Knights Of Dark Renown (16 page)

‘I know of no sorcerer powerful enough. But ultimately it must be the King’s doing. Perhaps they are looking for me. Perhaps for another. It seems to me that evil never needs a sound reason for such deeds as this. Will you help me, Manannan?’

To do what?’

‘To fight the evil. To be what you were trained to be: a Knight of the Gabala. Once it meant a great deal to you.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘But you have not forgotten?’

‘How could I forget? What would you have me do?’

‘You know what is needed.’

‘No!’ hissed Manannan. ‘It is folly.’

‘The Knights must return; I can see no other hope. It is my belief that this evil emanates from the Red Knights of the King. Only the true Gabala can stand against them - surely you see that?’

‘What I see is a man with a lunatic dream. The past is gone, Ollathair. Dead. Find yourself some new Knights — I’ll even help you to train them.’

‘We do not have five years, Manannan. We may not have five months. Ride through the Gate,’ he pleaded. ‘Find Samildanach and bring him home. He was the greatest warrior I have ever known; the finest swordsman and the noblest of men. He could help me with the Colours; he could stand against the Red slayers. Together we could rid the land of this evil.’

‘Now there is a story I have heard before. Rid the world of evil! I did not accept it the first time.’

‘That was an abstract. And I was wrong! Wrong! Is it so terrible to be wrong?’

‘My friends died for the privilege of you being wrong.’

‘You do not know that, Sir Coward-Knight!’ snapped Ruad.

‘No, I do not.’ He swung on his heel and walked out into the darkness to stand on the porch, feeling the freshness of the night air on his face. He pictured again the Black Gate and heard the hideous sounds of the hidden beasts beyond. His heart raced, his hands trembled. He could not pass that portal. He had told Ollathair he was afraid for his soul but that had been a lie — a falsehood enabling him to save face.

It was death in the dark . . . just like the tree of his childhood. Trapped in the blackness with ants crawling on his skin. He shivered.

And yet, would any beast be worse than the horror he^had faced today?

Even the monsters of the dark?

I can’t! I’m afraid!

‘Come inside,’ said Ruad behind him. ‘There is someone I want you to see.’ He turned and stepped into the doorway, where the one-eyed sorcerer held out a silvered mirror. Manannan took it and gazed at a face he had not seen for six years. The eyes accused him and he looked away.

‘You cannot run away any more, Manannan. You cannot live your life wondering if your friends are trapped in some deep, dark dungeon. I know you; it will haunt you all your days. And you are no coward; I would never have chosen you otherwise.’

‘Why did you choose me?’

‘Because you were strong in the broken places.’

‘Always riddles with you, Ollathair. I am free now, you said that yourself. Free of my oath - free of that cursed helm. I do not have to pass the Gate.’

‘You are correct in that. It is your choice. But if it would please you, I will beg - I will beg on bended knees.’

‘No,’ said Manannan softly. ‘I would not like to see that. I will journey with you to the Gate and I will sit Kuan as I did before. But I promise nothing, except to try.’

‘I will open the Gate here in the mountains,’ said Ruad, ‘and once through it you will find a city. They will have news there.’

‘And they are friendly?’

‘They are gods, Manannan. Wise and immortal. And you will find Samildanach; I know you will.’

Groundsel sat in the long hall staring at his treasury -three oak chests, the first half full of gold coin, the second brimming with silver, the third a gleaming pile of jewels and rings and brooches. The Royal Road was now a rich source of income, as Nomad families streamed along it to distant Cithaeron in the hope of a ship to safety. At first Groundsel had robbed and killed the merchants as they travelled, but the numbers of refugees had halted that simple plan. Had he continued, the Road would have become choked with bodies. Now he levied a toll on the escapers and soon he would be rich enough to leave this accursed forest and sail for warmer climes, where he would buy a palace and fill it with nubile slaves. Groundsel squirmed in his seat at the thought. He knew he was not a handsome man: short, squat, wide-shouldered and bulky, he had none of the clean lines of the athlete. His muscles were ridged and ugly, his body hairy, his arms inordinately long. As a slave he had been called Ape, and the masters and other servants laughed at him. Then he became Groundsel, for his job was to collect seeds for the feeding of the chickens. The name had weighed on him like a rock.

He leaned back in his carved chair, his small button eyes closing so that he could the better re-live the memory of the last day. He had been given a beating by the senior servant, Joaper, and the whip had peeled away the skin of his back. He was taking it as he took all beatings - in a grim and defiant silence - when he saw the master’s wife grinning by the door of the barn. That dreadful smile carried all the weight of his anger and his shame, and it smote him with tongues of fire. He crouched and turned, grabbing the whip from Joaper’s hand and smashing a fearful blow to the servant’s face. The man crumpled without a sound. Then Groundsel had leapt upon the startled woman, dragging her back into a hay-covered stall and ripping her clothes from her. She had been too terrified to scream and his rage turned to lust.

When he had finished with her, he stood and retied his leggings. Then he tapped his chest and looked down at her.

‘Groundsel,’ he said. ‘The Ape. Now you are the Ape’s leavings. What does that make you?’

He strode from the barn with blood seeping from his whipped back and walked up the marble stairs into the house. A shocked servant tried to stop him, but he rammed the man’s head into a wall and climbed the winding stair. The master was sitting in his study with his son, an arrogant young noble fond of riding and whoring. It was the boy who reacted first.

‘Get out, you miserable peasant!’ he ordered. Groundsel smiled and hammered his fist into the boy’s face. The older man ran towards his desk and swept up a dagger, but Groundsel was upon him before he could draw it from its scabbard and dragging the man to the wide balcony he pushed him against the edge.

‘I have raped your wife. I will kill your son. Die with that thought!’

The old man screamed once as Groundsel toppled him from the high balcony to crash to the marble flagstones. The rebel slave grinned as he saw his master’s head split like a melon. Taking the dagger, he cut the throat of the unconscious youth, then walked back to the stables and saddled a gelding. The wife still lay where he had left her; he thought of killing her, but decided that to leave her was a greater punishment.

And he rode for the forest. He had been foolish then, for he had not robbed the house, and it was two years before he had gained mastery of the first outlaw band he joined. Now, five years later, he was the undisputed master of the Western Wood. Five settlements paid tribute to him, and the Royal Road was making him richer than he had dreamed possible.

He had thought to give himself another name - a proud name. Yet he had not. Groundsel was how he saw himself, and the sound of the name added fuel to his hatred.

He closed the chests and dragged them back to their hiding-place in the false wall. It was not much of a hiding-place, but few would dare to approach Groundsel’s quarters in his absence. He rubbed at his close-cropped black hair. Rich, you are, he told himself. Yet something was lacking.

It was curious, but until today he had not known what it was. Then the girl Arian had walked into the settlement, along with the poet Nuada. Groundsel watched her hip-swinging stride, her honey-gold hair blowing in the breeze, her high proud head — and need flared in him like a summer fire. He felt hot as he drank in her beauty; his mouth was dry. He rubbed the back of his hand over his face and then glanced at his fingers — noticing for the first time in days that they were filthy. Ducking back inside the hall, he rummaged through another chest which contained clothing he had stolen from his first forest victims. He found a shirt of yellow silk and took it out, along with a pair of brown leather trews and a belt emblazoned with silver circles. Then he ran from the rear of the Hall to the stream. Some women were washing clothes there, so he moved upstream and bathed, scrubbing himself with mint leaves and lavender blossoms. He wiped the surplus water from his body with his hands and dressed swiftly. The shirt was on the large side, but the sleeves were far too short; he rolled back the cuffs and pulled on the trews. Again they were too long. Removing them, he took his knife and cut several inches from each leg. Once dressed, he returned to the hall to welcome his guests.

Like many others in the forest he had heard of the poet, and his first invitations had been courteously refused. Then Groundsel had sent a messenger with a gold coin - and the promise of more.

The man had better be worth it, he had decided, or he’d cut his ears off. Arian and Nuada were waiting in the cool of the southern entrance when Groundsel appeared. Nuada gave a courtly bow - which pleased the robber - while Arian merely smiled. Groundsel’s delight was complete.

‘Enter, enter,’ he said. ‘Welcome. I have heard wondrous tales of your skill, master poet. I trust you will not disappoint us, poor folk that we are.’

Nuada bowed again. ‘My Lord Groundsel, I can only hope that my poor talents prove worthy of the trust implicit in your invitation.’

‘I am no Lord,’ said Groundsel, sitting back on his chair and ordering wine to be brought for his guests. ‘Just a poor man trying to do his best for the people who need him. These are hard times. But I am not a Lord — nor would I want to be.’

‘A Lord,’ said Nuada, ‘is a man who commands respect from those who serve him, or fear from those obliged to serve him. He should also be a man of courage and leadership. Last year, I am told, a great fire sprang up, and men turned to you to save them, you organized bands of workers, dug a fire ditch, cleared the ground before the blaze and yourself worked alongside your men. That is heroic leadership, my Lord, sharing the dangers and inspiring your followers.’ Groundsel was lost for words. The fire would have destroyed his granary and winter would have brought Starvation and an end to his leadership. Could the fool not see that? But the words were pleasing, and he was beginning to see the value of his investment in the poet, he turned his attention to the girl, asking her name and straining to be cool and pleasant. He talked with them for an hour before having them escorted to an empty hut at the western edge of the village. When his men returned to explain that the woman and the man were not together, and desired separate accommodation, he was overjoyed. He ordered a second dwelling cleared, the resident family being moved to an overcrowded hut to the north. Naturally, there was no argument.

Back at the first dwelling, Arian turned to Nuada. ‘You flatterer! Oh, my dear Lord Groundsel, what a hero you are!’ she mocked.

Nuada grinned at her. ‘And you, I suppose, offered nothing by way of flattery yourself?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘He all but climbed into your breeches, but you just stood by smiling provocatively. Do not think to lecture me! I was raised at court, where the wrong word or look could see a man ruined - or worse. This is no different. Groundsel is like a king here and to go against him could result in unpleasant consequences.’

‘We are here on safe conduct,’ she reminded him.

‘Oh, grow up, Arian. Safe conduct? The man is a savage. However, he is a rich savage, so that gives me a reason for being here. But if you will take my advice, you will leave as soon as it is dark.’

Arian had already decided on that very course of action, but the poet’s words stung her.

‘I shall do nothing of the sort. I will leave tomorrow after breakfast. I wouldn’t miss your performance before these rabble for ... for a gold piece!’

He shrugged. ‘As you will. I should have known better than to advise a woman so worldly-wise. But when he drags you to his bed, I think you will find there is a pig inside that silk shirt.’

‘Jealous, poet? Are you attracted to men?’ She hurled the question like a barb, and was furious when he laughed at her.

‘You are angry, Arian,’ he said. ‘Was I not attentive enough on the journey here? Did you expect me to ask you to share my blanket? How remiss of me!’

The truth of his words made her blush furiously. Had he so invited her she would have refused, but she had expected him to make an advance. Her hand snaked out to crack against his cheek. For a moment anger flared, then he smiled, bowed and left the hut.

Arian watched him go, then swore under her breath. The poet was right; it was foolish to trust Groundsel’s safe conduct. And yet she had only risked this journey in the hope that it would inspire some concern in the heart of Llaw Gyffes. In that she had failed miserably. She pictured Groundsel and his lust-filled eyes and slowly pulled the hunting-knife from its sheath at her side. The edge was honed to razor-sharpness and curled up into a double-edge crescent. Drag her to his bed?

She slid the knife back in its scabbard. And waited.

Arian sat beside Groundsel as Nuada stood on a central table and wove his spell over the seventy or so men who had crowded into the hall. His talent filled the room - his voice mellow and musical, his words rich and rolling, his stories vivid and compelling. Even Arian, who often found the battles of men incomprehensible, was swept along by his tales of heroes and maidens, swordsmen and sorcerers.

His delivery was subtly different here, she noticed -more quickfire and the stories less romantic, as if he had gauged his audience in the moment that he stepped to the table. The heroes he spoke of were common men, who had risen to the ranks of the great or who had fought against the evils of the monarchy in times past.

Groundsel was as spellbound as his men, his dark eyes fixed on the poet. Nuada closed his performance with the tale of the great fire, and Groundsel’s part in it, emphasizing the strength of character and the powers of leadership that were gifts from the gods to men of certain futures. The hall exploded with applause and Nuada bowed to the audience, then turned to bow even lower in Groundsel’s direction.