David Gemmell: Knights of Dark Renown

Outside the stallion was cropping grass at the far wall. The man who had been a knight walked past the beast and on to the smithy. It too was dust-covered, the tools rusted and useless, the great bellows torn and tattered, the forge open — a nesting-place for rats.

Manannan picked up a rusted saw-blade. Even had it been gleaming and new, it would have been useless to him. The silver steel of the helm was strong enough in its own right, but with the added power of Ollathair’s enchantment it was impervious to everything but heat. He had once endured two hours of agony as a smith sought to burn the bar loose. At last, defeated, the craftsman had knelt before him.

‘I could do it, sir, but there would be no point. The heat needed would turn your flesh to liquid, your brain to steam. You need a sorcerer, not a smith.’

And he had found sorcerers, and would-be wizards, seers and Wyccha women. But none could counter the spell of the Armourer.

‘I need you, Ollathair,’ said the Once-Knight. ‘I need your wizardry and your skills. But where did you go?’

Ollathair had been above all a patriot. He would not have left the realm unless forced. And who could force the Armourer of the Gabala Knights? Manannan sat silently among the rusted remains of Ollathair’s equipment and fought to remember conversations of long ago.

Considering the size of the empire it had once ruled, the lands of the Gabala were not large. From the borders of Fomoria in the south to the coastal routes to Cithaeron was a journey of less than a thousand miles. East to west, from the Nomad steppes to the western sea and Asripur, was a mere four hundred. One fact was sure — Ollathair would avoid cities; he had always hated the marble monstrosity of Furbolg.

Where then? And under what guise?

Ollathair had been merely the name chosen by the Armourer, but there was another name he used when wishing to travel alone and unreported. Manannan had discovered this by chance ten years before, during a visit to the northernmost of the nine Duchies. He had stopped at a wayhouse and seen the owner showing off a small bird of shining bronze that sang in four languages. As the man lifted his hand, the bird circled the room and a sweet perfume filled the air.

Manannan had approached the man, who had bowed low upon seeing the Gabala armour.

‘Where did you come by the bird?’ he had asked.

‘It was not stolen, sir, I promise you. On the lives of my children.’

‘I am not here to judge you, man. It was merely a question.’

‘It was a traveller, sir… two days ago. A stocky man, ugly as sin. He had no money for a room and paid with this. Am I right to keep it?’

‘Keep it, sell it; it is not my concern. Where did this traveller go?’

‘South, sir. Along the Royal Road.’

‘Did he give you a name?’

‘Yes, sir — as is the law. And he signed the register. I have it here.’ He lifted the leather-bound book and showed it to the Knight.

Manannan caught up with Ollathair the following afternoon on a long open stretch of road. The Armourer was riding a fat pony.

‘Is there no peace?’ Ollathair asked. ‘What is the problem?’

‘There is no problem that I know of,’ Manannan told him. ‘This is a chance meeting. I saw your handiwork at the inn; a little extravagant for a night’s lodging, was it not?’

‘It’s flawed; it will not last out the week. Now ride on and leave me to a little serenity. I will see you at the Citadel in a week.’

Now as Manannan looked about him at the cobwebs and the decay, he shivered.

Perhaps Ollathair would have chosen another name. Perhaps he was dead.

But with no other clues the Once-Knight had no choice. He would ride to the north and seek news of a craftsman called Ruad Ro-fhessa.

The boy gripped the tweezers, lifted the tiny bronze sliver and took a deep breath. He licked his lips as he leaned over the bench, his hand shaking.

‘Easy, now,’ said the ugly man, sitting beside him. ‘Be calm and breathe easily. You are too tense.’ The boy nodded and rolled his shoulders, seeking to ease the knots of tension. His hand steadied and the bronze sliver slid into place at the back of the model. ‘There!’ said the man triumphantly, his one good eye examining the metal hawk. ‘Now take the wing and lift it — carefully now!’

The boy did so and the wing spread effortlessly, the bronze feathers gleaming. ‘And release.’ The wing snapped back into place against the scaled body.

‘I did it, Ruad. I made it!’ cried the boy, clapping his hands.

‘Indeed you did,’ the man agreed, a wide grin showing his crooked teeth. ‘In only a year you have duplicated that which took me three, when I was your age. But then you had a better teacher than I!’

‘Will it fly?’ asked the boy. Ruad Ro-fhessa ruffled the lad’s tightly curled blond hair. He shrugged his huge shoulders and stood, stretching his back.

‘That will depend on your ability to draw the air-magic. Come, we will sit for a while.’ Ruad moved away from the bench and through the workshop to a wide room where two deep chairs were set before a hearth in which a log-fire blazed. There he settled himself, stretching his short legs towards the blaze and resting his massive arms across his chest. The firelight gleamed on the bronze patch covering his left eye and highlighted the silver streaks in his thinning black hair. The boy joined him; he was tall for his age, and had almost outgrown the tunic of his House.

‘You did well, Lug,’ said Ruad. ‘One day you will be a Master Craftsman. I am greatly pleased with you.’ Lug blushed and looked away. Compliments were rare from Ruad, and never before had he been asked to sit by the fire.

‘Will she fly?’

‘Can you feel the magic in the air?’ countered Ruad.

‘No.’

‘Close your eyes and rest your head back against the chair.’ Ruad lifted a heavy poker and stirred the blaze to life, adding three fresh logs to the fire. ‘The currents of magic are many, the colours deep and sometimes startling. You must begin with the colours. Think of White, which is peace. Harmony. Picture the colour, flow with it. Can you see it?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Lug.

‘When there is anger, or hatred, or pain, other than that of the flesh, White is the answer. Summon it. Blue is the sky, the power of the air, the dream of things which fly. Blue is what calls them on halting wings. Can you see the Blue?’

‘I can, Master.’

‘Then call on the Blue.’ Ruad closed his good eye and aided the boy in his search. ‘Do you have it, Lug?’

‘I do, Master.’

‘And how do you feel?’

‘I can sense the sky calling me. I feel the need for wings.’

Ruad smiled. ‘Then let us return to the hawk. Hold to your feeling.’

The two craftsmen made their way to the workshop, where the boy lifted a tiny knife. ‘Am I ready?’ he asked.

‘We shall see,’ answered Ruad. ‘Release the magic of the Blue.’

Lug nicked the skin at the base of his right palm and held his hand over the bird’s metallic head. A single drop of blood splashed on the beak.

‘Now the wings,’ Ruad ordered. ‘Swiftly now.’ Lug followed the instructions, then stepped back. ‘Press your finger over the cut and stop the bleeding.’ Lug did so, but his blue eyes were fixed on the bird. At first there was no movement, but then the golden head jerked, the plate rings grinding together. Slowly the wings spread and the hawk rose from the bench, soaring through the open window in search of the sky. The man and the boy ran out on to the mountainside to see the golden bird fly higher and higher. Suddenly it faltered, and Lug watched as a bronze feather floated away from the hawk… then another… and another. The flight was ungainly now.