David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

‘You are beginning to fight well,’ Manannan told him. ‘That is a boon.’

Elodan lifted his left hand and stared at it. ‘It is beginning to obey me, but I would not like to meet anyone skilled.’ The Lord Knight glanced at Morrigan’s armour. ‘I suppose we should select another Knight?’

Manannan shook his head. He strode to where the breastplate lay and lifted it, carrying it back to Elodan. On the outside the plate shone like polished silver, but inside it was rusted through. Manannan tensed his muscles and gripped the edges hard; the breastplate snapped and fell apart in his hands.

He hurled it aside. ‘The armour reflects the wearer,’ he said.

‘Then why was she chosen at all?’ Elodan asked.

Manannan shrugged. ‘I do not know. But we have lost Groundsel, and now Morrigan. Who is next, I wonder?’

‘Nuada is also dead,’ said Elodan. ‘Lamfhada came to me in a dream last night. The poet was nailed to a tree; he gave his life to save a village.’

Manannan said nothing, pushing himself wearily to his feet. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘The day is not yet over.’ He lifted Elodan’s helm and prepared to place it on the Lord Knight. Elodan’s eyes were sorrowful as he spoke.

‘It must hurt you, Manannan, to see the men who have become Knights of the Gabala: a cripple who cannot dress himself, a thief, a cook, a blacksmith, and a Nomad tribesman who wouldn’t understand the concept of chivalry if it bit him.’

‘You have no idea, Elodan, how proud I am. No idea.’

The King hurled the jewel-encrusted goblet at the general, who knew better than to duck. The missile took him high in the forehead, gashing the skin, but he remained at attention as a trickle of blood moved down his cheek.

‘You imbecile!’ stormed the King. ‘You incompetent! My troops will starve if it’s left to you to supply them. How many convoys have got through to us in the last six days? How many?’

‘One, sire,’ answered the man.

‘One. You have been given five hundred Lancers; you have scoured the countryside. And what have you achieved? What?’

‘Nothing, sire. We captured one of their scouts who told us the Duke of Mactha was leading the force. Under torture he gave us their hiding place. But when we got there, the Duke was gone.’

‘Who?’ hissed the King. ‘Who had gone?’

‘The Du… the traitor Roem, sire.’

‘Get out of my sight — and report to Kar-schen. You are no longer a general; you will take command of the next Turma into the forest.’

‘Yes. sire. Thank you, sire,’ said the man, bowing and backing away through the tent entrance as the King swung to Samildanach, who was standing beside the throne.

‘How do you read our situation, Lord Knight?’

‘The former Duke is a worthy adversary. His raids are lightning-swift and well planned. He has burned over a dozen convoys for the loss of maybe six men. He knows the land. Far more worrying is the news of unrest in Furbolg.’

‘Unrest? A few riots. My troops have seen to them,’ said the King.

‘Even so, sire, the main army is with us here. Should there be a revolt…’

‘A revolt? Why should there be? I am well-loved. Is that not so, Okessa?’

The new Duke of Mactha bowed his bald head. ‘Indeed it is, sire. But the Lord Knight is right to be concerned — there will always be elements inspired by envy or greed.’

‘What do you suggest, Samildanach?’

‘I think you should return to Furbolg, sire — with a thousand Lancers. That should put paid to any problems.’

‘But I want to see Llaw Gyffes and his rebels punished.’

‘You will, sire. Despite their spirited defence, it is now obvious that they lack the numbers to halt a fierce and sudden invasion. In two days the Lancers will advance on the left and right, two miles apart, and converge on the centre. At the same time I will lead the main body of the army into the forest here. The enemy will be forced to fall back.’

‘Then I will stay to see it,’ stated the King.

‘Sire,’ continued Samildanach, ‘that is only the first move. They will not stand to be destroyed at a single blow. The rebellion will be crushed, but it will take weeks to hunt them all down — and I fear the continuous pursuit through the forest would bore you to tears.’

‘Very well, Samildanach, I will heed your advice. But Llaw Gyffes is not to be killed; he must be brought, with the other traitor Knights, to Furbolg for trial and execution.’

‘It will be done, sire.’

‘And what plans have you for the traitor, Roem?’

‘We are sending one convoy from Mactha — but this time, as well as the escort, there will be Lancers a mile distant to the south, west, east and north. He will not escape. I myself will be riding with the convoy.’

‘Send me his head. I shall have it placed on a lance over the main gates of the city.’

‘Indeed I shall, sire.’

Soldiers ringed the former Duke as he stood, holding his sword double-handed and keeping them at bay. A warrior ran in, but the Duke swept aside his thrust and slashed his own blade down through the man’s neck. A half-mile to the west, the smoke from the burning convoy was rising like a giant cobra. Roem grinned. Around him lay the remains of his force; they had fought well, but had been outnumbered and overpowered. Only Roem, in his silver armour, had been able to withstand the many blows.

‘Come then, my heroes,’ invited Roem. ‘Who is next for the swan’s path to glory?’

‘I fear you are,’ said Samildanach, moving inside the circle. ‘Do you wish to surrender?’

‘Dojyou?’ asked Roem.

‘I think not. The King has asked me to send him your head and I promised I would. I am a man who likes to keep his promises.’

‘Truly? Did you not once promise to aid the poor and the dispossessed?’

‘Enough talk, Roem. Defend yourself!’

The Duke of Mactha was a fine swordsman, but never had he faced a warrior more skilled than Samildanach. With increasing desperation he fought off the Red Knight’s frenzied attacks, but as he grew weaker he could sense his opponent growing ever more strong. The dark blade hissed and cut faster and faster. Roem tried to attack, but his blows seemed clumsy and without style against the master he faced. His shoulder-plate was hacked away by a mighty blow, exposing the collar-bone; then his helm was struck, the sword ricocheting to slice open the skin of his shoulder. A second blow loosened the helm and Roem backed away. Samildanach did not follow.

‘Do remove it if it troubles you,’ Samildanach invited him.

Roem plunged his sword into the grass and lifted his damaged helm clear.

‘You are a remarkable fighter, Samildanach,’ he said. ‘I only ever saw one man better.’

Samildanach chuckled. ‘If you fought a better man than I, Roem, why are you still here?’

‘I only practised with him. He will kill you, Samildanach.’

‘And the name of this paragon?’

‘Manannan.’

The smile left Samildanach’s face. ‘The day has not dawned when Manannan could best me — and I am stronger and faster now than ever before. I think you seek to unsettle me, Roem. Is that not so?’

‘You see through me so easily,’ answered Roem with a smile. ‘But I wish I could be there when he forces you to kiss the grass at his feet.’

‘But you won’t!’ hissed Samildanach, leaping forward. Roem’s sword came up — but too slowly… the dark blade swept through his neck and his head toppled to the ground.

Samildanach sheathed his sword and turned his back on the corpse.

‘See that the head is sent to the King,’ he ordered. ‘Today. He should be halfway to Mactha by now.’

For five days a thunderstorm swept across the forest, swelling rivers and streams, making paths and trails treacherous, hills impossible to climb. The fighting became sporadic and the army of the King was forced to halt its advance on both wings. At the centre, under Samildanach and Okessa, the infantry pushed forward slowly.