David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

Lamfhada awoke, his eyes unfocused, his vision swimming. Lines ran above his head — dark lines, like the panelled lid of a coffin.

‘No!’ he groaned, struggling to rise. A gentle hand pushed him back, and soothing words calmed him. His head rolled on the pillow and he saw a young woman with dark brown eyes who stroked his brow.

‘Rest,’ she whispered. ‘You are safe. Safe. Rest. I am with you.’

When his eyes opened again he saw that the lines were timbers, supported by a central beam. He turned his head, hoping the young woman was close by. Instead he saw a man sitting by his bed, a handsome man in a sky-blue shirt; he had long, shoulder-length hair and was beardless; his eyes were violet. He smiled as he saw Lamfhada looking at him.

‘Welcome back to the world, my friend.’ The voice was soft and almost musical. ‘I am Nuada. I found you in the forest.’

‘You saved me,’ Lamfhada whispered.

‘Not quite; there was another man with me. How do you feel?’

‘My back is sore.’ Lamfhada licked his lips. ‘Thirsty,’ he said.

Nuada brought him a cup of water, supporting his head as he drank. ‘You were struck by an arrow which lodged deep. You have been in a fever for five days but Arian says you will live.’ Nuada spoke on, but sleep once more overcame the youth and he dreamt of golden birds flying around the sun.

He awoke during a storm, hearing the shutters on the windows rattling and the rain pounding on the slanted roof. This time there was another man beside his bed — yellow-haired, with a red-gold beard and eyes the colour of storm-clouds.

‘It is time you roused yourself, boy,’ the man told him. ‘You are costing me dear.’

‘Costing?’

‘You think Arian and her mother do this for love? Much more time in bed and I will be penniless.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Truly. I will repay.’

‘With what? I have already sold your dagger.’

‘Leave him be, Llaw,’ said a voice and Lamfhada saw a middle-aged woman come into view. ‘He’s not ready yet; it will be days before he can rise. Get out with you!’

‘Into the storm? Your charity fails to impress me. And the food smells too good to miss.’

‘Then behave.’ The woman came to the bedside and rested a calloused hand on Lamfhada’s brow. ‘Good, the fever is passing.’ She leaned over the youth and smiled. ‘You will be weak for a few days, but your strength will return.’

‘Thank you, lady. Where is… the other woman?’

‘Arian is hunting. She will not be back tonight; she will have taken shelter from the storm. But you will see her tomorrow.’

‘A few more days,’ snapped Llaw. ‘Already he is thinking of a pretty face. Put some broth into him and I’ll wager he’ll proposition her.’

‘Why should he not?’ replied the woman, grinning. ‘Every other man has — but for you, Llaw Gyffes.’

‘I have no need of a woman,’ he said, and reddened as she laughed.

Lamfhada slept again.

The storm had passed by the time he woke. He seemed to remember being fed, but the memory was hazy and his hunger was great. He sat up, but winced as a sharp pain pulled at his back. The young woman was kneeling by the hearth, striking flint against iron to light the tinder in the grate. Lamfhada watched as a thin spiral of smoke rewarded her efforts and, bending over the hearth, Arian blew the fire to life. He found himself staring at her hips, and the stretched buckskin trews she wore.

‘It is rude to stare,’ she said, without turning.

‘How did you know I was staring?’

‘The bed creaked as you sat up.’ With the fire lit she rose smoothly and walked to his bedside, pulling up a chair. Her hair was honey-gold, her eyes deep brown, her mouth full, her smile an enchantment.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Well, what?’ he stammered.

‘Am I fit for market?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You are staring at me as you would a prize cow.’

He looked away. ‘Forgive me. I am not usually rude.’

She laughed and took his hand. ‘And I am not usually so easily offended. I am Arian. You?’

‘Lu… Lamfhada.’

‘Are you sure? There seems to be some confusion.’

‘I am sure. I was called Lug, but I gave myself a good name — a man’s name.’

‘Very wise. Lug does not suit such a pretty face. Why did you run away?’

‘I was sold to the Duke. I thought it was better to run. Where am I?’

‘In the Forest of the Ocean. Llaw Gyffes brought you to my mother. You nearly died. He should not have pulled the arrow out; you almost bled to death.’

‘I do not know why he saved me. I seem to be causing him trouble.’

‘Do not concern yourself with Llaw; he is a contrary man and few people understand him. What are your talents?’

‘I can cook… clean — and I have skill with horses. I play the flute.’

‘Can you hunt? Make clothing, fashion wood?’

‘No.’

‘Can you work clay?’

‘No.’

‘What about herbs? Would you recognize amarian or desarta ?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ the young man admitted.

‘Then life will be difficult for you, Lamfhada. It would seem you are about as useful as a dead sparrow.’

‘I can learn. Will you teach me?’

‘You think I have nothing better to do?’

‘Of course you have. But will you?’

‘We will see. Are you hungry?’

‘Ravenous!’ he admitted. She brought him some cold venison and cheese, then gathered her bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘Where are you going?’

She looked at him and smiled. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said, holding up the bow. ‘I’m going to pick flowers!’

After she had gone, Lamfhada pulled back the blanket and eased himself from the bed. He looked around for his clothes, and padded across to the hearth. His trews lay across the back of a chair and he slipped them on; his shirt was hanging on a hook by the far wall and he saw that someone had expertly sewn the hole made by the arrow. Once dressed, he sat down by the fire; his legs felt weak and unsteady. He added wood to the blaze and sat quietly, thinking of the terror of his flight and the sudden hammer-blow as the arrow struck his back.

He had been saved by Llaw Gyffes, the man he had come to join, but — as Arian had pointed out — he had little to offer the rebel leader. He felt suddenly foolish and, worse, useless. The door opened and a blast of cold air touched him.

‘How the young recover,’ said Nuada. ‘Good morning to you!’

Lamfhada smiled. ‘I remember you… like a dream. You were sitting by my bed. Nuada, isn’t it?’

‘It is.- I can see you’re feeling stronger, but you shouldn’t overstretch yourself. You really were extremely ill. Arian tells me you are called Lamfhada. A good name. A Gabala Knight, no less — one of the first, I think.’

‘Yes, so I am told. Are you a rebel?’

Nuada chuckled. ‘You know, I think that I am. But I fear I will strike no terror in the hearts of the King’s soldiers. Saga poets are rarely swordsmen.’

‘You are a poet?’

Nuada bowed and sat down beside the youth. ‘I am. Probably the best in the realm.’

‘Do you know many stories?’

‘Hundreds. When you are feeling better you must come to the hall. I perform there every night. I have become famous here and men travel from settlements all over the forest to hear me. If they had any money, I would be rich.’

Tell me of the Gabala Knights.’

‘A rather wide area, covering two hundred years. Could you not be more specific? The tale of Lamfhada, perhaps?’

‘Tell me of Ollathair,’ said Lamfhada.

‘Ah, a student of modern history,’ commented Nuada. ‘Do you know the origins of the Knights?’