David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

The Nomad tracker stopped some two hundred paces away from the boulders and suddenly pointed. Lamfhada blinked and shrank back as the riders spurred their mounts into a gallop. The youth leapt from his hiding place and sprinted towards the mountains, slipping and slithering on the mud and the greasy rocks. The horses thundered after him and he could hear the shouts of the riders.

In panic Lamfhada screamed the magic name and instantly felt his weight lessen, his stride lengthen. He was almost floating over the rocks. Swerving to the left, he leapt ten feet to a boulder, cutting to the right up a narrow trail towards the trees. The horsemen could not follow directly and were forced to skirt the boulder, losing ground on the runner in the process. Once more the chase was on.

Lord Errin spurred his giant black gelding into a gallop and bore down on the runaway, scarcely able to believe the speed at which the youth was moving. Had he known he was this swift, he would never have dreamt of giving him to the Duke but would have kept him and taken him to Furbolg for the races. Too late now, thought Errin, as he closed on the boy.

Hearing the hoofbeats Lamfhada cut left, clambering up a scree slope and clawing his way over the jutting boulders. Errin cursed and guided the gelding on to the treacherous slope but the horse slithered, dropping to its haunches. Another rider galloped up.

‘Give me your bow,’ shouted Errin, taking the weapon and notching an arrow to the string. Lamfhada was almost in the clear as Errin drew back the string, took a deep breath, allowed the air to drift from his lungs and, between breaths, loosed the shaft. The arrow sped to its target, catching the youth high in the back. He staggered, but did not fall and reached the sanctuary of the trees.

‘Should we follow, my Lord?’ asked the Nomad.

‘No, we are not strong enough to face the rebels. Anyway, the arrow went deep; he will not survive.’ Errin threw the bow back to the rider and led the black gelding from the scree slope. ‘What was it the boy shouted?’ he asked.

The Nomad shrugged. ‘It sounded like a name, Lord: Ollathair.’

‘That is what I heard. Now why would a runaway use the name of a dead wizard? And why did his speed increase so greatly?’ Again the Nomad shrugged and Errin smiled. ‘You do not care, do you, Ubadai?’

‘No, Lord,’ the Nomad agreed. ‘I track him. I do my job very good.’

‘Indeed you did. But it is intriguing; I will ask Okessa when we return.’ The Nomad hawked and spat and Errin chuckled. ‘He does not like you either, my friend. But beware, for he is a powerful man to have as an enemy.’

‘A man may be judged by his enemies, Lord. Sooner strong ones than weak ones, I think.’

Errin grinned at him and led the group back towards the safety of Mactha.

Just beyond the tree line Lamfhada stumbled to a halt, a great weariness rising within him. He tried to move on, but his vision blurred and the trees seemed to move and sway before him. The ground swept up at him and his eyes closed.

A slender man stepped from behind a thick pine and advanced towards the fallen youth. He was dressed in a shirt of sky-blue silk, leather trews and silver-buckled shoes, with around his shoulders a fine cloak of sheepskin. His long hair was gathered at the nape of his neck by a silver band, and his eyes were violet. Kneeling by Lamfhada, he saw the blood seeping from the arrow wound and turned away his head.

‘Well, are you going to take it out?’ came a voice and the man jerked and rose swiftly to his feet, turning to face the newcomer — a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with blond hair and a red-gold beard.

‘I don’t know anything about wounds. I think he could be dead.’

Llaw Gyffes grinned. ‘Your face is as grey as a winter sky.’ Ignoring the man, he strode to the stricken youth and ripped away his shirt. The arrow was deep and lodged under the shoulder-blade, the flesh around the wound already swollen and puffy. Llaw gripped the shaft.

‘Wait!’ said the other. ‘If it is barbed, it will rip him to pieces.’

‘Then pray it is not,’ replied Llaw, suddenly wrenching the shaft clear. Lamfhada groaned, but did not wake. Llaw held up the arrow; the head was not barbed. Blood was pouring from the wound now and Llaw plugged it with a piece of torn shirt. Lifting the youth, he draped the body over his right shoulder and walked away into the shadow-haunted forest.

The other man followed. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘There is a settlement about an hour ahead. They have an apothecary and a Wyccha woman,’ Llaw told him.

‘My name is Nuada.’

Llaw walked on without speaking.

The sun was sinking behind the mountains when they crested a small rise above the village. There were seven cabins and a longer hall to the south, while at the northern end was a paddock in which five ponies were gathered.

Llaw turned to his companion. ‘Check if the boy still lives,’ he ordered.

Gingerly Nuada took Lamfhada’s arm, feeling for a pulse. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but the heart is beating erratically.’

Llaw made no comment and began the long walk down the hill. As they approached two men came from the nearest hut; both were armed with longbows and had knives at their belts. Llaw waved at them and, recognizing him, they returned the arrows to their quivers.

Llaw took Lamfhada to the.furthest cabin, mounted the steps to the rough-hewn porch and tapped at the door, which was opened by a middle-aged woman. Seeing his burden, she stepped aside; he entered the cabin and made straight for the narrow bed beneath the eastern window.

The woman helped him to lay the youth on the bed and pulled the blood-drenched plug from the wound. More blood began to flow and she watched it carefully.

‘It did not pierce the lung,’ she said. ‘Leave him here; I will see to him.’

Llaw said nothing. He rose and stretched his neck, then noticed Nuada standing in the doorway.

‘What do you want here?’ he asked.

‘A meal would be pleasant,’ Nuada said.

‘Can you pay?’

‘I usually sing for my supper,’ stated Nuada. ‘I am a saga poet.’

Llaw shook his head and pushed past, stepping into the gathering darkness. Nuada joined him. ‘I am a good poet. I have been welcomed in the palace at Furbolg and have sung before the Duke in Mactha. And I have been east.’

‘Good poets are rich poets,’ said Llaw. ‘It is the nature of things. But it does not matter; I expect the villagers will be glad of a song. Do you know the saga of Petric?’

‘Of course, but I tend towards the contemporaneous. That’s why I am here — gathering material.’

‘Take my advice — and give them Petric,’ advised Llaw, walking away towards the long hall.

Nuada ran to catch up. ‘You are not very sociable, my friend.’

‘I have no friends,’ Llaw told him, ‘and I need none.’

The hall was some seventy feet long, with two stone hearths set on opposite sides at the centre. There were a dozen tables and, at the far end, a long trestle stand behind which were several barrels. Llaw elbowed his way through the crowd and lifted a tankard from a hook on the wall. This he filled with ale from a smaller barrel placed on the trestle table. Nuada saw that he left no payment, so he too gathered a tankard.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked a swarthy man, poking a thick finger into Nuada’s chest.

‘Getting a drink,’ the poet answered.

‘Not with my jug, you don’t,’ he said, snatching the tankard away.

‘My apologies,’ said Nuada. Turning, he saw the blond warrior talking to a man nearby. The man — thickset and with a swelling belly — swung to stare at the poet, then smiled and made his way over.