David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

‘They? How many are there?’

‘Eight. They are deadly. Six times now they have fought in single combat for the King and on each occasion a different Knight takes the field. But all are invincible.’ The old man shuddered. ‘What does it all mean, Ruad?’

The one-eyed Craftsman did not reply. Moving to the window, he pushed it shut, drawing the heavy woollen curtains to block any draught of cold air.

‘Treat this house as your home,’ he told Gwydion. ‘If you are thirsty, drink; if you are hungry, there is food in the pantry.’

Ruad strode through to his workshop, opening the chest by the far wall and rummaging through its contents. At last he found what he was seeking: a gold-and silver-rimmed plate, round and black as ebony. He carried it to his work bench and slowly polished it with a soft cloth.

Satisfied, he closed his eye and reached into the Colours. The Red almost swamped him but he rose through it, seeking the White. The Colours were shimmering, receding… the White was a slender ribbon now but he fastened to it, finding calm.

His eye snapped open. Taking a curved knife from the bench he pricked his thumb, allowing a single drop of blood to fall to the plate. As it touched the ebony it disappeared, and the black plate became a silver mirror in which Ruad gazed down at his reflection.

‘Ollathair,’ he said. A mist covered his image, then cleared as if a ghostly wind was blowing, and Ruad found himself staring down at the Great Hall in Furbolg. The King was seated on his throne and around him stood eight Knights in red armour. Ruad’s concentration increased; the scene grew closer still.

The Knights’ armour was of a strange design, yet similar to the work he himself had designed for the Gabala. The helms were round, the neckrings overlapping. The shoulder-plates were perfectly fitted, but boasted a high collar that would stop any swinging blade from harming the neck.

Suddenly, as his examination continued, the tallest of the Knights swung round; his head jerked up and through the visor Ruad saw a pair of blood-red eyes staring at him. The Knight’s sword flashed up… Ruad hurled himself back from his seat as the plate exploded, shards of burning metal slashing the air. One thudded into the door-frame, smouldering into flame as Ruad rose trembling from the floor. The smell of burning wood hung in the air. Taking a deep breath and steadying himself he moved around the room stamping out the smouldering pieces.

When he had finished, he returned to his seat. Gwydion entered.

‘I am afraid to ask,’ said the old man, ‘but I must. What did you find?’

‘Evil,’ said Ruad. ‘And there is worse to come — much worse.’

‘Can it be countered?’

‘Not by the likes of you and me.’

‘Then it must be terrible indeed, if Ollathair is powerless against it.’

Ruad smiled. ‘I am not powerless, my friend. I am just not powerful enough.’

‘Is there any force in the world that could make you so?’

‘The Knights of the Gabala,’ Ruad answered.

‘But they are gone.’

‘Exactly. And I have surrendered the one weapon I had.’

‘What weapon is that?’ asked Gwydion.

‘Secrecy. They know who I am, and worse, where I am.’

Towards midnight Ruad stirred in his chair. In the back room he could hear Gwydion snoring and outside the autumn winds were rattling the window-frames. He could not recall dropping off to sleep, but he had awoken refreshed and now he stretched and rose. The fire was dying down; he thought of the old man, and his inability to take the cold. Stepping outside, he walked to the wood store and gathered an armful of logs. The night was cold and, but for the sighing of the wind, quiet. Three times more he carried wood to the hearth, building up the fire so that some warmth would remain at the dawn.

Wide awake now, he wandered outside to the well. Just as he was about to lower the bucket he glimpsed a moving shadow to his left and stood stock still, not turning his head. Then he sat down on the well wall and waited.

They came in a rush, seven swordsmen all wearing the livery of the Duke — a black raven, wings spread on a field of green.

‘I need you!’ bellowed Ruad. From the rear of the house came the sound of wood being splintered and three golden forms bounded into the clearing. Shaped like hounds, yet larger than lions, they ran to Ruad and stood facing the armed men — jaws gaping, steel teeth shining in the moonlight.

‘Good evening to you,’ said Ruad, standing to face the soldiers.

They stood very still, gazing at their leader, a slim young man carrying a longsword. He licked his lips nervously, tearing his eyes from the golden hounds. ‘Good evening, Craftsman. We have been sent to escort you to Mactha.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘The Lord Seer, Okessa, has ordered your presence. I do not know his reason.’

‘But he asked you to come in the dead of night? Armed and ready for war?’

‘He said you were to be brought at once, Craftsman,’ said the young man, avoiding Ruad’s gaze.

‘Return to Mactha and tell the Lord Okessa I am not subject to his bidding. Further, tell him I like not his method of invitation.’

The young man stared at the golden hounds and their slavering steel jaws. ‘You would be wise, Craftsman, to come with us. You will be declared a nothing, an outlaw.’

‘I think, boy, it is time for you to leave.’ Ruad knelt by the hounds, whispering words that the soldiers could not hear. The beasts moved forward, their eyes gleaming like red stars, and suddenly a ferocious howling came from them. As the men panicked and fled, sprinting down the hill, the golden hounds bounded after them, baying in the moonlight.

Gwydion walked from the house to stand beside the Craftsman.

‘How did they find you with such speed?’

‘I do not know; but it does not matter now. I must leave here at once.’

‘I will come with you — if you think I will not slow you down.’

Ruad grinned. ‘I would be glad of the company.’

‘Those hounds… they tore through the back of the house. How many of those men will get back alive?’

‘All of them. I did not order the hounds to kill. They will follow the men until they reach their horses, then they will return. Come, you can help me to gather my belongings. I wish to leave nothing behind me that can be used by the Duke or Okessa.’

Together the two men gathered the smaller artefacts in Ruad’s workshop, placing them in a large canvas bag. There were also gold and silver ingots hidden behind the chest and these Ruad loaded into two saddlebags, carrying them out on to the main porch.

The hounds returned after an hour and stood like statues under the stars.

‘Can I approach them?’ asked Gwydion.

‘Of course; they will not harm you.’

The old man knelt by the lead animal, running his fingers over the overlapping plates of the beast’s neck. ‘This is marvellous workmanship. Are the eyes rubies?’

‘Yes. You think it overly dramatic? I had thought to make them emeralds, but they are scarce.’

‘They are perfect. I take it you cast the limbs from actual bones?’

‘No, I copied a design of my father’s. Hounds were his speciality. I just made them bigger.’

Ruad carried the saddlebags from the porch, draping them across the gleaming backs of two hounds. Then he tied the canvas bag to the back of the third.

‘Wait here,’ he told Gwydion. The Craftsman returned to the house and the old Healer saw a bright flame spring up in the main room. Ruad wandered from his blazing home without a backward glance.

‘Let us go,’ he said. The hounds silently padded alongside him.