David Gemmell: Knights of Dark Renown

He was nine years old, torn between grief and joy, and he was flying beneath the stars and above a land bathed in moonlight. It was a dream. Even at nine years old he knew that people did not really fly. But still, at this moment, dream or no, he was alone and free.

No one to chastise him for stealing a honey-cake, no one to beat him for failing to see a finger-mark on the silver as he polished and polished hour upon hour.

Somewhere — though he knew not where — his mother lay cold in death, and the grief was like hot knives in his soul. But, as children will, he forced it from his mind and looked to the bright, diamond stars. They seemed so close and he tried to soar towards them. But ever they remained, glittering and cold, far from his reach. He slowed in his flight and gazed down.

The land of the Gabala was so small now, and the world so large. The Forest of the Ocean lay beneath him like a wolf pelt, the mountains merely wrinkles in an old man’s skin. He dropped lower, falling, spinning towards the ground, and screamed in his fear as the mountains roared up towards him, jagged and threatening. His dizzy fall slowed and he floated once more. On the sea beyond Pertia Port he could see the great triremes with their square sails, their oars lifted — and on the land the lights of the towns and cities. Four huge braziers were lit on the walls of Mactha fortress, twinkling like candles on a cake. He sped away from the lights towards the distant mountains.

He wished he might never go home; wished he could float like this for ever, safe from the many tortures of slavery. While his mother had been alive there had been someone who cared for him — not as a slave boy but as Lug, the child, flesh of her flesh. Her arms had always been open to him.

Grief and pain swamped him once more. When she had become ill Lug had been told she needed rest… but it did not help. They had sent for the healer, Gwydion, but he was away in the city of Furbolg. Lug had watched the flesh vanish from his mother’s features, seen her change from a living, loving woman to a skeletal creature whose eyes could look at him without recognition, and whose arms did not have the strength to open for him.

And then she was gone… while he slept. He had kissed her good-night and been led away to a room he now shared with five other boys. In the morning he had finished his chores and run to her chamber, only to find her covered with a white linen sheet. This he had pulled back from her face. The eyes were closed, the mouth open. And no trace of breath or movement could be seen.

The elderly house slave Patricaeus had found him there and carried him back to his own room. Lug had been aware of the old man, but he could not move. He was frozen in shock. He felt himself tucked up into Patricaeus’ bed, the warm blankets around his shoulders, but he could not even close his eyes. The old man had stroked his face, and gently closed his lids.

For a long while Lug had slept. Then something inside him snapped — and his spirit had sailed free into the night air.

He shivered, though he felt no cold, and wished he could bring his mother back. Just then his eye was caught by movement far below. A line of riders, nine of them, were riding out into the night on tall white horses. Lug dropped towards them and saw that they were Knights dressed in silver armour, white cloaks draping to their saddles. They formed into a line in a meadow, and white mist billowed around the horses’ hooves like a ghostly sea. On a nearby hillside Lug saw a man, his face partly hidden by a dark hood on a velvet cloak. The man was chanting, but the language was unknown to the boy. The Knights sat silently as the mist deepened.

Lug came closer, avoiding the chanting man and settling himself on another hillside near some trees. As he came to the ground he sank through it; a touch of panic spurred him and he rose again, wishing that he were solid. The wish became reality and he sat down upon the grass. The mist had not reached the upper slopes of the hill and he settled down to watch the Knights.

Their armour glistened in the moonlight, round helms under tall black plumes, silver neck-plates linked to curving shoulder-guards, engraved breastplates, thigh-guards and greaves. Yet they carried no shields.

Nine riders on nine white stallions….

Lug remembered the stories Patricaeus told in the Slaves’ Hall at the Solstice Feast — and he knew then upon whom he spied.

The legendary Knights of the Gabala.

Lug did not know their names — save that the Lord Knight was Samildanach, the greatest swordsman in the realm. The boy scanned the group. There at the centre, taller than the others, shining silver raven wings adorning his helmet, was Samildanach, sitting silently… waiting.

But for what?

Lug transferred his gaze to the chanting man and suddenly the horses began to whinny in fear. The Knights held them steady, and Lug’s mouth dropped open, for the stars were disappearing from the sky as a great black gateway formed before the riders. A sliver of silver grey appeared in the rectangle of black and a bitter wind howled through the opening. Then the mist rose like a huge wave to engulf the Knights, and unearthly screams sounded from beyond the black Gate.

‘Follow the Sword,’ came the cry, and Lug saw the blade of Samildanach shining like a lantern, and heard the drumming of hooves as the Knights thundered forward.

Then there was silence and the darkness faded, leaving the stars to shine once more.

Lug looked across at the far hillside, but the chanting man had gone.

The mist gathered and flowed up the hillside and Lug rose and tried to fly. But he could not. His body was solid, and rooted to the earth. The cold wind touched him and he shivered.

The dream was no longer comforting and he was desperate to return home. But where was home? How far had he flown?

A noise came to him through the mist — a slithering, rustling sound. He spun and tried to scan the ground, but the grey fog was everywhere. Lug ran back up the hill, heart pounding, but he slipped and fell in the muddy grass and rolled to his back. A black shadow reared over him and sharp talons raked down at his body; he rolled again desperately as they scored the skin of his chest.

‘No!’ he screamed, as the slavering jaws of the beast dropped towards his face. He threw up his arm. A blazing beam of golden light sprang from his fingers to engulf the creature and with a scream of agony it disappeared as Lug sank back to the grass. Another shadow fell across him and he cowered to the ground.

‘Do not be afraid,’ said a voice.

Lug looked up to see the outline of a man. The moon was shining over the stranger’s shoulder and his face was in silhouette, his features impossible to see.

‘I’m frightened,’ said Lug. ‘I want to go home.’

‘And so you shall, my boy. And then this… dream… will be forgotten.’

‘What was the beast?’

‘It came from beyond the Gate. But it is dead. You destroyed it, boy — as I knew you would — for within you is the Power. Farewell. We will meet again.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am the Dagda. Sleep now — and return home.’

Lug had closed his eyes and slipped from awareness. When he opened them again he was lying in Patricaeus’ bed; the old man was sitting beside him, dozing in a chair.

Lug rolled over. The bed creaked and the old man awoke.

‘How are you feeling, Lug?’

‘What am I doing here, sir? Where is my mother?’

‘She is dead, boy,’ said Patricaeus sadly. ‘We buried her this afternoon.’ The blanket slid from the boy’s chest as he sat up.

‘Dear Gods!’ whispered Patricaeus. ‘What have you done?’ Lug looked down; his chest was scored in four shallow cuts which had bled profusely, drenching the sheet below the blanket. When Patricaeus pulled the bedding aside, the boy’s legs were covered in dried mud.