David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

This was the day then. And the rider would kill him.

Don’t be a fool, he told himself; you are clear. The Dagda is wrong. Ride away and cheat your fate.

But then he recalled the look in Manannan’s eyes, and the promise he had asked of all the Knights.

‘Damn you all!’ shouted Groundsel. Slapping the stallion’s rump, he galloped down the hill. The stallion thundered on to the bridge and raced at the startled soldiers. Groundsel’s sword hacked down at the first to come within range and then he was among them, cutting left and right. Morrigan, blood flowing from a wound in her temple where her helm had been dashed from her head, forced her way into the fray, swinging her sword double-handed. In the confined space the soldiers found it difficult to hit out, for fear of injuring their fellows. But Groundsel and Morrigan were in no way so impaired. Groundsel’s blade crashed through the officer’s helm, dashing his brains to the wooden boards.

‘Back!’ yelled one of the soldiers — and they fled. Groundsel stepped from the saddle and looked around him. Twelve soldiers were down. Three were still alive, but bleeding heavily; he killed them.

‘We are dead,’ said Morrigan, her voice flat and cold. Groundsel glanced back to see the Red Knight riding slowly across the Bridge of Chains, a dark sword in his mailed fist.

‘Speak for yourself,’ returned the former outlaw. ‘I never met the man I couldn’t kill.’ Morrigan said nothing but she backed away, her sword falling from her hand. The Red Knight advanced with terrifying lack of speed, the undead stallion plodding forward. Groundsel rode to meet him, halting his mount in the Knight’s path.

A dry metallic chuckle came from within the red helm. ‘It takes more than armour to make a warrior, Knight,’ said a voice. ‘I shall kill you slowly for your effrontery… I shall dismember you.’

‘You all want to talk first, don’t you?’ hissed Groundsel. ‘Well, I’ve heard your boasts, Scumbucket — now let’s see how you fight!’ He spurred his stallion and aimed a wicked blow at the crimson helm, but the Red Knight swayed in the saddle and Groundsel’s sword swept harmlessly by. A thundering cut hammered into Groundsel’s neck-plates. Stars exploded before his eyes and he tried to crash his own blade at the crimson figure, but again and again the dark sword clanged against the Gabala armour. His shoulder-plate was ripped from him, then his helm was struck, the visor spinning away. His stallion reared, saving Groundsel from a thrust that would have speared his eye. The horse backed away and Groundsel dragged in a shuddering breath. The Red Knight advanced, and in that moment Groundsel knew the end had come. He could not lay a sword on the man.

The Red Knight began to laugh. ‘What a sorry day for the Gabala! You really are the worst Knight in history. I hope there are others better than you. And now, peasant, it is time to send you to Hell.’

Groundsel said nothing — but as the Red Knight moved in, he kicked his feet from the stirrups and dived at him. It was the one move Bersis had not anticipated. With lightning reflexes the Red Knight swung his sword to slice deep into Groundsel’s shoulder, smashing through the collar-bone and down deep into the lungs. Ignoring the pain, Groundsel’s powerful arms circled the Knight, driving him from the saddle. They landed across the huge rings that held the bridge and swayed there for a second. Groundsel’s face was pressed close to the Red Knight’s helm, and the former outlaw could see the fear in his enemy’s eyes.

‘Not talking now, are you, pig breath?’ he spat, blood

bubbling down his beard. ‘Send me to Hell, will you? Well, you can join me on the journey.’

‘No!’ screamed Bersis. But Groundsel, with the last of his strength, dragged his opponent over the edge and the two figures toppled out into space.

Morrigan ran to the precipice and stared down. The Red and Silver figures were still locked in a deadly embrace, but now they looked like children’s toys sparkling in the sunlight. Smaller and smaller they became, until at last they were dashed against the jagged rocks below.

At the moment of impact Morrigan averted her eyes. The undead stallion fell to the boards, its flesh stripping away, and a terrible stench was borne to Morrigan on the breeze.

At the far end of the bridge the soldiers were gathering for another rush. But suddenly a horn sounded and the hillside was alive with forest men who charged into the startled troops. Morrigan did not watch the slaughter; she moved to the edge of the chasm and looked down at the tiny figures.

‘You were a man, Groundsel,’ she said.

Sheera watched as the Duke of Mactha led his fifty riders from the village. For ten days she had observed their training, or joined with other groups practising archery or sword work. Of Errin she had seen little, and her patience was wearing thin. She had spurned the safety of Cithaeron in order to avenge her sister’s death, but now she felt useless — and worse, ignored. She had seen Llaw Gyffes walking the hills with Arian, but only twice had Errin sought her out — once to see that she was comfortably ensconced in a primitive cabin, and a second time when she received a nick in her upper arm after an over-enthusiastic practice session with longswords.

‘Why must you put yourself in danger?’ he had asked her as he examined the shallow cut.

‘What sort of question is that?’ she responded. ‘Am I not also a part of Llaw’s army?’

‘You are a woman,’ he stated, as if that answered the question.

‘Is Morrigan not a woman? Or Arian?’

‘That is different. Morrigan is… strange. Arian has been raised in the forest. Anyway, I have no say over the others.’

‘You have no say over me,’ she stormed. ‘The only connection we have is that you killed my sister.’

Now he avoided her completely — which was galling. Several of the forest men had approached her, but these she sent packing with strong words. She had asked the Duke of Mactha if she could ride with him and raid the supply lines, but he had politely refused her request. He had dismounted from the grey stallion and placed his hand on her shoulders.

‘I say this to you in confidence,’ he whispered. ‘We Will not be coming back. There is no hope that we can evade pursuit for long. Most of the men with me nderstand this. I do not want to see you… in peril, Sheera. It was bad enough being part of your lister’s… trial. You understand?’

‘You are going out to die.’

‘I think so — though I will strive to delay the dreadful ay.’

Now he was gone — as Llaw, Elodan and Manannan were gone. The King’s army had reached the southern border and most of the Knights had travelled south to prepare the defences and ready the men. Already word had come back that Elodan had ambushed some of the King’s scouts and destroyed them in a short battle. Of Manannan and Llaw there was no word.

Sheera joined a group of women for the midday meal of venison and dried fruit, then took her bow and quiver and wandered to the hills. It was she who first glimpsed Morrigan riding slowly along a game trail, followed by scores of warriors. She ran down to meet them.

‘Where is Groundsel?’ she called up to the silver rider.

‘Dead,’ answered Morrigan, touching spurs to her mount and riding on.

Sheera joined the column as it wound its way down to the settlement. There were more than two hundred and fifty men, and she soon gathered that they were from a Citadel to the north, they had already fought one battle, routing troops from Pertia Port, and now were pledged to Llaw Gyffes. It seemed that Groundsel and Morrigan had saved many of their wives and children and the leader, Bucklar, had promised to aid the rebellion.