Knights Of Dark Renown (27 page)

As the coals in the brazier died down, the Duke returned to his quarters. His servants brought him hot water and, with the aid of a silver mirror, he shaved carefully around his thin beard, noting the grey hairs that were beginning to appear at his temples.

His face was lean and strong, the eyes deep and set close together above a curved nose. Not handsome, he knew, but powerful. He put down the mirror and rubbed at his face with a warmed towel.

Rebels in the forest! He wished to Hell there was a rebel army ready to sweep down. But all his spies informed him that the legend of Llaw Gyffes was exactly that: a fable. He smiled ruefully. Even if the legend were true, and the army swept into Mactha, he would still be a prisoner. He was a hated man; it was a lesson his father had taught him.

‘A man can rule using either love or fear,’ he had said. ‘But fear is stronger.’ And his words had been proved true. But now, as the Duke waited for news of his fate, he knew there was not a man in Mactha who would assist him and few tears would be shed when his blood ran,

‘Breakfast, my Lord?’ asked a slave-girl, whose name the Duke did not know.

‘No.’ He looked at the girl. She was young, dark and pretty. He knew he had bedded her at some time in the winter, but could not remember much of the event. He wandered to his bedroom. He was glad he had never married; he had planned to, of course, in order to sire an heir, but had decided to wait until he was fifty. At least now he would not have the worry of a family waiting to share his fate.

Hearing the thunder of hooves from the courtyard, he walked to the window. Five hundred of the King’s black-cloaked riders were galloping from the castle and he watched them for a while as they headed for the forest.

He summoned his captain. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked.

‘I understand the King has commanded them to enter the forest and ascertain the strength of Llaw Gyffes’ army.’

‘There is no army,’ snapped the Duke. ‘They will find a few settlements, and they will rape and kill. Gods! The world has gone mad.’ The man said nothing.

The Duke waved him away. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go and report what I have said; I don’t doubt Okessa will reward you.’

The man bowed, moved back and closed the door.

The Duke heard the key turn in the lock . . .

Manannan pushed back the sheets, lifted the girl’s arm from his chest and rolled from the bed. He poured himself a goblet of the golden Ambria and watched the sun rise in glory over the mountains. Strength flowed through him and he swung round to see the girl awake; she smiled at him and sat up.

‘How are you feeling, Lord Knight?’

He chuckled and returned to the bed, stroking her shoulder and pushing back the long, flowing hair to kiss her neck. Her skin was ivory pale, her body soft. Arousal swamped him . . .

An hour later he watched her leave and lay back on the bed. Sunlight streamed through the open window, bathing his body, and the music of songbirds came floating from the perfumed gardens below.

Manannan drank more of the elixir, then bathed and dressed in robes of blue silk. Wandering to the terraced garden, he strolled there among the blooms and the flowering trees. He found a small group of poets sitting among the camellias, arguing gently with a number of artists on the question of beauty. For a while he listened, but the sound of distant music lured him to a pavilion where women were dancing.

And the sun shone with incredible brightness.

Ollathair had been right. The tunnel beyond the Black Gate was a nightmare to chill a man’s soul: glittering eyes in the darkness, the sweat of terror upon his brow. But beyond it was a land of surpassing beauty and a city the like of which Manannan had never seen. White stone buildings towered over the landscape, wondrous statues lined the streets, and there were gardens everywhere, and woods of flowering trees.

He had been met at the city gates by Paulus, a poet and a Magister. The man, tall and white-haired, had bowed low.

‘Welcome at last, Manannan. It is a blessing for us that you have come.’

‘You know me?’ he had asked, dismounting.

‘Know you, my dear man? Samildanach has talked of nothing else. Welcome indeed! He will be delighted to hear of your arrival.’

‘He is here? Alive?’

‘Not here,’ said Paulus, smiling. ‘But yes, he is very much alive - as are all your comrades. They chose to remain among the Vyre and help us in our troubles. But you are tired from your travels. Follow me to my home; there you can bathe and take refreshment.’

The Magister’s home was a palace of exquisite beauty, marble-fronted and surrounded by terraced gardens. Young women came out to greet them and Manannan allowed Kuan to be led away to the stables beyond the gardens.

‘You have many slaves,’ he said to Paulus as they walked inside.

‘Not slaves, helpers. Servants, if you like.’ He led the Once-Knight to a suite of rooms and gave him his first goblet of Ambria. As he drank it, Manannan felt strength surge through his limbs.

‘What is it?’ he asked, astonished.

‘It is the bedrock of our civilization. It is life, Manannan. Drink of this and you will never have need of medicine, neither will you age.’

Samildanach and the other Knights were away in the north, he was told, but they would return in about a month. At first Manannan was concerned, and restless. Could he not ride out to meet them? Paulus agreed that he could, but advised him to rest for a few days, gather his strength, and then he would supply a guide. But the days passed and Manannan grew to love the white-towered city. There was something about it that opened his soul: the problems of the Realm seemed so far away, and the world he had left behind so remote and petty.

He bathed in scented water and found no need of food - one drink and his strength returned in seconds. The people here were gentle, and he spent several days roaming the libraries and museums, studying the customs of the Vyre. They were not a warrior race, though once - according to the histories - they had boasted great armies. Now they employed a mercenary force to patrol their borders, but there was little trouble with neighbouring lands.

‘Where is Samildanach?’ he asked Paulus on the fourth day of his stay.

‘He is helping to rescue some people from your own troubled land. Nomads, I believe they are called. He has opened a Gate for them to allow them to settle in our land.’

‘That is kind of you.’

‘It is not just kindness, Manannan. We have suffered •,, terrible plagues here during the last thirty years, and there are few people left to till the earth or supply our | needs. The land needs new blood. There are some two thousand Nomads settled already in the north. Perhaps when Samildanach returns, you can visit the new towns they are building.’

On the fifth day Manannan had been ill at ease. He felt strong as a lion, but on edge. He spoke of his feeling to Paulus, who smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You must understand,’ said the Magister, ‘that the Ambria is working inside you, rebuilding your body, making it stronger than it has ever been. It is also making you more aware of your body. What you need is a companion for your bed.’

‘I am pledged to celibacy,’ Manannan had told him.

‘Truly? For what purpose? Man was intended to mate. Trust me, Manannan.’

He had sent Draya to him that night, and she was divine to look at as well as being bright, witty and charming. Together they had finished a pitcher of Ambria and made love throughout the night. And Paulus was right. The tension in Manannan was gone; he felt smooth and relaxed, at one with this new world. After Draya he had enjoyed Senlis, Marin and others whose names he could not now remember.

The joy of it all was almost too hard to bear. The City of the Vyre was close to Manannan’s view of Paradise. It had everything except an all-powerful god and, truth be told, that made it somehow even better than Paradise. There were no judges here; the only law seemed to be Joy.

And the days passed. Manannan read the Books of the Vyre, learned their poetry, viewed their painting and sculpture, made love to their women. The Once-Knight was content for the first time in his life.

Soon Samildanach would return and they would ride to the rescue of Ollathair, put the Realm to rights, and then return here to enjoy the rewards of the blessed.

On the sixteenth evening Manannan fell asleep with these dreams in his mind. He awoke in the middle of the night, shivering and cold, and reached for his Ambria only to find the pitcher empty. He swore and rose - he was sure it had been half full when he fell asleep, but Paulus would have more. As he stood, he saw a figure sitting in the chair by the window - her back to the moonlight, her face in shadow.

‘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.’