David Gemmell: Knights of Dark Renown

‘Thank you, sir. Your courage does you credit.’

‘As does your timing,’ responded Manannan, holding out his hand.

‘I wish it had been better — these loyal men would still be alive. I am Lord Errin of Laene,’ he said.

‘You have grown since last I saw you. Were you not page to the Duke of Mactha?’

‘Indeed I was — the year he won the Silver Lance. I am sorry but I do not recall you, sir.’

‘My name is Manannan. I was clad somewhat differently then and sported no beard. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way.’

‘Surely not?’ said Dianu. ‘You cannot ride alone in this forest. That robber was Groundsel and even now he will be watching us. You would be in great danger.’

‘As will he, my lady, if he crosses my path again! But do not fear for me. I have no wealth and Kuan rides far — and very fast.’

‘You are welcome to stay with us, sir Knight,’ put in Errin. ‘My estates are less than half a day away. Shelter for the night, and a good meal?’

‘Thank you, but no. There is a man I must find.’ Manannan bowed to the women and walked to his horse.

Dianu watched as he rode away. ‘A strange man,’ she said. ‘He could not have defeated them all — and yet he was prepared to take them on.’

‘I do not remember him,’ mused Errin. ‘Perhaps he was a sentry, or a soldier on duty.’

‘He would have been more than that,’ Sheera said. ‘He walks like a prince.’

‘Well, he must — I fear — remain a mystery,’ said Errin. ‘Come, let us get out of this cursed forest before Groundsel returns with more cut-throats.’

For a week Ruad stayed in his cabin workshop — melting his ingots, creating gold and silver wire, delicate leaves and curious rings. On the eighth night he awoke from a light sleep to hear the sound of horses galloping on the trail. He swung from his bed, stretched, pulled a cloak about his shoulders and moved through the cabin and out into the yard beyond.

Six riders had pulled up before the dwelling.

‘Whom do you seek?’ asked Ruad, straining to recognize the men.

‘Who says we seek anyone?’ asked a rider, leaning forward across his saddle.

‘It’s late for hunting,’ offered Ruad, ‘and I’m tired, so state your business.’

‘He’s here,’ hissed the rider. ‘Where else would he be? I’ll search the cabin.’ He swung down from the saddle and marched across the yard. Ruad stepped aside, but as the man drew abreast of him his left hand flashed out to circle the rider’s throat and lift him from his feet.

‘I didn’t hear you ask permission,’ said Ruad softly. The man’s feet lashed out weakly and his fingers scrabbled against Ruad’s iron grip.

‘Let him go!’ ordered another man, heeling his horse forward. Just then the moon broke clear of the clouds and by its light Ruad recognized the speaker.

‘I would not have expected an educated man to be riding with dross such as this, Lord Errin,’ said Ruad, flinging his victim aside. The man fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Craftsman, but a slave escaped today after the auction and he is said to frequent your company. We thought he might be here.’

‘Does this slave have a name, Lord Errin?’

‘I believe he is called Lug — an ugly name for such an attractive boy.’

‘Did you buy him?’

‘Yes; he was to be a present for the Duke. Unfortunately, now he will not be suitable. It will be necessary to brand his head and perhaps hamstring him.’

‘Harsh treatment indeed,’ said Ruad, ‘but warranted. Please search my cabin and then allow me to return to my bed.’

‘I would hardly doubt your word, Craftsman. If you assure me he is not here, we will leave you in peace.’

‘Be assured, Lord Errin, I have not seen the boy since last Tiernsday. Now, good night to you.’ Ruad walked to the fallen man, who was struggling to sit; hoisting him to his feet by his hair, he led him to his horse and bundled him over the saddle. Lord Errin grinned, tugged on the reins of his stallion and galloped from the yard.

The man with the bruised throat lagged behind, then rode to where Ruad stood.

‘I tell you…’ he began. Ruad cut him short.

‘Please,’ he said, spreading his hands, ‘do not promise we will meet again. Insults make me angry, but threats bore me. And when I am bored, I am sometimes violent. And neither of us wants that, little man.’ The rider jerked the reins savagely and kicked his mount into a canter.

After he had gone Ruad wandered to the well, hauled up a bucket of cool water and sat on the wooden bench to drink and watch the stars.

Lug had been right to be fearful. The Duke would have been a poor slave-master. The Craftsman closed his eye and searched through the Colours. The boy would be frightened, his emotions racing. Ruad never liked to use the Red, for it always led to paths where evil walked. But the Red was strong and it knew fear. He found the current and concentrated on Lug. Within seconds he snapped clear and turned.

‘Come out, boy,’ he called, and the door of the woodshed opened and Lug stepped into the moonlight. ‘You almost made a liar of me!’

‘I had nowhere else, Master. But tomorrow I will find Llaw Gyffes — if he will have me.’

‘Come inside,’ said Ruad softly. ‘I have a few… toys… that may help you on your way.’

Inside the cabin, Ruad stoked the coals to life and hung the old iron flat pan above the flames. Into this he scooped a little fat and as it began to sizzle he cracked four eggs into the pan.

‘I take it you are hungry, young Lug?’

‘Yes, Master. Thank you. But, with respect, I reached my majority yesterday. I am Lug no longer; I am a man, and it is not fitting to carry a child’s name.’

‘Indeed it is not,’ agreed Ruad. ‘What name have you chosen?’

‘Lamfhada, Master. I have long coveted the name.’

‘LongArm. Yes, it is a good name. The first Knight of the Gabala was called Lamfhada. If you bring to it a fraction of his fame, you will do well.’

‘I will do my best, Master. But I am no hero.’

Ruad slid the eggs from the pan to a wooden platter. Then, slicing several pieces from the dark loaf he had made the day before, he passed the meal to the newly-named Lamfhada.

‘Do not judge yourself too harshly yet. I knew no Knights who sprang, fully-armoured, from the womb. All were striplings once.’

‘Have you known many Knights?’ Lamfhada asked.

‘Many,’ agreed Ruad, pouring a goblet of water and cutting himself a slice of bread.

‘Why did they leave, Master?’

‘You are full of questions, young man. And stop calling me Master — a man such as yourself may now address me as Craftsman. Or, as when you completed the bird, you may call me Ruad.’

‘You would allow me to use your given name?’ whispered the boy.

‘It is not my given name,’ Ruad told him, ‘but I would be pleased if you used it.’ The boy nodded and finished his meal, wiping the bread over the platter to scour the last traces of egg-yolk.

‘I hope my coming here will not bring you trouble. They will use the Seer, Okessa, to find me; he will know I was here.’

‘No,’ said Ruad, showing his crooked teeth in a wide grin. ‘They do not have a Seer good enough to penetrate my secrets — not even Okessa. Do not fear for me. Now, let me give you a present. Come.’ He led the runaway through to the workshop where he opened an oak chest that lay against the far wall. From it he took a pair of doehide boots, edged with silver thread. ‘Try them on,’ he told the boy.

Lamfhada pulled off his sandals and struggled into the boots. ‘They are a little big.’

Ruad pressed his fingers against the boy’s toes.