David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

‘All men die, good or otherwise,’ said the Dagda. ‘And I know what you saw. I was with you when you flew.’

‘You were the one whose presence I felt? I hoped it was Ruad.’

‘Do not be disappointed. I have waited for you for a very long time.’ The Dagda chuckled. ‘Precisely one hundred and forty-two years! Does that seem a long time to you, child? I can see that it does. Well, we are here now and you have much to learn.’

‘What do you mean… waited for me?’

‘You — or one like you. Ruad would have told you, had he lived. You walk the Gold, Lamfhada, and that is rare. It is special. All the Colours are subject to the Gold, and it is part of the Great Harmony that when the Colours are threatened the Gold shines. The Red is swelling over the Realm, but its users do not understand the Harmony. They seek to make the Red preeminent, but no Colour exists of itself. If the Red is allowed to dominate, the other Colours will fade and die» Neither can the Red exist alone. So then, those who seek to promote the Red are actually destroying all magic. And without magic, the world would have only one colour: it would be Grey — the grey of the tombstone, the grey of ashes. You understand?’

‘No,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Magic is used by very few. How would the world be harmed if it failed? Trees would still grow, flowers would bloom. Babies would still be born?’

‘No, that is not the case. All life is magic, and all men feel it. They see the spectacle of the dawn and they are filled with a sense of wonder. That is magic. See the look in the mother’s eyes as she holds her firstborn and cuts its cord. She understands magic. In that moment, for that precious second, she understands. But when the Harmony is disrupted — as now in the Realm — and the magic is under threat, there is only cynicism and despair and Man’s more brutal emotions begin to surface. No, my friend, the world needs magic as it needs air and water.’

‘Who are you, Dagda? What are you?’ Lamfhada asked. ‘Are you some sort of god?’

The old man shook his head. ‘I am a man. N^o more, no less. A long time ago I was — in the world’s eyes — a great man. But I forsook my life and its riches, for I yearned to know all the world’s secrets. I came to this forest and met a man — a man who had waited for me for eighty-seven years. He was the Dagda. And though his story was different from mine — as indeed yours will be — we were the same. We were rings in a chain that began when Man first reared to his hind legs, and will end when the stars fall and the sun dies… and perhaps not even then.’

Lamfhada’s mouth was dry and he wished to be free of this strange old man. As if sensing his fear, the Dagda placed a bony hand upon his shoulder.

‘We — he and I, you and I — are the Enchanters. We watch the Colours, and we nurse them. We walk the land and we maintain the Balance. Where all is war, and plague and death, we seek to aid the White or the Green or the Blue. Where all is peace and tranquillity, we strengthen the Red and the Black. But mostly we guard the Yellow, for as you now know, Lamfhada, the Yellow is merely the Gold disguised. And it is the Gold that maintains the other Colours.’

‘Why is this not known?’ Lamfhada asked him.

‘Once it was, boy. And through such knowledge, men made themselves gods and brought calamity upon themselves. Now it survives in folk tales and legend. The Sun worshippers echo the Mystery; they worship the sphere of Gold that feeds the earth. Think of it. All that grows or lives or breathes depends upon the sun. And that is so with the Colours. The Yellow is born of innocence and the laughter of children, fed by the sense of wonder in the young. In its turn, it nourishes the others. But now the truth has become a Mystery, for it is safer that way. I guard that mystery. Now you will guard it.’

‘What do you require of me?’

‘I? I require nothing. I have completed my task, as the Guardian before me completed his. He was the Dagda… now you are the Dagda.’

‘I do not wish to be.’

‘No more did I. It is lonely, Lamfhada. And yet it is fulfilling — you will find it so.’

‘And what if I die? Do you tell me the world will end? I do not believe it.’

‘If you die, another will be chosen. And you are only one of many. But you will not die yet. You did not see your own death in any of the futures, only the deaths of your Knights. I know; for I too have seen the futures. I will leave you now — you will need time to think.’

‘When will you come back for my answer?’

The old man smiled. ‘I will not come back. I have done all that I was required to do. Now I will find a place. I will watch the stars, and I will die at peace and join the Colours.’ The Dagda pushed himself to his feet and looked into Lamfhada’s eyes. ‘You have changed, young man, since I first saw you on that hillside six years ago, when you watched the Gabala Knights ride to a doom they did not deserve. And you will change even more through the long, lonely years ahead. Count the days, and the months and the years. And one day you will look into the face of a newcomer and you will see what I see. Farewell.’

‘I don’t want it. You cannot do this to me,’ shouted Lamfhada, storming to his feet.

But the old man ignored him. He had heard those same words before. One hundred and forty-two years, three months and eight days before. But then it was he who had spoken them.

Groundsel reined in his stallion at the top of the rise and gazed down in silent wonder at the Bridge of Chains, spanning the chasm. The bridge was constructed of huge rings of iron from which hung rods connected to more rings. To these were fastened wooden planks. The swaying structure began on the northern slopes of a wooded hill and stretched for almost a quarter of a mile to where it joined a stone promontory set beneath a portcullis gate. ‘How did they make it?’ asked Groundsel as Morrigan rode alongside him.

‘Some believe it was magic,’ she told him, ‘but my father explained that they first made a simple rope bridge and gradually strengthened it. He said it took over seven years to construct.’

Groundsel switched his attention to the Citadel itself. It was carved from the side of the mountain and reared above the chasm like a giant tooth. As far as he could see, the Citadel was inaccessible from the south or west; only the slender bridge linked it to the forest. The fortress was walled to the north and boasted two square towers above the portcullis. Groundsel could see no sentries, nor movement of any kind on the walls.

‘I do not like the thought of riding a horse across that bridge,’ he said. ‘I have never liked heights.’

‘You will find it will support you well enough,’ she told him, edging her mount forward. Together they rode down the hill and halted before the bridge, where Morrigan lifted her helm from her head and placed it over the pommel of her saddle.

‘Are you ready, Forest Lord?’ she asked, grinning.

Groundsel’s face was pale, his mouth set in a hard line. He did not answer, but spurred the stallion forward. As the horse moved out on to the bridge, he pulled down the visor of his helm and shut his eyes. Morrigan followed him, riding close to the right-hand side of the structure and gazing down over the iron rings. The chasm was deep, and she could just make out the bright ribbon of a stream running over the rocks below.

She transferred her gaze to Groundsel, who was sitting like a statue, looking neither left nor right. The horses’ hooves sounded like slow drum-beats on the wooden planks.

‘Enjoying the view, Groundsel?’ she called, but there was no reply. Smiling, she kicked her horse into a run. The bridge swayed alarmingly as Morrigan overtook Groundsel and cantered up to the portcullis gate, where she swung her mount and waited while her companion made his slow way forward. Once on solid ground, Groundsel slid from the saddle and sat down beside the gate. He removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his face.