David Gemmell: Knights of Dark Renown

‘It is not possible,’ said Ruad.

‘That cannot be true, my dear partner. All things are possible.’

Ruad shook his head. ‘You do not understand the limits. Magic is a finite power. A long time ago Zinazar sought to extend it; he used the blood of innocence. It did not work then and it will not now.’

‘But supposing a thousand people were willing to give their blood?’

‘There are not a thousand people in all the world who can drink the Colours. Forget his diamonds, Cartain. How rich can one man be?’

Cartain chuckled. ‘He can have all the wealth of the world — and one copper piece more.’

Ruad drained his apple juice. ‘Now tell me why you are leaving — and not a single word about the wind, if you please.’

Cartain’s smile faded. ‘There are bad times coming and I want no part of them. My messengers tell me of evil deeds in the capital. This in itself would be of no consequence to a Nomad like me, but King Ahak’s mismanagement has left him with a thin treasury. Several Nomad merchants have been arrested, accused of treason and tortured to death. Their wealth has accrued to the King. Old Cartain will not feed the vulture’s treasury.’

‘I had my problems with the King,’ said Ruad. ‘He is arrogant and headstrong, but he is no despot.’

‘He has changed, my friend,’ Cartain told him. ‘He has surrounded himself with men of evil — even recruited men for a group he called the Knights of the New Gabala… and they are terrible. It is said he was gravely ill and a sorcerer cured him, but his soul died. I do not know. These stories abound. But then men will always talk of kings. What I do know is that the climate is not good for Nomads — or those of Nomad blood. I have seen these things before — in other lands. No good will come of it.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Across the Inner Sea to Cithaeron. I have relatives there… and a young wife.’

‘You have a wife here, as I recall?’

‘A rich man cannot have too many wives! Why not come with me? We could make a fortune.’

‘I do not desire a fortune,’ Ruad told him. ‘Have my goods sent to the mountains tomorrow.’

‘I will. Take care, Craftsman. All secrets have a habit of becoming known and yours, I fear, will prove no exception. And this time you would lose more than an eye.’

Ruad left the merchant and wandered back towards the stables, stopping to eat at a small inn.

Cartain’s planned departure bothered him, leaving him uneasy. Cunning as the merchant was, he was also a man to be trusted. There were few like him, and Ruad needed him. He finished his meal and sat staring at the gathering clouds.

All secrets become known.

There was truth in that, but it was a problem for another day. He paid the innkeeper and, carrying a sack of provisions, returned to the stable. Hyam had gone, but his youngest son saddled Ruad’s mare. The boy was sharp-eyed, with a flashing smile.

‘You should buy a new horse,’ said the lad. ‘This one is worn out.’

Ruad mounted and grinned down at him. ‘This is the beast your father sold me two months ago, swearing on the souls of his sons that she would run for ever.’

‘Ah,’ replied the boy, ‘but then Father is not as young as he was. Now, I have a gelding that was sired by Buesecus and even a man of your size could ride him all day and see not a mark of sweat upon him.’

‘Show me,’ said Ruad, following the boy back into the paddock. The black gelding was almost seventeen hands high, with a strong back and good legs.

Ruad dismounted. ‘Is it true?’ he asked the horse, ‘that your sire was Buesecus?’

The gelding swung its head. ‘No,’ it replied. ‘The boy is as big a liar as his father.’

The lad backed away, his eyes wide and fearful.

Ruad shook his head. ‘And you looked so innocent!’

‘You are a sorcerer?’ the boy whispered.

‘Indeed I am. And you have offended me,’ said Ruad, fixing the boy with a bleak look.

‘I am sorry, sir. Truly. Please forgive me.’

Ruad turned away and remounted his mare. ‘Your father may be old, boy, but he was never stupid.’ He heeled his mount and set off for the mountains. The lad was gullible and deserved to be fooled. Even as a child Hyam would have known the difference between magic and trickery.

All secrets become known.

He calmed his mind and reached into the Colours. It took’him time to find the White and ease his fears. At the top of a rise he swung in the saddle to look back at Mactha. The sun was dropping behind the mountains and the town was bathed in crimson.

Ruad shivered and, before he could steel himself, a vision shook him. Eight Knights in red armour, theft-faces ghostly white, their eyes filled with blood, were riding across the sky with dark swords in their hands.

With a great effort Ruad tore himself clear of the vision. Rubbing the sweat from his face, he kicked the mare into a run.

The six soldiers lay sprawled in death near the carriage and the two women stood side by side facing the attackers. Groundsel waited with his men behind him, eyeing the women with deep appreciation.

That they were sisters was as obvious as the fact that they were patricians. The taller of the two, dressed in a billowing skirt of green silk and a white blouse gathered at the throat, was holding a short sword she had swept up from the ground. The other was standing beside her, no sign of fear in her wide grey eyes. Both were beautiful. The girl with the sword had short curly hair, dark and glowing like a beaver pelt. Her sister wore her raven hair long, curling to her shoulders; she was dressed in a flowing robe of ash-grey silk, gathered at the waist with a belt braided with gold.

Groundsel felt arousal washing over him. He had never enjoyed sisters before — and these would fight, scratch and claw. He swallowed hard. Which of them should be first? The tall, proud one or the smaller, well-rounded woman with the haughty grey eyes?

One of his men darted forward and the taller woman’s sword snaked out in a fierce backhand cut. At the last second the man hurled himself aside, the blade slicing open his brown leather jerkin. He scrambled back on all fours, to the laughter of his comrades. Yes, thought Groundsel, the swordswoman would be first.

The sound of a trotting horse came to him and Groundsel swung to see a rider entering the hollow. He was a tall man, riding a tall horse, and though he was dressed in tunic and trews he wore a silver helm with the visor raised. He halted his grey stallion some ten paces from the twelve outlaws.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Are you in need of assistance?’

Groundsel stepped forward. ‘Be on your way,’ he hissed, ‘or we’ll drag you from the saddle and leave you for the crows.’

‘I was not addressing you, peasant,’ said the rider softly. ‘Where are your manners?’

Groundsel reddened and drew his two short swords, while the eleven outlaws spread themselves out in a circle. The rider slid from the saddle and drew a longsword that shimmered in the sunlight; he held it double-handed.

Just then the thunder of hooves filled the clearing.

‘Back!’ yelled Groundsel and the outlaws sprinted away into the undergrowth as a troop of soldiers rode in.

Manannan sheathed his sword and walked over to the women. He bowed.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ replied the smaller of the women. ‘Our thanks for your gallantry. I am Dianu; this is my younger sister, Sheera.’

Manannan turned. ‘My compliments on your sword-skills, lady. You have a fine wrist.’

A slender fair-haired man joined them; he was cleanshaven and wore no sword, but carried a fine bow of horn. His clothes were of the softest tan leather and, though unadorned, were cut to perfection. His eyes were brown, flecked with gold, making them tawny like those of a great cat. He took Dianu in his arms and kissed her cheek, then he turned to Manannan; his smile was warm and friendly, the eyes open and honest.