David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

‘You must leave Mactha… tonight. Take all Nomad servants with you and make for the forest. Beyond it is the sea. Get as far from the realm as you can.’

‘Why?’

‘To stay is to die. All Nomads are to be herded to Gar-aden. It is a place of death, Ubadai; I can feel it. Prepare the servants.’

‘It is done,’ Ubadai assured him.

Ruad adjusted the silvered mirror and stropped his shaving blade against the leather hanging from the wall. Satisfied with the edge, he wetted his face with warmed water and carefully cut away the black and grey stubble.

The face he saw was one that merited a beard, he thought: a heavy, all-disguising beard, to cover the lantern jaw and mask the gash of a mouth with its crooked teeth.

‘You are uglier now than ever,’ he told his reflection. Returning to his table he pushed aside the remains of his breakfast and removed the bronze eye-patch, polishing it with a soft cloth until it gleamed. Replacing it, he poured himself a goblet of apple juice and watched the coming dawn, the shadows shrinking back from the trees outside his window.

He had been happier here than at the Citadel, for the old fortress held too many memories of his father. Calibal had been a stern parent to the son he had not wanted and the boy — ugly and awkward — could do nothing to please him. Every day of his youth had been spent trying to win his father’s love. At last he had succeeded in the Colours, proving himself a greater magician than Calibal; then his father’s indifference had turned to hatred, and he put the boy from him. Even when he was dying, he would not allow his son to sit by his death-bed.

Poor Calibal, thought Ruad. Poor, lonely Calibal.

He stood and forced the memories from his mind. For three hours he worked on his designs, then wandered out into the meadow beyond the woods to sit and enjoy the autumn sunshine. Soon the dark clouds would gather, the north wind howl and the blizzards cover the mountains with freezing ice and snow. Already the leaves were turning to gold, the flowers fading.

A distant figure caught his eye, making slow progress up the hill. Ruad waited as Gwydion approached.

‘Lazing in the sunshine?’ said the newcomer, his lined face red with the exertion of the climb, his white shoulder-length hair shining with sweat.

‘You should buy yourself a horse,’ responded Ruad, rising to his feet. ‘You’re too old for mountain walking.’

The old man smiled, took a deep breath and leaned on his staff. ‘I have not the energy to argue,’ he admitted, ‘but a glass of your apple juice will revive me.’

Ruad led him into the house and poured him a drink, while Gwydion sat down at the table.

‘How is life treating you?’ the old man asked.

‘I do not complain,’ said Ruad. ‘You?’

‘There is always work for a Healer — even one with fading powers.’

Ruad cut several slices of dark bread and a wedge of cheese, passing them to Gwydion. While the man ate Ruad walked to the doorway, scanning the road to Mactha. All was still.

‘Okessa is seeking news of a one-eyed craftsman,’ said Gwydion as Ruad returned.

‘I do not doubt it. I made a mistake.’

‘You gave magic to the boy, Lug?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was not wise.’

‘Wisdom should be tempered with compassion,’ observed Ruad. ‘Did you come all this way to warn me?’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Gwydion. ‘I would have sent a message, but there is a pressing matter you might help me to resolve.’

‘You speak of the change in the Colours?’

‘Then it is not all in my mind? Good,’ said Gwydion. ‘So my powers are not fading as fast as I believed?’

‘No. The Red is swelling, the other Colours fading. Green is suffering the worst, for it is the furthest.’

‘What is the cause?’ Gwydion asked. ‘I know that the Colours shift and dance, but never in such an extreme way. The Green is now a shimmering thread — I am hard pressed to heal a sick calf. ‘

Ruad moved to the hearth, cleared away the ash and prepared a new fire. ‘I do not have any answers, Gwydion. There is an imbalance; the Colours have lost their harmony.’

‘Has this, to your knowledge, happened before? I have never heard of such a thing.’

‘Nor I. Perhaps it will right itself.’

‘You think so?’ asked Gwydion. Ruad shrugged. ‘There is an ugly feeling in the air,’ whispered the old man. ‘In Mactha there have been three murders in the last week. There is fear, Ruad.’

‘It is the influence of the Red; it stirs the emotions. I have felt it too — an impatience, an anger, that affects my work. Lately I have been unable to use the Blue, so I have resorted to the Black, but even that is fading.’

The old man shivered as a cold wind blew through the open doorway. ‘Light the fire, Ruad. These ageing bones cannot take the cold.’

Lifting a thick branch from the hearth, Ruad ran his fingers along its length. Fire leapt instantly from the wood and he thrust it into the prepared tinder. ‘The Red, of course, still has its uses,’ he said, adding fuel to the blaze.

Gwydion grinned. ‘Not for Healing, from which I earn my meagre income.’

Ruad closed the door and pulled two chairs before the fire. Gwydion seated himself, holding out his hands to the dancing flames, and Ruad joined him.

‘You will, of course, stay the night? You are most welcome.’

‘Thank you,’ Gwydion accepted.

‘What other news have you?’

The Healer shivered. ‘None that is good, I fear. A traveller from Furbolg says the city is in the grip of terror — a killer is stalking the streets. So far the bodies of eleven young women have been found, and five young men. The King has promised to hunt down the killer, but as yet there is no sign of any success. Added to this are rumours concerning the Nomads. More than a thousand were taken to Gar-aden to what was described as a settlement. I have it on good authority…’ Gwydion shuddered. ‘Strange how fire does not warm me as once it did. Do you think I am close to death, Ruad?’

‘I am not a seer, my friend,’ said Ruad softly. ‘You were talking of the Nomads?’

‘There is a pit near the mountains. I am told a thousand bodies lie there, with room for many thousands more.’

‘It cannot be,’ Ruad whispered. ‘Where is the logic? Who could gain from such a slaughter?’

Gwydion said nothing for a moment, then he turned towards the Craftsman. ‘The King has decreed that the Nomads are tainted, that they corrupt the purity of the realm. He blames them for all ills. You have heard of the nobleman, Kester?’

‘I met him once: an irascible old man.’

‘Put to death,’ said Gwydion. ‘His grandfather wed a Nomad princess.’

‘I have never heard the like. Is there no opposition to the King?’

‘There was,’ replied Gwydion. ‘The King’s champion, the knight Elodan, left his service. He stood up for Kester and demanded the ancient right to champion his honour. The King agreed, which surprised everyone, for there was not a finer swordsman than Elodan anywhere in the empire.

‘A great crowd assembled for the combat in the jousting fields outside the city. The King did not attend — but his new Knights were there, and it was one of these who stepped forward to face Elodan. The battle was fierce, but all who saw it — I am told — realized at once that Elodan had no chance against this new champion. The end was brutal. Elodan’s sword was smashed to shards and a blow to the helm sent him to his knees. Then the Red Knight calmly cut Elodan’s right hand from his arm.’

‘A Red Knight, you say?’ whispered Ruad. ‘Describe him.’

‘I was not there, Ruad. But I am told they appear only in full armour, their helm visors closed.’