‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked a swarthy man, poking a thick finger into Nuada’s chest.
‘Getting a drink,’ the poet answered.
‘Not with my jug, you don’t,’ he said, snatching the tankard away.
‘My apologies,’ said Nuada. Turning, he saw the blond warrior talking to a man nearby. The man — thickset and with a swelling belly — swung to stare at the poet, then smiled and made his way over.
‘You are a saga sayer?’ the man asked.
‘Indeed I am, sir.’
‘Have you travelled far?’
‘From Furbolg. I sang at the court.’
‘Good. You have news, then. I’ll introduce you. What’s your name?’
‘Nuada. Sometimes called Silverhand — when I play the harp.’
‘We have no harps — but there’s a meal and a bed if you tell us what is happening in the world. Nothing too flowery, mind,’ he warned. ‘Keep it simple.’
Llaw Gyffes sat down on a bench seat against the wall, pushing his long legs out before him. He grinned as he experienced a moment of sympathy for the poet. This was not Furbolg, nor even Mactha. The courtly saga-sayer was about to practise his art before a group of nithings, wolfsheads, men who knew the difference between romance and reality. He watched as Nuada climbed atop a broad table, then the hallkeeper called for quiet and introduced the poet. Conversations ceased momentarily, then began again as Nuada started to speak. Men turned away and a joke told in the far corner of the hall brought hearty laughter.
Suddenly Nuada’s voice rose above the clamour, rich and resonant.
‘When a hero dies,’ he said, ‘the gods give him a gift. But it is double-edged. You!’ he stormed, pointing at a stout man wearing a wolfskin jerkin. ‘Do you know the gift? Yes, you, the pig in wolfs clothing!’ A ripple of laughter sounded and the man’s face flushed red as his hand reached for the dagger at his belt. Nuada swung to point at another man. ‘What about you? Do you know the gift?’ The man shook his head. Then I’ll tell you. When a hero dies, his soul wanders, called hither and yon by saga-sayers and poets. When they speak of him before a crowd — even such a pack of beggars as is gathered here — then his soul appears in their midst. That is magic! That is a kind of sorcery no wizard can create. And why is it double-edged?
‘Because that hero will stand among you and see that you care nothing for his deeds. They are less than shadows.
‘By that fire stands Petric, greatest of warriors, noblest of men. He fought evil and he stood for something greater than glory. And what does he see when he looks around him? Sniggerers and loafers, runaways and lechers. Such a man deserves far better.’
Llaw Gyffes glanced nervously at the fire, but could see nothing apart from the dancing flames. But the hall was quiet now and the poet held that silence for several moments; then his voice softened.
‘It was at the dawn of a different age,’ Nuada began, ‘when Petric walked from the Forest. Tall he was…’
Llaw listened as the familiar tale unfolded. Not a sound disturbed the telling and Nuada’s magic wove its spell. At the close, when he recounted the treachery and the gallantry when Petric was slain at the Pass of Souls, all eyes were on the poet. But he did not end the tale there, with the winged demons closing in on the body. He spoke of Petric’s warrior soul rising from the slain corpse and continuing his battle in a ghostly sky — his sword a blade of moonlight, his eyes two shining stars. When Nuada’s voice finally faded to silence the applause was thunderous.
For an hour he spoke, telling stories of ancient heroes, ending with the tale of the Knights of the Gabala and their journey to slay the essence of evil. Despite himself, Llaw found his own cynicism drowned by the poet’s eloquence and applauded as loudly as the rest when the tales were over.
The hallkeeper brought Nuada a tankard of ale, which he downed swiftly. Then he called for a chair and set it at the centre of the table, sitting down for the questions.
Men gathered around, asking of events in the world outside. He told them of the purge in the capital, of Nomad merchants hunted like rats; of rising prices, and food shortages in the north. He talked of the Great Race and the stallion, Lancer, a giant grey which had beaten the best horses in the empire.
At last he stepped from the table and rejoined Llaw Gyffes.
‘You have talent,’ said the outlaw. ‘But was Petric really here?’
Nuada smiled. ‘He was, if you felt his presence.’
‘How is it that a man of your skills should find himself in such a place as this? You should be rich, and living in a palace.’
Nuada shrugged and his violet eyes narrowed. ‘I have lived in a palace. I have dined from gold plates.’ He touched his blue silk shirt. ‘Once I would have worn this shirt for one day only, and then given it to a slave or thrown it upon a fire.’
Llaw smiled. ‘But you are going to tell me that all this was as nothing compared with the freedom of life in the forest?’
‘Not at all. Look at me, man! What do you see?’
‘You are handsome enough, with that long dark hair and those odd eyes. What is there to see?’
‘I am a Nomad. My father was one of the richest merchants in Furbolg.’
Llaw nodded. ‘I understand; it was all taken from you.’
‘Worse than that. My family were slain. I was not at home when the soldiers came; I was with… a friend. She smuggled me from the city.’
‘These are bad days, right enough. What made you choose this forest?’
‘I heard there was a rebellion here, led by a hero, and I came to learn his tale. Then I will travel east to kingdoms where sanity still rules.’
‘You’ll find no rebellion here. Outlaws and thieves, perhaps, but no heroes.’
Nuada said nothing for a moment, then leaned close to the outlaw.
‘There is a new saga being told in Furbolg and many other towns. It is about a hero who has defied both Duke and King. He slew the Duke’s nephew and was sentenced to death; but he escaped the dungeons of Mactha and released all the prisoners there. All over the country his name is a byword in the fight against tyranny.’
Llaw chuckled. ‘The fight against tyranny? What nonsense is this, poet? Fighting tyrants is like spitting against a storm.’
‘You are wrong. This man exists and I will find him.’
‘He has a name, this paragon?’
‘He is called Stronghand. Llaw Gyffes.’ Nuada’s eyes gleamed as he spoke the name.
‘Good luck in your quest, poet.’
‘Then you do not know him?’
‘No, I do not know the man you speak of. Come, let us eat.’
CHAPTER THREE
The Once-Knight rode along the narrow trails far from any settlements. He lived by hunting his meat with his longbow and taking what herbs he needed from the clearings in the woods and meadows. Time was running short for him now, and the pressure on his throat was greater. But nowhere had he heard of a craftsman with special skills, and the name Ruad Ro-fhessa was unknown. Only the large town of Mactha was left now in the north and he was loth to travel there, for the Duke would remember him — even if his page did not.
It was fifteen days since he had stopped at a town to purchase supplies of salt, a wax-sealed jug of brandy and a sack of grain for his stallion. Grass was plentiful, but a grain-fed horse could outrun any wild beast. The town had been small — some sixteen houses, a smithy and a store — and the prices of his supplies more than double what he expected. But he had paid and ridden on to camp just outside the town in a wooded meadow by a stream.
It was hot and sweat trickled on his scalp under the suffocating helm. As he opened the brandy and drank deeply, his mind fled back to the worst moment of terror in his childhood. He had climbed a dead tree and was traversing from one side to the other when a dry branch snapped beneath him and he had plunged through the leaves and fallen into the rotted heart, his feet hammering through an ants’ nest. His arms were pinned at his sides, the trunk surrounding him like a narrow upright coffin. He had cried out, but he was far from home and had told no one where he was going.