David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

‘Be calm,’ he told himself. ‘Fear is useless here.’ The streaming kaleidoscope slowed until he floated at the edge of the Red. He pulled back, crossing the Black and the Green, seeking the Yellow and the way home. Then the strangest sensation touched him and he realized he was not alone. Yet there were no words, no touch, only a curious certainty. ‘Speak to me,’ he said, but there was nothing — only the warmth of companionship, the knowledge of friendship. ‘Is it you, Ruad?’ he asked. ‘Tell me. Show me.’ The Colours drew back before a blaze of Gold that loomed and engulfed him. On a conjured disc of gold he soared through the rainbow and floated above the Forest of the Ocean far below.

Then he saw a shimmering figure in the sky above the refugee camp. He sped towards it, recognizing the warrior Knight Cairbre. The Red Knight spun towards him.

‘Your sorcerer is gone, and this rag-tag army will concern us not at all,’ said the Knight. ‘What a waste of time and energy.’

‘I think you should leave the Forest,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘You are not welcome here.’

Cairbre’s pale face was touched by the ghost of a smile. ‘You cannot hurt me, child. You cannot stop me. I travel where I will.’

‘Not any more,’ said Lamfhada, raising his hand. A golden globe sprang up around Cairbre. He drew his sword and lashed at it, but he was trapped.

‘Without Ollathair you have nothing,’ stormed Cairbre. ‘None can stand against Samildanach.’

‘I can,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Now begone!’ The globe flashed away at dizzying speed and the boy sorcerer followed it to the edge of the Forest. The Colours were out of harmony here, the Red pushing all before it. Lamfhada raised his arms and a wall of gold appeared, moving west and east and soaring north over his head. He opened his hand, willing the fingers to turn Red and when they had done so he touched the wall. Burning pain lanced him. He drew back, healed the hand and returned to his body.

The Red Knights would spy no more on Llaw Gyffes, and that would trouble them. Back on the hillside Lamfhada rose wearily. He knew now what he must do — and worse, what must befall them all. But there was no fear… for he was not alone.

Manannan convinced Llaw of the need to move to a safer camp in the high meadows, where they could build new homes and watch all the approaches day and night. For two days the one hundred and twelve refugees marched further into the mountains, passing several small settlements. At each, they obtained food and temporary shelter.

On the third day they were joined by Elodan and his rearguard; they had ambushed the soldiers as they rode north, killing five, and had escaped without loss. At last the refugees came to the high meadows, and began the task of felling trees and clearing the ground for new homes. The weather was calm and temperate, but all knew the winter was not yet passed and the crude dwellings were built with speed against the last savage onslaught of the snow.

Llaw Gyffes and Groundsel were tireless in their labours, stripping trees, dragging timber across the frozen ground, organizing work parties and hunting groups. Elodan took his twenty men back into the forest, scouting for signs of the soldiers and directing other refugees to the main camp. Nuada took part in no physical labour, but earned his salt at night around the camp-fires with stories and jests, tales and songs.

Manannan and Morrigan, bereft of armour, worked among the refugees. The Once-Knight had no talent with carpentry or building, but laboured hard to assist those with more skill.

By the seventh night after Ruad’s death, a new village had been built with more than thirty makeshift dwellings. Elodan had returned to report that the soldiers had sacked two more settlements and the death toll was high. More than a hundred bodies had been counted at the first, but wolves had dragged away many at the second, making a count impossible.

Nuada asked for a meeting of the leaders and chose, as its site, a deep cave above the meadow. Here he lit a large fire and waited as the men gathered. The Healer Gwydion sat beside Lamfhada and watched the warriors as they seated themselves. Groundsel was the first to arrive; short, squat and bearded, he sat with his back to a wall, his eyes on the cave mouth. Gwydion noticed that his right hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. Llaw Gyffes came next, with the hawk-faced Elodan. Gwydion bowed his head to the Knight, who responded with a tight smile. Then came the former Gabala Knight Manannan, once more in armour; he and Elodan could have been brothers, for both had the same aquiline features and both were of patrician blood. Manannan was built more powerfully, his face more square, but it was in the eyes that a subtle difference could be seen. Elodan had tasted the despair of defeat, the pain of the vanquished, and it showed.

Groundsel was the first to speak. ‘Well, poet, you have us here. Entertain us, for the Gods know we need it.’

Nuada rose. ‘There is no song for you tonight, my Lord Groundsel,’ he said, his violet eyes scanning the small group. ‘Tonight we decide on a matter of great importance. We have here among us a Knight of the Gabala. Might I ask him first to speak?’

‘What would you have me say?’ Manannan asked. ‘I am here as a man, not a Knight. The Gabala Knights are no more.’

‘Then tell us of the Order, and what it stood for.’

‘Surely all of us here know the answer to that,’ said Manannan. ‘What is your purpose, Sir Poet?’

‘Bear with me, sir, and accede to my request.’ Nuada sat down.

Manannan cleared his throat. ‘The history is long, and I will not bore you with it. Suffice to say that the Knights were champions of justice in the Nine Duchies, free from interference and subject not to the power of the King nor any law made by him. They would ride into any castle and have the power to award decisions, to settle all disputes. Is that what you wished to hear?’

‘In part, Manannan,’ answered Nuada. ‘But was it not the case that often you had to fight, to kill, for your cause?’

‘Yes, though not as often as legend has it. In the main we… they represented the common people in disputes against landowners. Such landowners could demand trial by combat; that was within the law.’

‘And why were you needed?’

Manannan gave a nervous laugh. ‘Why? Because the weak must also have champions. There is no riddle there, surely?’

‘So, then,’ said Nuada, ‘without the Knights of the Gabala the weak have no one to stand for them?’

‘That is so,’ agreed Manannan. ‘Perhaps one day the Order will be re-established. I would hope that to be true.’

‘Why not now?’ asked Nuada softly.

‘Now, Sir Poet? But the Armourer is dead, the Knights corrupted — and the King has changed the laws.’

‘The Knights were never subject to the laws; you said that yourself.’

Llaw Gyffes pushed himself to his feet. ‘What are you leading to, Nuada? I thought we were here to talk of sensible things.’

‘Oh, but we are, Llaw Gyffes,’ said Nuada. ‘We are here to talk of rebirth. The Knights of the Gabala must ride again, and the people must know of it. They must ride against the King and his Red Knights.’

‘Why not?’ said Groundsel. ‘We have the armour, after all. It will be a great boost to morale to have the Knights riding beside us. I like the idea.’

‘Do not even think of it in those terms,’ snapped Nuada. ‘That is not the purpose. The Knights must ride, yes. But true Knights, pledged to all the Gabala held dear.’

‘It is not possible!’ said Manannan. ‘Believe me, poet, you have no idea what you are suggesting. There is not a man here who could stand against Samil-danach, Pateus, Edrin, or any of the others. At best you would have an arena-show, a carnival. I was a Knight of the Gabala. I trained for years for the honour, and for years after it I honed those skills. There is not a man in this forest I could not defeat, with or without a weapon — and I could never stand against Samildanach. Do you understand that? It is not enough for men to wear the armour and ride tall horses. The Gabala Knights were special.’