Knights Of Dark Renown (13 page)

Boran shrugged. ‘I hope so, my Lord.’

‘Help me into my clothes,’ said Errin. As Boran moved to obey him there came the sound of marching feet from the courtyard below and Ubadai ran to the window and looked down.

‘A squad of men,’ he whispered, ‘coming this way.’

Errin groaned as Boran gently lifted his arms into the leather shirt. His ribs were bandaged tightly, but the pain was intense.

‘Better be quick,’ he urged Ubadai as a hammering came from below.

‘Open up, in the name of the Duke!’

‘Use the side stair-well, my Lord,’ said Boran. ‘I will detain them for as long as I can.’ Errin called Ubadai to him, then levered himself upright by gripping the Nomad’s shoulder. He felt the bones of the broken leg grind together and almost screamed. Ubadai half carried him to the small door leading to the servant’s stair-well, where Errin stared down into the dark depths. There was no hand-rail.

‘I can’t climb down there,’ he said.

‘Much trouble, you,’ said Ubadai. Turning, he threw an arm around the back of Errin’s thighs and lifted him over his shoulder. Errin’s broken ribs grated and he groaned. ‘No noise!’ Ubadai hissed, slowly descending the stairs.

At the main door, Boran lifted the bolt and bowed to the officer.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘Where is Lord Errin?’

‘He is upstairs sleeping. He was wounded badly today; he has a broken leg.’

‘Our orders are to take him into the custody of the Lord Seer.’

‘I take it you have a stretcher,’ said Boran.

‘No. I ... no one mentioned a broken leg.’

‘It was diagnosed by the Duke’s surgeon. The Duke himself was here earlier to enquire after his friend. Who did you say ordered his arrest?’

‘The Lord Seer, Okessa.’

‘Ah, well, it must be correct then. I am sure the Duke must have authorized it. You have his seal?’

‘Seal? Look, you, the Duke’s seal is only used for arrests made away from Mactha, in order to prove the identity of the Duke’s officers. Why in the devil’s name would I need a seal?’

‘I am not arguing, captain. I know little of such matters, having never arrested a cousin of the King. Please go about your business.’

‘Cousin of the King? Lord Errin?’

‘So I understand. Well, go upstairs and drag him down. I’ve not been in his employ for long, so I have had no time to grow fond of him.’

‘I’m not “dragging” anyone anywhere. I was told to arrest the Lord Errin. Haven’t you got something we could use for a stretcher?’

‘Well . . . you could take his bed, I suppose. It would take more than six of you, though. Are there any more men back at the barracks?’

The officer spun on his heel. ‘Medric, Joal, go back and get a stretcher. And see if the Duke’s orderly is about; I wouldn’t mind an official seal on this one.’

‘Very wise, captain. Perhaps you and I should go upstairs and carry Lord Errin down, ready for the stretcher?’ suggested Boran.

‘Do I look like a labourer?’ snapped the captain. ‘I’ll wait here.’

‘Then allow me to fetch you some wine, sir. The very best western wine, aged in the cask for twenty years.’

‘That’s very decent of you,’ the captain thanked him.

‘Not at all, sir.’

At the rear of the apartments Ubadai opened the door to the yard and stepped outside. The alley was deserted save for the two horses tethered at the gate.

He eased Errin down, then lifted him to the saddle and led the horses towards the eastern gate. This was mainly used for traders, and Ubadai guessed that news of Errin’s arrest would not yet have been circulated to the gate sentries.

He was right, and the two men rode unhindered from Mactha fortress and down through the town.

‘It seems deserted,’ said Errin. Ubadai grunted and pointed to the nearby hills.

‘What is happening?’ asked Errin, his mouth suddenly dry.

‘Tonight they burn the Lady.’

‘Sweet Heaven! I must get there.’ Errin lashed the reins across his stallion’s neck and forced him into a mad gallop across the fields. Ubadai raced after him, leaning over to grab the reins.

‘Stop!’ said the Nomad. ‘One stupid deed a day is enough.’

‘Leave me alone!’ shouted Errin, hitting out weakly, his hand cracking against Ubadai’s face.

‘Think!’ ordered Ubadai. ‘One man, all broke up. Useless. He is going to ride through the Duke’s soldiers and rescue the Lady. You could not even get off horse.’

‘There must be something I can do.’

‘Yes,’ said Ubadai. ‘Something. Only thing.’ He lifted Errin’s bow from his saddle horn.

‘I can’t!’

‘Then let us ride to forest and leave this cursed country.’

Errin swallowed hard and took the bow and quiver. Then he pushed his stallion forward, edging it to the cover of some trees near the brow of the hill. A great mass of firewood had been laid around a central stake and as he approached he saw Dianu being led forward by Okessa. The Duke was nowhere in sight. The Red Knight sat his unearthly mount away from the crowd, his gaze fixed on the doomed girl.

Tears stung Errin’s eyes and he blinked them away as Dianu was led up on to the pyre and tied to the stake. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but she could not see him in the shadows of the trees. When she was tied, Okessa and the men with him drew back and climbed down to the ground. Then the Seer took a burning torch and thrust it into the tinder at the base of the pyre. Flames and smoke leapt instantly. .

Errin took an arrow from his quiver and notched it to the bow.

Heeling his horse forward into the light, he shouted, ‘Dianu!’ He saw her head come up, and watched in anguish as hope flared in her eyes. ‘I love you!’ he screamed . . . and drew back the bowstring. He saw realization replace hope and she closed her eyes. He loosed the shaft. It sped through the air to slice home through the blue doublet that covered her breast. Her mouth opened - and her head fell. An angry roar came from the crowd and hands reached out to seize Errin. He was beyond caring but Ubadai rode forward, lashing a man across the face with a riding whip. The Nomad seized the reins of Errin’s mount, wheeled it, and the two men thundered from the hill as the flames of Dianu’s funeral pyre lit the sky.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lamfhada watched as Arian measured out her paces. Satisfied, she took a piece of chalk from her pocket and drew a rough circle on the thick bole of an oak, some two feet from the ground. Then she returned to where the youth waited. He loved to watch her walk - her movements smooth, almost liquid, her eyes alert. She grinned at him.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then string your bow.’ Lamfhada removed the string from his borrowed hip-pouch and looped it to his longbow. As he had been shown, he attached it first to the foot of the bow, bending down the top to meet the second loop.

‘That tree,’ said Arian, ‘is thirty paces away. Now we have practised at thirty paces, so you know the pull.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed, drawing an arrow from the doeskin quiver and notching it to the string.

‘Then imagine that chalk circle is a pheasant - and kill it,’ she told him. Slowly he drew back the string until it touched his cheek, focused on the chalk circle — and loosed. The shaft hammered into the tree some seven feet above the circle. He was instantly angry, grabbing for a second arrow.

‘Wait!’ she ordered. ‘Look at the line of flight and tell me what you see?’

‘It is a clear line, unblocked by trees.’

‘What else?’

He stared down at the target. ‘It is downhill.’

‘Precisely, Lamfhada. And, like sighting across dead ground, the eye will betray you. Remember this: You will shoot high, when aiming downhill; low, when sighting uphill or across water. It is also difficult to judge distance in the woods. Now, sight on the target and aim some three paces in front of the tree.’

He did so and the arrow flew to the chalk circle as if drawn there by magic.

‘I did it!’ he yelled.

‘Yes; a fine strike. Now turn to your right and plant an arrow in the trunk of the pine over there.’

Lamfhada notched his shaft to the string and stared at the tree. Judging it to be around forty paces, he pulled for fifty. Smoothly he released the string and the arrow sailed towards the target - then dropped to slice into the earth. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Pace it out,’ she told him. Slowly he walked the distance; the tree was seventy paces away.

‘You must learn to judge such things,’ she said, walking beside him. ‘The reason it fooled you was the number of trees pushing in on the line of flight. They destroyed your perspective and shortened the distance. Come, let us retrieve your arrow from the oak.’

‘Am I improving, Arian?’ he asked, desperate for a word of praise.

‘You have a good arm and your release is without tremor. We will see.’

A good arm! Lamfhada felt like a king.

The rain had passed during the morning and the afternoon was bright and clear as he sat with Arian on the hillside overlooking the settlement. Below them the newcomer Elodan was trying to chop logs using a short hatchet. His movements were clumsy and the blade kept missing the chunks and bouncing from the hard wood ring.

Every day Elodan practised and his improvement -if improvement there was - was slow and frustrating.

Lamfhada was over the worst of his wound, which now itched mercilessly as the scabs peeled on his back.

‘So, young magician, tell me of the Colours,’ said Arian, leaning back on her elbows and grinning at the embarrassed youth. He had tried to impress her with his knowledge of magic, and had shown her Ruad’s boots. But when he put them on and whispered the name Ollathair, nothing happened. The magic had been exhausted during his flight from the Lord Errin and the hunters. She had mocked him then - not spitefully, but he had taken it hard and spent many hours trying to find the Black in order to recharge the power. And he had failed.

‘First, there is the White,’ he told her. ‘That is the Colour of Calm and Serenity. Then the Yellow, which is of Innocence and the laughter of children. This is followed by the Black, which is of the Earth and brings strength and speed. Power, if you will. The Blue is of the Sky, and gives the magic of Flight. The Green is of Growth, and Healing. And the Red is of Fear, and Lust.’

‘Does the Red have no good powers?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. It is of aggression and, used wisely, can aid all other Colours. But it takes a mighty wizard to use it so.’

‘A mighty wizard like you, Lamfhada?’

He blushed and grinned. ‘Do not mock me, Arian,’ he urged. ‘I was only a poor apprentice, and even then I had little time with the Master. But I did make a bird of bronze that flew for a little while; it was a beautiful bird, and it took nearly a year to create.’

‘I would like to have seen that bird,’ said Arian. ‘But now to your education, for I have little time to spend with a wounded boy. Name that tree over to your left.’

‘A sycamore,’ he answered instantly.

‘How do you know?’

‘It has leaves with five lobes, and winged seeds.’

‘And that?’ she asked, pointing to another tree.

‘Maple. It is like the sycamore, but the leaves are a lighter green, and the bark is grey and finely furrowed.’

A bird swooped down to perch on a branch of the maple. It was white-breasted, its head grey, and its eyes looked as if they wore a black mask.

‘Before you ask,’ said Lamfhada proudly, ‘that is a grey shrike. It feeds on mice and other birds — Llaw Gyffes told me.’

‘And what does it signal?’ she asked.

‘Signal? I ... don’t understand.’

‘It signals the coming of winter. You rarely see it in the summer months. Now I suggest you help Elodan with the wood; you can stack it against the north wall for him.’

‘Where will you go?’ he asked, painfully aware that his time with her was over as she rose smoothly and gathered her bow.

‘I am taking Nuada to Groundsel’s camp. The poet’s fame is spreading through the forest,’ she replied.

‘Will it be dangerous?’

‘Do not fear for me, Lamfhada. I am no country milk-maid. Anyway, Groundsel has offered safe conduct and he will abide by it. Even in the forest there are rules which will not be broken.’

‘But the men Elodan killed, were they not from Groundsel’s camp?’

‘He did not kill them all, boy,’ she snapped. ‘I took one of them.’

She wandered away and he cursed himself for annoying her. During the last ten days he had found her constantly on his mind, making him twist and turn in his bed, unable to sleep. He strolled down the hill and began to gather the wood around the ring.

‘I will do that,’ said the dark-haired Elodan, his face grim and bathed in sweat.

‘I have been told to do it,’ stated Lamfhada. ‘They are finding tasks to make me feel useful.’

Elodan grinned. ‘It is the same for me. But I’ll be damned if I can make my left hand work. It is a question of balance, you see. A man is not just right-handed, but right-sided: foot, eye and hand working together. Now I am just clumsy.’ He sat down. ‘It is hard to be useless.’

‘You are not useless,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘You rescued Arian single ... on your own,’ he finished lamely.

Elodan laughed. ‘Do not fear to say single-handed. It is not as if your words bring home any truth I do not know. How is your back?’

‘Almost mended. Arian is teaching me the use of the bow and when I can hunt and bring meat to the settlement, I shall feel much better.’

Elodan wiped the sweat from his face and smiled at the blond youngster. Any fool could see the lad was in love with Arian. Sadly, Arian could see it too. The boy wanted to impress her, but never would, for despite their similarity of age Arian was a grown woman . . . and already in love.

‘What brought you to the forest?’ Lamfhada asked.

‘A dream. A quest. Both have proved to be without foundation,’ replied Elodan. ‘I shall stay for the winter and then try to get to Cithaeron.’

‘What dream did you have?

‘Gabala is awash with rumours of a revolt led by a great hero,’ Elodan said, shaking his head. ‘His name is Llaw Gyffes, and he has a mighty army gathering in the Forest of the Ocean. I came to join that army.’