‘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.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
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.
‘You do not look well, my Lord,’ she said.
His muttered reply was short and brutal. Laughter burst from Morrigan.
‘My dear Groundsel, how could you use such language in front of a lady? A Knight of the Gabala should always be courteous. Shall we go inside?’
Groundsel stood and led his horse through the gateway. As they passed under the portcullis, he stopped and looked up. ‘Rusted solid,’ he said. ‘What sort of fool allows his defences to fall into such disrepair?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Perhaps the man is a peasant. He probably doesn’t understand knightly ways. You could instruct him, Groundsel.’
His eyes w
ere cold as he approached her. ‘You seem intent on making me angry, bitch. That is not wise.’
‘Have I offended you? Oh, I am sorry, dear Groundsel. Perhaps we should kiss and become friends again?’
‘I would sooner kiss the rear end of my horse,’ he snapped.
‘Well, your experience is obviously greater than mine in such matters - but I pity the horse.’ She dragged on her reins and cantered into the Citadel. Nothing moved, the fortress seemed deserted.
She headed her mount towards the High Keep and halted before the steps to the double doors. Groundsel rode alongside her.
‘There’s nobody here,’ he said. ‘What in Hell’s name happened?’
‘They are inside,’ she told him.
‘How do you know?’
Morrigan shook her head and dismounted, wondering how he would react if she told him she could sense their blood, warm and promising. Mounting the steps, she banged her mailed fist against the door.
‘Bucklar!’ she called. ‘You have visitors.’
The left-hand door slid open, creaking on its hinges. ‘Don’t go in!’ called Groundsel, dragging his longsword clear. ‘I don’t like this at all.’
‘Then stay outside,’ she advised. She stepped into the cool interior and smiled at the woman who stood holding the bent bow, the arrow aimed at Morrigan’s face. ‘Do not fear me,’ she said. ‘I am here with a message from Llaw Gyffes.’ Behind the woman were several children, one of whom held a curved dagger. Movement came from the shadows to left and right and Morrigan swung her head. There were some twenty women in the hall; their eyes were frightened, their manner tense and expectant. Then Groundsel entered, grinned and sheathed his blade.
‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘We’ve ridden for days to find a fortress of women and children. How many will want to join Llaw’s army, do you think?’
‘Who are you?’ asked the woman with the bow, easing the string forward and lowering her weapon. Morrigan noted that the arrow was still notched and could be loosed in an instant.
‘I am Morrigan. The ape in the armour is Groundsel. We are looking for Bucklar. The King’s army is about to attack us in the south and we were hoping Bucklar could send some men to aid us.’
‘No,’ the woman said, ‘he won’t do that. He can’t. We are already under attack. A force has invaded the forest from Pertia Port and wiped out two settlements. My husband - and almost all of the men - have gone after them.’
‘What a genius,’ said Groundsel. ‘Leaving his home base undefended. Come on, Morrigan, let’s go.’
‘You leave if you wish,’ said Morrigan, ‘but I have had enough of sleeping on the ground, with ants crawling inside my armour. I intend to stay here the night - and take a bath.’
Groundsel approached her. ‘I may not be a Knight by birth, Morrigan, but neither was I born a fool. This is not a fortress, it’s a tomb. There’s only one way out - over that bridge. And if the enemy gets here before Bucklar returns, everyone here will be slaughtered. Is a bath worth the risk?’
‘You worry too much,’ she told him.
‘Your insults are easier to bear than your stupidity,’ he retorted and, turning on his heel, he strode from the hall and mounted his stallion. His helm was hanging from the pommel and he eased it into place. What a useless mission, he thought, as he rode from the portcullis gate. Four days in the company of a harridan and nothing to show for it.
He swallowed hard as his horse walked out on to the gently swaying bridge and steeled himself to stare straight ahead. The boards beneath the horse creaked and groaned, the chains to left and right of him grating. Safely on the other side he angled his white stallion up the hill and into the trees, halting to stare back at the Citadel. Morrigan was right, he knew. He was a peasant - and worse, he was a murderer and a thief. How amusing he must seem to her and the other patricians. A movement came on the hillside opposite, and he saw a young boy walk out of the undergrowth with a small grey dog beside him. Now that was a good age to be, thought Groundsel, remembering the early years of his youth, when he had played with the master’s hounds, and all the summers were lifetime long and golden and the winters bright with cold magic. He grinned, thinking of the golden-haired child he had saved from the snow. It would be nice to watch her grow in Cithaeron, to see her dance and sing and play. Why waste time on this doomed war? Morrigan’s words lashed at him.
‘The ape in the armour is Groundsel...’
A month ago he would have killed her for those words, and thought nothing of it.
Suddenly the boy darted down the hillside and raced on to the bridge, the dog running beside him. Groundsel swung in the saddle. Back along the road w some thirty soldiers, marching two abreast towards the Citadel.
Groundsel chuckled. ‘Have a good bath, Morrigan, nxy sweet,’ he whispered. He could see movement on th walls of the Citadel; several women were gathering at the gate towers, armed with bows and quivers of arrrows. The soldiers marched to the bridge and halted. L their packs, they dropped them at the roadside and untied the small round shields that were bmickled to them. Finally the officer gathered his men atround him, giving instructions.
‘Be interested to see how you are going to handle this, Morrigan,’ murmured Groundsel.
The soldiers surged on to the bridge and ran forward, holding their shields before them. Groundsel could see that the few archers on the battlements would not stop them. Sunlight sparkled from Morrigan’s silver armour as she stepped into sight, sword in hand.
‘You’ve got pluck, at least,’ owned Groundsel.
Seeing her before them, the soldiers slowed their charge. Arrows thudded into their shields, or bounced from breastplates and helms. One man went down with a shaft in his thigh. But the rest ran on.
Morrigan sprang to meet them, her longsword slicing murderously through a wooden shield and half-severing the arm beneath. The warrior screamed and hurled himself away from the silver figure, tripping to fall in front of his comrades. Several men tumbled over him and the charge faltered. Morrigan’s sword rose and fell in the melee, cutting through armour, skin and bone. Several blades bounced from her own armour, but no blade touched her flesh. Five men were down before the attackers regained their composure and Morrigan was forced back, step by step, towards the wider portcullis gate, where they could get behind her and bear her down.
Groundsel decided to watch until she was overpowered. The sound of advancing hoofbeats came to him. Back along the road was a rider... a rider in crimson armour. Groundsel’s eyes narrowed.
‘Poor Morrigan,’ he thought, and was about to swing his horse and ride away when a series of images flashed into his mind: the child on the hillside; Morrigan in her silver armour, her white horse behind her in the gateway; and now the Red Knight. The words of the Dagda cut into him like hot knives.
‘He too will die in the spring. I see a horse, a white horse. And a rider in shining silver. And a child on a hillside. The demons are gathering, and a great storm will descend on the forest. But Groundsel will not see it.’
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 o
f 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.