David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

‘No,’ whispered Errin. ‘I must go in.’

‘Why you such a fool always?’ shouted Ubadai, but Errin pulled free of him and walked into the cave. It was torchlit, the shadows dancing like ghosts in the dark. Errin walked on until he stood before the three remaining suits of armour. He heard a sound from beside him.

‘It is the armour calling you,’ said Lamfhada.

‘It is Gabala armour; I cannot wear it.’

Lamfhada nodded. ‘It is little known, Lord Errin, but one of the most important virtues of all Knights of the Gabala was that not one of them ever expected the honour. To expect it was to lose it. And what you have just said has been said before, a hundred times, by every man who wore the silver.’

Errin turned. ‘I am a Lord of the Feast, not a warrior. Never a warrior!’ He laughed and pointed to his belt. ‘I wear a sorcerer’s charm that gives me speed. But it is not from me — not from within.’

‘I know all this, Errin. But you have been chosen.’

‘By whom? By you?’

‘Not by me. But now it is your choice. You can walk away — and no man will judge you.’

‘What of the men whose armour this is? What of the real Knights? Supposing they return? Can I give it back?’

‘They have returned, Errin. They are the enemy: the Knights of the Red.’

‘And I will have to go against them? Cairbre? I fought him once. He is unbeatable; he even gave me his own sword.’

‘Then choose your path.’

Errin swung to stare at the armour. Licking his lips, he tried to draw back, but his mind was full of raw memories: Dianu at the stake, the jeering, chanting crowd, Okessa… His hand reached out, his fingers touching the metal. Warmth flowed through him and tears started in his eyes.

‘Damn you!’ shouted Ubadai. ‘Always the fool!’ The Nomad strode forward and pushed past Errin. He walked to a suit of armour and slapped his hand against it. ‘This is mine!’ he hissed.

‘Why?’ whispered Errin. ‘You did not have to join me.’

‘You know nothing,’ said the Nomad. ‘Locked in a pantry, you would starve to death.’

The grey stallion walked into the glade with head held high, ears pricked. It saw the man waiting and approached him boldly, secure in its power. The man rose and held out a hand, rubbing the stallion’s nose and stroking its neck. The touch was sure.

Manannan smiled. ‘You are not Kuan, my friend,’ he said softly, ‘but I think you will do.’ He swung himself to the stallion’s back and the beast reared suddenly, but the Once-Knight was ready, his thighs gripped hard to the horse’s flanks. ‘Steady, now,’ he soothed. ‘Steady.’

Riding bareback, he headed the horse down from the hills to the ruined village. Several dead horses lay where they had fallen, but Manannan dismounted downwind of them and selected a saddle and bridle.

Within the hour he was riding from the forest towards the distant fortress of Mactha.

He was worried, as he rode — and not just for his life, though his peril did not escape his anxiety. His thoughts were of Lamfhada and the new Knights. Only Elodan had the skill and the training for the role — and he was crippled. The outlaw Groundsel was a man full of barely concealed bitterness, while Nuada was a poet who could never take up arms. As for Llaw Gyffes? Manannan liked him; there was iron in him. But was that enough for a Gabala Knight? A man could eat sparrows and convince himself they were turkeys — but the question of taste remained. And Morrigan… poor Morrigan.

For several days Manannan had endured the pangs of withdrawal from Ambria. For Morrigan, the nightmare must have been infinitely worse. And yet she had not complained once. But then the Once-Knight had heard of the disappearance of a man from Groundsel’s group, and his fears had begun.

He reached the edge of the trees and looked back. Somewhere within the vast forest an enemy force was riding. Manannan wished he could have ridden against it with Elodan and the others.

Instead he must ride into the lair of the enemy and fight a duel with a man who had been a brother. It would be Pateus, who had now resumed his former name, Cairbre: Cairbre the thinker, the oldest of the Knights. Cairbre the kind, always the first to entertain the village children with stories. Now he was Cairbre the Drinker of Souls. It was almost inconceivable.

Manannan dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks.

And rode for the castle…

The Duke of Mactha was brought out into the field and the crowds jeered and hissed. He wore a simple tunic of black wool edged with silver braid, dark grey riding trews and boots, and a short leather cape lined with fur. His head was held high and he looked neither left nor right as he was led to the execution cart set before the King’s pavilion. Climbing into the cart, he stood facing his monarch. All around the field were the newly arrived soldiers of the King’s army, waiting eagerly to see the execution. The Duke glanced to his left at the scaffold and the huge vat of boiling water beside it. A shiver went through him and he looked away. As soon as this farce of a trial was over, he would be taken to the scaffold and hanged. But before he could die, he would be cut down and plunged into the boiling water. Then his arms and his legs would be hacked away. Hanged, drawn and quartered… the traditional end for traitors.

The Duke returned his gaze to the King. On his right sat the eight Red Knights; on his left the Lord Seer, Okessa.

Okessa rose and fixed his pale eyes on the Duke. ‘You have been brought here before your peers and your liege lord to answer charges of treason, of aiding and giving counsel to traitors. How do you plead to these accusations?’

The Duke smiled thinly. ‘I say that they are nonsense. Now shall we get on with the execution? You are beginning to bore me, Okessa.’

‘We will see how bored you will become,’ Okessa snapped. ‘Let us hear from the witnesses.’

For the next hour the Duke listened to a variety of stories from his servants and his soldiers: that he went to Errin and offered to help him escape, that he had condemned the King publicly, that he had suggested to his first officer that if the King were assassinated while at Mactha there was a good chance the Duke himself would be declared the next monarch.

As each witness finished his testimony, the Duke was asked if he had any questions. He had none. At last the ritual came to its close, and now Okessa rose once more, demanding that the traitor should meet his fate at once. The King had sat silently through the trial.

Now he rose — his white hair shining in the sunlight, his pale face glistening with sweat.

‘Has the prisoner no words to say in his own defence?’ he asked. ‘Does he not wish to beg for clemency?’

The Duke laughed aloud. ‘I have stood here and wasted a beautiful morning, my liege, listening to lies and deceits. I will not spoil it further by adding the truth. To be honest, though, for a moment, I think this is rather a good day to die. So let us…’

His words faded away as the sound of a trotting horse came to him. He turned and saw a Knight in silver armour riding slowly across the field. The crowd was silent as the Knight approached.

‘Who are you, sir?’ demanded the King.

‘I am Manannan, a Knight of the Gabala.’

‘That is a lie. The Gabala Knights have gone. You are an imposter.’

‘I see Samildanach sitting beside you, my lord. He will vouch for me.’

The King swung to the Red Knight, who rose and removed his helm. His hair was close-cropped and white, his eyes a brilliant blue.

‘What do you do here, Coward Knight?’ asked Samildanach. ‘Have you come to pay homage to your betters?’

Manannan ignored him and fixed his gaze on the King. ‘I am here, my Lord, to champion the cause of the Duke of Mactha, and demand the right to trial by combat.’