cannot pass this by. But I will ask him no questions of death. Do not fear for me, Kartia.’ He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. ‘I will return soon.’
He walked out into the cold night air and glanced up at the shining stars. Shivering in the chill, he drew his cloak about him. The sentry pointed to an open doorway, through which he could see the amber glow of a brazier. He stepped inside to see the Dagda sitting cross-legged on a goatskin rug, his eyes closed and his hands spread. Nuada cleared his throat and tapped on the door frame.
‘Enter, poet. Be at ease,’ said the Dagda, opening his eyes and Nuada pushed the door closed. There were no chairs, nor furniture of any kind, so he sat on the rug next to the old man. ‘Is there anything you would ask me?’ queried the Dagda.
Nuada grinned. ‘Nothing, sir. I have no wish to learn the day of my death.’
‘Then why did you obey my summons?’ the Dagda asked, his dark eyes fixing Nuada with a piercing gaze. ‘To learn of you, sir. I would guess there is a song in your travels and I would be delighted to sing it.’
‘Some matters are not suited to song, my boy, and some lives are better left to mystery and magic. But you intrigue me. Are you aware of the Colours?’
‘Of course,’ Nuada replied, ‘though I have no special skill with them. Why do you ask?’
The old man stroked his forked white beard, then rose and added wood to the fire in the brazier. Nuada watched him closely. He seemed older than time, yet his movements were smooth, almost liquid. His hands were slender, yet strong, and there were no liver spots upon their backs.
‘The Colours,’ said the Dagda, returning to sit before the poet, ‘are created of Harmony. We all add, or subtract, to and from the Colours. Even as we talk, the Red is growing stronger over the realm of the Gabala. Everywhere the more vile of emotions predominate. Lust, greed, selfishness rule in Furbolg. Of care and compassion there is little to be seen. How strange then that, in this forest peopled by evil men, the Red should hold little sway. What answer can you offer for this?’
‘I have no answers,’ Nuada told him. ‘I am a saga poet; I merely re-tell stories.’
‘Can you see Colours in men?’ asked the Dagda suddenly. ‘Can you look into a man’s eyes and know his soul?’
‘No. I take it you can?’
The Dagda grinned. ‘Yes, I can. It is both a curse and a gift. I was here last year, in this pit of a settlement. The Red was everywhere. Now it is vanished and the White holds sway here now. Only just, mind. Do you know why?’
‘You keep asking me th£ same question. I can answer it no other way.’
‘You are the answer, poet. I watched you tonight, filling their heads with nobility and strength - none more so than the sewer-rat Groundsel. You are the stone that falls into the centre of the lake, sending ripples out into the farthest corners. Now that is a gift worth having.’
‘You are beginning to lose me,’ said Nuada. ‘Are you saying my stories change men’s hearts? I cannot believe that. I accept that I can - for a short time -suspend their disbelief. But in the morning, when they wake, I am just a part of the previous night’s entertainment.’
‘Not so, Nuada. A man is a complex beast and his soul is like a sponge, drawing in emotions in a random manner. Strike him and he becomes angry, his soul Red as blood. Feed him, stroke him, make love to him — and his soul softens, blurs, changes. You fill them with glory, make them all believe they can be better, stronger. You force them to draw in the power of the White.’
Nuada thought for a moment. ‘Is that bad? Is it wrong?’
‘Not at all; it is close to holiness. A man is what he knows. But his soul will yearn for all that he does not know, for hidden there is all he may become.’
‘I take it, sir,’ said Nuada uneasily, ‘that there is a point to this conversation, and you have yet to make it?’
‘There is, and I have. You have many choices, Nuada. I cannot tell you that which you fear; I do not know. It happens with perhaps one man in a thousand. You could live for fifty more years, or you could die in a few days. All depends on the choices you make. But you are a man of power, and this will mean you will draw evil to you. It cannot be avoided. The King is insane; he has summoned his army and is determined to enter this forest and destroy all who live here.’
‘Why? There is nothing here - no wealth, no army, and surely no threat.’
‘There is a threat here: it is you. As we speak, the King sits in Mactha with his advisers. They turn their eyes to the Forest of the Ocean and they see the Power of the White and the Green. The Red is beaten back... their Colour, their strength. They cannot tolerate it. They wonder, as wonder they must, how long it will be before the White pushes back.’
‘Are you saying the King and his Knights are right to fear a poet? That is madness.’
‘Did I not say he was insane? All evil men are insane, Nuada. The question is - and here is the point - what will you do?’
‘Do? What is there for me to do? I will tell my stories and move on. In the spring I shall be in Cithaeron.’
The Dagda nodded. ‘That is a good choice. You will live long and happily there and breed fine sons.’
‘That is good to know, but I see by your eyes you are disappointed.’
‘Not at all,’ replied the Dagda sharply. ‘There is nothing in the world of men to surprise or disappoint. When you go, the White will wither and the Red will gain sway. Many will die - and die horribly. The Forest will become a charnel-house.’
‘And if I stay, all will be peace and harmony? I think not, Dagda.’
‘You are correct. But there will at least be balance in the contest. And the White could win - with your help.’
‘Do I still live for fifty years and breed fine sons?’
The Dagda was silent and Nuada chuckled without humour. ‘I thought not. It is not fair of you to put this pressure upon me; I have done nothing to harm you.’
‘On the contrary, young man, you have done much to please me. It was not entirely true to say that there is nothing in the world to surprise me. I wander this forest and I see the brutality, the cruelty of Man. It is more than pleasant to see Groundsel behave like a hero; to see him care for a golden-haired child. You have been good for him; he will die well for you.’
‘I do not want anyone to
die for me - least of all Groundsel. Gods, I even like the little man!’
‘And why not?’ offered the Dagda. ‘There is now much to like.’
‘Are you advising me to stay? Are you telling me it is my duty to stand against the King and his Red Knights?’
‘It is not for me to instruct you in the ways of duty, Nuada. You are a man - a good man. I am here to tell you the choices you face... no more than that. I will not judge you if you decide to make a life in Cithaeron.’
‘No, you have merely made sure that I will judge myself. Do not play with words, old man. Tell me what can be done to aid the White?’
The Knights of the Gabala must ride again.’
‘No one knows where they are.’
‘They are with the King,’ said the Dagda. They are his Red Slayers, his Drinkers of Souls. They are Vampyres, Nuada.’
Then how can they ride again on the side of the White?’
They cannot. They are corrupted by the evil they sought to destroy.’
‘Spare me the riddles then!’ stormed Nuada. ‘How can the Knights ride again?’
There must be new Knights to restore the balance. Even more than this, they must reflect the old Knights. We had eight good men who turned to evil; you must help to find eight men who can become good. Seek out a man called Ruad Ro-fhessa. He is the Armourer; he will advise.’
‘Where shall I find him? And how many Knights are there in this forest?’
There is one Lord here - you gave him the title yourself.’
‘Groundsel? You think Groundsel would become a Knight of the Gabala?’
‘He can be the first, Nuada. The first of your Knights of Dark Renown.’
Ruad was walking alone in the high meadows when Lamfhada came up to him. The youth stood back for a while, waiting for Ruad to acknowledge him. The Craftsman cleared snow from a boulder and sat, removing his bronze eye-patch and rubbing at the withered skin of the socket beneath. ‘It itches badly, boy,’ he said, gesturing Lamfhada forward. He forced a smile. ‘What troubles you, lad? When I awoke this morning, old Gwydion seemed ill at ease? Was it something you said?’
Lamfhada nodded. ‘I have been awake most of the night. Gwydion told me I had a nightmare, but I believe I have found my Colour. It is Gold, Ruad. It is all the Colours woven together.’
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