‘Not talking now, are you, pig breath?’ he spat, blood
bubbling down his beard. ‘Send me to Hell, will you? Well, you can join me on the journey.’
‘No!’ screamed Bersis. But Groundsel, with the last of his strength, dragged his opponent over the edge and the two figures toppled out into space.
Morrigan ran to the precipice and stared down. The Red and Silver figures were still locked in a deadly embrace, but now they looked like children’s toys sparkling in the sunlight. Smaller and smaller they became, until at last they were dashed against the jagged rocks below.
At the moment of impact Morrigan averted her eyes. The undead stallion fell to the boards, its flesh stripping away, and a terrible stench was borne to Morrigan on the breeze.
At the far end of the bridge the soldiers were gathering for another rush. But suddenly a horn sounded and the hillside was alive with forest men who charged into the startled troops. Morrigan did not watch the slaughter; she moved to the edge of the chasm and looked down at the tiny figures.
‘You were a man, Groundsel,’ she said.
Sheera watched as the Duke of Mactha led his fifty riders from the village. For ten days she had observed their training, or joined with other groups practising archery or sword work. Of Errin she had seen little, and her patience was wearing thin. She had spurned the safety of Cithaeron in order to avenge her sister’s death, but now she felt useless - and worse, ignored. She had seen Llaw Gyffes walking the hills with Arian, but only twice had Errin sought her out - once to see that she was comfortably ensconced in a primitive cabin, and a second time when she received a nick in her upper arm after an over-enthusiastic practice session with longswords.
‘Why must you put yourself in danger?’ he had asked her as he examined the shallow cut.
‘What sort of question is that?’ she responded. ‘Am I not also a part of Llaw’s army?’
‘You are a woman,’ he stated, as if that answered the question.
‘Is Morrigan not a woman? Or Arian?’
‘That is different. Morrigan is... strange. Arian has been raised in the forest. Anyway, I have no say over the others.’
‘You have no say over me,’ she stormed. ‘The only connection we have is that you killed my sister.’
Now he avoided her completely - which was galling. Several of the forest men had approached her, but these she sent packing with strong words. She had asked the Duke of Mactha if she could ride with him and raid the supply lines, but he had politely refused her request. He had dismounted from the grey stallion and placed his hand on her shoulders.
‘I say this to you in confidence,’ he whispered. ‘We Will not be coming back. There is no hope that we can evade pursuit for long. Most of the men with me nderstand this. I do not want to see you... in peril, Sheera. It was bad enough being part of your lister’s... trial. You understand?’
‘You are going out to die.’
‘I think so - though I will strive to delay the dreadful ay.’
Now he was gone — as Llaw, Elodan and Manannan were gone. The King’s army had reached the southern border and most of the Knights had travelled south to prepare the defences and ready the men. Already word had come back that Elodan had ambushed some of the King’s scouts and destroyed them in a short battle. Of Manannan and Llaw there was no word.
Sheera joined a group of women for the midday meal of venison and dried fruit, then took her bow and quiver and wandered to the hills. It was she who first glimpsed Morrigan riding slowly along a game trail, followed by scores of warriors. She ran down to meet them.
‘Where is Groundsel?’ she called up to the silver rider.
‘Dead,’ answered Morrigan, touching spurs to her mount and riding on.
Sheera joined the column as it wound its way down to the settlement. There were more than two hundred and fifty men, and she soon gathered that they were from a Citadel to the north, they had already fought one battle, routing troops from Pertia Port, and now were pledged to Llaw Gyffes. It seemed that Groundsel and Morrigan had saved many of their wives and children and the leader, Bucklar, had promised to aid the rebellion.
Sheera sat with the Citadel men as Bucklar, Errin and Lamfhada discussed strategy in the cave. Towards dusk the Citadel leader - a tall, stout warrior with greying hair and a trident beard - led his men south.
Sheera gathered her bow and joined them.
Nuada awoke to the sound of bird-song. Opening his eyes, he saw the dawn breaking over the mountains, the sky ablaze with colour, pink banners streaming into the virgin blue, white clouds running before the sun like sheep before a golden lion.
Kartia’s head was resting on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest. He snuggled down into the blanket, feeling the warmth of her body against him.
This was contentment. This was joy.
Far from the front line of battle, an eternity away from the killing and slaying, Nuada was at peace. Kartia mumbled something in her sleep and Nuada’s hand slid over her hips. Her eyes opened.
‘Dawn already?’ she whispered.
‘It is a beautiful day,’ he told her. ‘A veritable prince of days.’ Pulling her to him, he kissed her softly.
For an hour they made love without haste, then lay together in comfortable silence. Finally Nuada stretched and sat up. The fire was dead, and Brion was nowhere to be seen. Usually at this time he would be broiling rabbit meat for their breakfast - or pigeon, or lamb. Nuada rose and strolled to the waterfall, wading in to stand beneath the showering water; it was cool, and wondrously refreshing.
Sunlight bathed the pool at the fall’s base and rainbows danced through the curtain of water. Paradise could not contain more beauty, Nuada thought, as he towelled himself down with his shirt. Kartia moved to a tall rock and dived into the pool. Nuada envied her the ability to swim; it was something he would have to learn. As he sat back and watched her glide through the water, his thoughts moved to his mission. So far they had visited a dozen villages, and at each settlement his words had inspired a following. More than three hundred men had pledged themselves to the cause, but it should have been more. Many more.
He must have spoken to more than two thousand warriors, he reflected, glancing back at the armour laid on a blanket beneath an overhanging pine.
The Knight without a sword. He felt a pang of guilt. Not because he did not fight, but because he was so glad that he did not. It made him feel like a hypocrite.
Go out and join Llaw, all you young men - but not me. No. I am a poet, you see. I just fill your heads with glory, and skim past the maggots and the worms and the pain.
He had tried to paint a picture of the war as a Holy cause: good versus evil, light against dark. But here in the forest all was shade.
‘Nuada! Nuada!’ called Brion. Nuada rose and saw the burly blond forester running towards the pool.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked, climbing down from his rock to meet the running man.
‘The King’s men have surrounded the village; they have herded all the people into the hall.’
‘Slow down. Tell me all.’
‘I went back just before dawn. I couldn’t catch anything for breakfast, so I thought they would let us have some food. When I got close, I saw the horses, so I hid. They gathered in Ramath and all his people. I don’t know what they plan, but we must get away from here. We’re too close.’
‘Why so frightened? We have horses; we can outrun them, surely.’
‘There is a Red Knight with them and they have dark magic. You have said this many times, that they are the Evil Ones. We must get away.’
‘A Red Knight? Here? Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Brion. ‘I’ll saddle the horses.’
Kartia swam to the shore and rose from the water. ‘What is for breakfast, sir Knight?’ she asked.
‘Nothing, I am afraid. We have to leave. Ramath’s village was attacked this morning; it is not safe here.’
‘Poor Ramath,’ she
said. ‘I really liked him.’
‘So did I. Now get your things together.’
They gathered their packs and tied them to the saddles. Nuada climbed into his armour, which Brion helped him to buckle.
A man stepped into the clearing and Brion’s dagger flashed out.
‘Ramath!’ greeted Nuada, grinning. ‘You escaped! Well done.’
The newcomer was tall and lean, dressed in dark skins of polished leather. He approached Nuada and bowed.
‘I did not escape, sir, they let me go.’ Ramath swallowed hard and looked away. ‘It is you they want. I must return with you within the hour, or all my people die. The Red Knight, Sir Edrin, has promised that we will be freed the moment you surrender yourself.’
‘You can’t!’ cried Kartia. ‘They will kill you.’ She swung on Ramath. ‘How dare you come here and ask this of him? How dare you?’
Nuada pulled her back. ‘How... how can you be sure he will keep his word, Ramath?’ he asked.
‘I cannot be, sir. But what else can I do?’
Nuada’s mouth was dry. He lifted a canteen from his saddle and drank deeply. ‘I have a mission, you see,’ he said at last. ‘I must raise an army to fight these... evil men. You understand? I cannot...’ His voice faded to silence as he saw the look of despair in Ramath’s eyes.
‘I have three sons, sir. None has yet reached five years. They are sitting with their mother, waiting for the knives to open their throats.’
Nuada turned away. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Kartia pleaded. ‘Please Nuada. Think of us. Think...’
Nuada stooped and lifted his helm, handing it to Brion. ‘Keep this. I will not need it. Take Kartia back to Llaw and the others. Tell them I’m sorry; I don’t have the strength to refuse.’
Kartia grabbed at his arm. ‘They’ll kill you,’ she said, tears spilling to her cheeks. ‘Sweet Heaven, they’ll kill you!’
He drew her away from the others, his vision misting as he kissed her. ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘and I think that this morning’s joy was a gift. A last gift. I never saw a dawn like it.’ He pulled her close. ‘I don’t know what to say. There are no words, Kartia.’
‘Let me come with you. Please?’
‘No. Go with Brion. I will feel... stronger if I am alone.’
He strode to his horse and mounted. Then, taking a deep shuddering breath, he touched his spurs to the stallion. Kartia ran forward, but Brion pulled her away as Nuada rode from the glade, not daring to look back. Ramath walked beside him in silence until they reached the last hill; then he reached up and touched Nuada’s hand.
‘I will never be able to thank you enough,’ said the leader.
Nuada smiled, but his mouth was too dry for words and he was trembling. As he guided the horse down into the village, soldiers ran out, ringing him with their lances.
He was ordered to dismount and did so; his limbs were shaking with fear and he stumbled. The villagers flocked out to see him, lining the way ahead. Looking at their faces, he drew strength from their sympathy. One more performance, Nuada, he told himself. Surely you have the strength for that?
He was led beyond the main hall, where only the night before he had held the villagers spellbound with tales of heroism and courage. What he would not give now to see Llaw Gyffes and the other Knights thundering down the hillside to rescue him. Now, there would be a song!
They took him to a dead tree in a clearing and there was the Red Knight, Edrin.
‘So,’ he said, ‘the story-teller returns. Where is your sword, sir Knight, and your helm?’
‘I have no sword,’ said Nuada.
‘I will loan you one. Then, at least, you can fight for your life.’
Nuada shook his head. ‘No. If I were to kill you, these people would suffer for it. You made a bargain: me for them. Honour it.’ He could see the anger in the Knight’s eyes and knew that he had won. For if the Knight had killed him in combat, the word would have spread through the settlements that the new Knights of the Gabala were weaker than the Red Knights of the King. He smiled. ‘What now, sir Knight?’
‘If you are too cowardly to fight, then you will die like a villain.’
Soldiers surrounded Nuada and his armour was unbuckled and pulled from him. Then he was taken to the tree, his arms spread against the rough bark. Two soldiers came forward with hammers and long nails and Nuada gritted his teeth as the sharp points were placed against his wrists. The hammers struck. Blood spurted from his arms as the nails drove through flesh, sinew and bone to bite into the trunk beyond. Nuada sagged... the nails ripped at him. He groaned and tried to raise his head.
The Red Knight took up a bow and a quiver of arrows, carrying them to Ramath.
‘You shoot first,’ he said. ‘Prove yourself a loyal man of the King.’
The leader blinked. ‘I... can’t...’
‘Do it!’ yelled Nuada. ‘Or it is all for nothing. They will kill me anyway; you will not be killing me, they will. Do it. I forgive you.’
Ramath took the bow and notched an arrow to the string. Swiftly he drew and loosed and his arrow punched into Nuada’s chest. One by one the village men were called forward, and each sent a shaft into the lifeless body nailed to the tree.
At last the arrows were spent and the Red Knight’ strode to his stallion. The soldiers backed away and marched from the scene. Ramath ran forward and began to pull the arrows from Nuada’s body, weeping as he did so.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, over and over.
It was to this scene that Lamfhada’s spirit came. He had left the cave to scout the north, and had been drawn to the village by the overpowering outpouring of emotion. He hovered in the air over Nuada’s body and saw the terrible wounds it bore.
Remembering the stag, he thrust his golden hands into the corpse and poured his magic into the body. The wounds closed, but there was no life to be found.
Ramath and the other men, unable to see Lamfhada, watched as the wounds closed and stumbled back from the tree.
Knowing it was pointless, still Lamfhada would not stop. More and more power flowed into the corpse -and through it into the dead apple tree beyond. The branches trembled and buds grew in an instant from every twig and bough, opening into pink and white blossom which began to fall like snow around the scene.
At last Lamfhada surrendered to the inevitable: Nuada Silverhand was dead. The Armourer rose from the scene and fled, distraught, to the cave.
Then Ramath stepped forward and stooped to lift apple blossom from the ground. He turned to his people.
‘He said it was a Holy War. And you have all seen this sign from the Heavens. We will send a messenger to every settlement. Nuada will have his army. By all the Gods, I swear it!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The King’s Scouts charged up the hill into a withering volley of arrows. But still they came on and the hidden archers fell back before them. Elodan waited until the Scouts reached the tree line, then raised a horn to his lips and blew a single note.
Scores of warriors dropped from their hiding place in the trees, knives and swords hacking at the attackers. Elodan drew his sword and spurred his horse into the midst of the fray, cutting and killing. The Scouts fell back, streaming down the hillside.
From the woods opposite Llaw Gyffes, Manannan and a score of mounted warriors galloped into sight. The Scouts scattered before them, but many were ridden down as they ran back along the valley.
Manannan kicked his stallion into a furious gallop and rode through the fleeing men. Ahead of him the Scout’s standard-bearer was carrying the King’s flag, a raven on a field of blue. Manannon cut him down and seized the standard, raising it high for the defenders to see.
The thunder of hooves filled the air and Manannan swung his mount. Riding into the valley were five hundred of the King’s Lancers. The Once-Knight cut left and rode for the trees. Several of the Lancers veered after him and, reaching the tree line, he hurled the standard to a waiting rebel and swung a
gain to meet the charging riders; there were five in the chasing group. Lifting his sword, Manannan spurred the stallion at them. He swayed in the saddle, allowing a lance to slice by him, and hacked the rider from his mount. A second lance glanced from his breastplate and his sword stabbed out to cleave the rider through the ribs. Then he was among them. Unable to use their long lances to good effect, the attackers dropped them and drew their swords. It availed them nothing. Manannan tore into them, his silver blade slicing through armour and mail. The last remaining Lancer tried to escape, but as he turned his steed an arrow flew from the undergrowth and hammered into his horse’s side. The beast stumbled, throwing its rider to the earth; the man rose, but another shaft took him in the thigh. Rebels ran from the undergrowth to despatch him.
Manannan leaned on to the pommel of his saddle and watched the Lancers thunder into the valley. Llaw Gyffes and the other riders gave way before them, riding up into the stands of pine that circled the hills.
Elodan rode out to rein in alongside Manannan. ‘Do you think they’ll come up after us?’
‘Not if they have any sense. They can’t know how many we are, and Lancers are as useful here as a wooden sword. Did we lose many men?’
‘About a dozen. Gwydion is looking to the wounded now. Have you seen Morrigan?’
‘No, I thought she was with you.’
‘She gave chase to some Scouts over to the west,’ said Elodan. ‘Perhaps you should find her.’
Manannan nodded. He rode for some minutes, alert for any stragglers who might still be hiding in the undergrowth. Then he heard a terrifying scream and drew his blade. The stallion baulked at entering the glade from which the noise had come, but he patted its neck and spoke soothingly to it. The horse walked on for several steps, then stopped again. Manannan dismounted and tethered the beast. He pushed aside the undergrowth and saw Morrigan crouching over a struggling man; her teeth were fixed into his throat and as Manannan watched the body began to shrivel.
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