Cairbre smiled and sipped his water. He sat down on the edge of the bed. That will not happen in this case, Lord Errin, for we will have the same King in a hundred years. Indeed, in a thousand years. For he is now immortal... even as I am.’
Errin said nothing, scanning the Knight’s eyes for any sign of madness. Cairbre chuckled. ‘I know how this sounds, Lord Errin. Truly I do. But look at me. How old am I? Twenty-five. Thirty? I am nearly fifty.’
Errin could not believe it. He stared into the warrior’s face, seeking the tell-tale lines, but the Knight’s skin was pale and smooth, his dark eyes glowing with health.
Cairbre finished his drink and stood looking down at the silver goblet. His slender fingers contracted suddenly and the goblet crumpled in his hand. ‘Youth and strength is mine,’ said Cairbre, ‘and the King’s. Do you see now what I was trying to tell the Council? We are going to build an empire - the greatest empire of all time. Faithful friends of the King will become immortal; they will never taste death. This is what you are throwing away. We need you, Errin. Your blood is pure, your line without blemish. Give up this foolishness - and join us in our crusade.’
Errin’s eyes grew cold and he stepped back from the Knight. ‘I will meet you, sir, on the field at noon. When I am dead I ask - as one Knight to another -that you allow me to be buried alongside Dianu. I think it is inappropriate for us to talk further.’
Cairbre sighed and stood. He drew his sword and tossed it to Errin; it was wondrously light and razor-sharp.
‘The blade has magic properties,’ he said. ‘It will enhance your skill and cut through anything - ultimately even this armour I wear. Use it today and I will take your blade.’
‘It is not necessary,’ said Errin.
‘No, it is not,’ Cairbre agreed. ‘But at least your lady will see a battle for her life and not a meaningless slaughter. Until noon, then.’
The jousting field, hemmed by stakes and fenced by purple ribbons tied between them, held two thousand people. It seemed that the entire town of Mactha had emptied for the occasion and Errin was distressed to see fires burning and steaks being fried. Vendors were selling food and drink, and children were playing at knights, fighting each other with wooden swords. Errin stood alone at the centre of the field, his helm tucked under his arm. He could scarcely believe that people could turn an event of life and death into such a festive occasion. The sky was clear and blue and despite the presence of autumn it was like a summer’s day, bright and warm. His armour felt heavy and, even though Boran had greased the joints, it was difficult to move.
He remembered a day such as this in Cithaeron, when a champion had stood for the life of a noble. He himself had not bothered to watch. He had caught the eye of an attractive lady and they had repaired to her apartments for a lazy afternoon of exquisite pleasure; he had not even troubled to enquire as to the outcome of the battle.
Now he stood alone at the centre of the grass-covered field. There should have been two friends beside him, but none had come forward. Considering Cairbre’s talk of treason, he was not surprised.
Dianu was brought into the field on a wagon, and the crowd began to boo and jeer. A tremendous sense of anger engulfed Errin, but his eyes remained fixed on her. She stood with head held high, ignoring the taunts from the crowd. The wagon was followed by the Duke and the Lord Seer, and behind them came the Lords and Knights of the Council.
A herald blew a single blast on a silver bugle and the crowd fell silent.
The wagon was brought to the centre of the field and Errin approached it. Bowing to Dianu, he took her hand and kissed it. He could think of nothing to say, but answered her nervous smile with one of his own.
Sir Cairbre rode into sight and dismounted at the far end of the field. Then he walked slowly to the centre and bowed to Errin. Once more he was wearing the red helm and his eyes were hidden in shadow. He drew his sword - Errin’s sword — and pushed it into the earth.
‘Do you still wish this affair to continue?’ asked Cairbre, his voice muffled and metallic.
‘I do.’
‘Then let us begin.’ He dragged the sword clear and raised it two-handed, dropping the point until it covered half the distance between them. Errin put on his helm, drew his sword and touched the blade to Cairbre’s.
Both men looked towards the Duke, who raised his hand. ‘Begin!’ he bellowed and immediately their swords clashed together, sweeping and blocking, cutting and parrying. Errin had never handled such a blade as Cairbre had given him; it seemed almost to have a mind of its own, saving him three times from deadly slashes.
The screams of the crowd grew louder as the battle continued, but Errin heard nothing above the harsh sounds of his own breathing inside the cushioned helm. Cairbre stumbled, his sword dropping down to expose his left side, and instantly Errin’s borrowed blade hammered home into the red armour, smashing several plates from it. He heard Cairbre grunt in pain, and the Red Knight backed away. Storming after him, Errin lost his footing and at once Cairbre crashed a blow to his helm, tearing it from his head. Errin staggered back, blocking cut after cut. Cairbre’s speed was dazzling and he felt panic welling within him. He saw Cairbre’s sword flash for his head and his own blade leapt to block, but at the last second Cairbre rolled his wrists and sent the blade crashing into Errin’s side. He felt his ribs crack, though his armour held. A second blow to the calf broke the bone and Errin fell to his knees, his neck exposed.
He glanced up at the upraised sword...
‘No!’ screamed Dianu. ‘Stop it! I am guilty! Guilty!’
The blade swept down, halting just as it touched Errin’s neck. He did not feel it; his vision swam and he fainted.
He awoke in the fading light of dusk, in his own room. Boran^was beside him, bathing a wound in his temple. Errin struggled to rise, but Boran pushed him back. ‘Be still, my Lord. You have broken ribs, and they may pierce your lung if you struggle.’
‘Why am I alive?’
‘The Lady Dianu shouted her guilt and that ended the battle. She saved you, my Lord. Now there is someone to see you.’
‘I wish to see no one.’
‘I think you will wish to see this man; he is in great danger.’
‘Who?’
Boran moved aside and there, sitting beside the bed, was Ubadai.
‘You fought pretty good,’ said the Nomad. ‘He was pretty much better.’
‘You must help me,’ Errin whispered. ‘We must save Dianu. We must!’
‘First we save you. Your new man here — good man — he hear they come for you tomorrow. You, me, we go, yes? We run. Get to Cithaeron.’
‘Not without Dianu. Now help me up.’
‘Gently,’ ordered Boran, lifting Errin to a sitting position. A sharp pain lanced his side.
‘We help the lady,’ said Ubadai, ‘but first we get you out of castle. There are horses — you can ride?’
‘I can ride,’ said Errin. ‘Get me some clothes, Boran.’
‘It is already done, my Lord. The dark brown leather with the sheepskin cape. I have also packed food, and some coin. You only had three hundred Raq, but it should pay for the passage to Cithaeron.’
Errin looked down at the tightly-bound splint on his left leg. ‘Will it support me?’ he asked.
Boran shrugged. ‘I hope so, my Lord.’
‘Help me into my clothes,’ said Errin. As Boran moved to obey him there came the sound of marching feet from the courtyard below and Ubadai ran to the window and looked down.
‘A squad of men,’ he whispered, ‘coming this way.’
Errin groaned as Boran gently lifted his arms into the leather shirt. His ribs were bandaged tightly, but the pain was intense.
‘Better be quick,’ he urged Ubadai as a hammering came from below.
‘Open up, in the name of the Duke!’
‘Use the side stair-well, my Lord,’ said Boran. ‘I will detain them for as long as I can.’ Errin called Ubadai to him, then levered himself upright
by gripping the Nomad’s shoulder. He felt the bones of the broken leg grind together and almost screamed. Ubadai half carried him to the small door leading to the servant’s stair-well, where Errin stared down into the dark depths. There was no hand-rail.
‘I can’t climb down there,’ he said.
‘Much trouble, you,’ said Ubadai. Turning, he threw an arm around the back of Errin’s thighs and lifted him over his shoulder. Errin’s broken ribs grated and he groaned. ‘No noise!’ Ubadai hissed, slowly descending the stairs.
At the main door, Boran lifted the bolt and bowed to the officer.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘Where is Lord Errin?’
‘He is upstairs sleeping. He was wounded badly today; he has a broken leg.’
‘Our orders are to take him into the custody of the Lord Seer.’
‘I take it you have a stretcher,’ said Boran.
‘No. I... no one mentioned a broken leg.’
‘It was diagnosed by the Duke’s surgeon. The Duke himself was here earlier to enquire after his friend. Who did you say ordered his arrest?’
‘The Lord Seer, Okessa.’
‘Ah, well, it must be correct then. I am sure the Duke must have authorized it. You have his seal?’
‘Seal? Look, you, the Duke’s seal is only used for arrests made away from Mactha, in order to prove the identity of the Duke’s officers. Why in the devil’s name would I need a seal?’
‘I am not arguing, captain. I know little of such matters, having never arrested a cousin of the King. Please go about your business.’
‘Cousin of the King? Lord Errin?’
‘So I understand. Well, go upstairs and drag him down. I’ve not been in his employ for long, so I have had no time to grow fond of him.’
‘I’m not "dragging" anyone anywhere. I was told to arrest the Lord Errin. Haven’t you got something we could use for a stretcher?’
‘Well... you could take his bed, I suppose. It would take more than six of you, though. Are there any more men back at the barracks?’
The officer spun on his heel. ‘Medric, Joal, go back and get a stretcher. And see if the Duke’s orderly is about; I wouldn’t mind an official seal on this one.’
‘Very wise, captain. Perhaps you and I should go upstairs and carry Lord Errin down, ready for the stretcher?’ suggested Boran.
‘Do I look like a labourer?’ snapped the captain. ‘I’ll wait here.’
‘Then allow me to fetch you some wine, sir. The very best western wine, aged in the cask for twenty years.’
‘That’s very decent of you,’ the captain thanked him.
‘Not at all, sir.’
At the rear of the apartments Ubadai opened the door to the yard and stepped outside. The alley was deserted save for the two horses tethered at the gate.
He eased Errin down, then lifted him to the saddle and led the horses towards the eastern gate. This was mainly used for traders, and Ubadai guessed that news of Errin’s arrest would not yet have been circulated to the gate sentries.
He was right, and the two men rode unhindered from Mactha fortress and down through the town.
‘It seems deserted,’ said Errin. Ubadai grunted and pointed to the nearby hills.
‘What is happening?’ asked Errin, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘Tonight they burn the Lady.’
‘Sweet Heaven! I must get there.’ Errin lashed the reins across his stallion’s neck and forced him into a mad gallop across the fields. Ubadai raced after him, leaning over to grab the reins.
‘Stop!’ said the Nomad. ‘One stupid deed a day is enough.’
‘Leave me alone!’ shouted Errin, hitting out weakly, his hand cracking against Ubadai’s face.
‘Think!’ ordered Ubadai. ‘One man, all broke up. Useless. He is going to ride through the Duke’s soldiers and rescue the Lady. You could not even get off horse.’
‘There must be something I can do.’
‘Yes,’ said Ubadai. ‘Something. Only thing.’ He lifted Errin’s bow from his saddle horn.
‘I can’t!’
‘Then let us ride to forest and leave this cursed country.’
Errin swallowed hard and took the bow and quiver. Then he pushed his stallion forward, edging it to the cover of some trees near the brow of the hill. A great mass of firewood had been laid around a central stake and as he approached he saw Dianu being led forward by Okessa. The Duke was nowhere in sight. The Red Knight sat his unearthly mount away from the crowd, his gaze fixed on the doomed girl.
Tears stung Errin’s eyes and he blinked them away as Dianu was led up on to the pyre and tied to the stake. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but she could not see him in the shadows of the trees. When she was tied, Okessa and the men with him drew back and climbed down to the ground. Then the Seer took a burning torch and thrust it into the tinder at the base of the pyre. Flames and smoke leapt instantly..
Errin took an arrow from his quiver and notched it to the bow.
Heeling his horse forward into the light, he shouted, ‘Dianu!’ He saw her head come up, and watched in anguish as hope flared in her eyes. ‘I love you!’ he screamed... and drew back the bowstring. He saw realization replace hope and she closed her eyes. He loosed the shaft. It sped through the air to slice home through the blue doublet that covered her breast. Her mouth opened - and her head fell. An angry roar came from the crowd and hands reached out to seize Errin. He was beyond caring but Ubadai rode forward, lashing a man across the face with a riding whip. The Nomad seized the reins of Errin’s mount, wheeled it, and the two men thundered from the hill as the flames of Dianu’s funeral pyre lit the sky.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lamfhada watched as Arian measured out her paces. Satisfied, she took a piece of chalk from her pocket and drew a rough circle on the thick bole of an oak, some two feet from the ground. Then she returned to where the youth waited. He loved to watch her walk - her movements smooth, almost liquid, her eyes alert. She grinned at him.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then string your bow.’ Lamfhada removed the string from his borrowed hip-pouch and looped it to his longbow. As he had been shown, he attached it first to the foot of the bow, bending down the top to meet the second loop.
‘That tree,’ said Arian, ‘is thirty paces away. Now we have practised at thirty paces, so you know the pull.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed, drawing an arrow from the doeskin quiver and notching it to the string.
‘Then imagine that chalk circle is a pheasant - and kill it,’ she told him. Slowly he drew back the string until it touched his cheek, focused on the chalk circle — and loosed. The shaft hammered into the tree some seven feet above the circle. He was instantly angry, grabbing for a second arrow.
‘Wait!’ she ordered. ‘Look at the line of flight and tell me what you see?’
‘It is a clear line, unblocked by trees.’
‘What else?’
He stared down at the target. ‘It is downhill.’
‘Precisely, Lamfhada. And, like sighting across dead ground, the eye will betray you. Remember this: You will shoot high, when aiming downhill; low, when sighting uphill or across water. It is also difficult to judge distance in the woods. Now, sight on the target and aim some three paces in front of the tree.’
He did so and the arrow flew to the chalk circle as if drawn there by magic.
‘I did it!’ he yelled.
‘Yes; a fine strike. Now turn to your right and plant an arrow in the trunk of the pine over there.’
Lamfhada notched his shaft to the string and stared at the tree. Judging it to be around forty paces, he pulled for fifty. Smoothly he released the string and the arrow sailed towards the target - then dropped to slice into the earth. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Pace it out,’ she told him. Slowly he walked the distance; the tree was seventy paces away.
‘You must learn to judge s
uch things,’ she said, walking beside him. ‘The reason it fooled you was the number of trees pushing in on the line of flight. They destroyed your perspective and shortened the distance. Come, let us retrieve your arrow from the oak.’
‘Am I improving, Arian?’ he asked, desperate for a word of praise.
‘You have a good arm and your release is without tremor. We will see.’
A good arm! Lamfhada felt like a king.
The rain had passed during the morning and the afternoon was bright and clear as he sat with Arian on the hillside overlooking the settlement. Below them the newcomer Elodan was trying to chop logs using a short hatchet. His movements were clumsy and the blade kept missing the chunks and bouncing from the hard wood ring.
Every day Elodan practised and his improvement -if improvement there was - was slow and frustrating.
Lamfhada was over the worst of his wound, which now itched mercilessly as the scabs peeled on his back.
‘So, young magician, tell me of the Colours,’ said Arian, leaning back on her elbows and grinning at the embarrassed youth. He had tried to impress her with his knowledge of magic, and had shown her Ruad’s boots. But when he put them on and whispered the name Ollathair, nothing happened. The magic had been exhausted during his flight from the Lord Errin and the hunters. She had mocked him then - not spitefully, but he had taken it hard and spent many hours trying to find the Black in order to recharge the power. And he had failed.
‘First, there is the White,’ he told her. ‘That is the Colour of Calm and Serenity. Then the Yellow, which is of Innocence and the laughter of children. This is followed by the Black, which is of the Earth and brings strength and speed. Power, if you will. The Blue is of the Sky, and gives the magic of Flight. The Green is of Growth, and Healing. And the Red is of Fear, and Lust.’
‘Does the Red have no good powers?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes. It is of aggression and, used wisely, can aid all other Colours. But it takes a mighty wizard to use it so.’
‘A mighty wizard like you, Lamfhada?’
He blushed and grinned. ‘Do not mock me, Arian,’ he urged. ‘I was only a poor apprentice, and even then I had little time with the Master. But I did make a bird of bronze that flew for a little while; it was a beautiful bird, and it took nearly a year to create.’