‘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 of 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.
‘Not talking now, are you, pig breath?’ he spat, blood
bubbling down his beard. ‘Send me to Hell, will you? Well, you can join me on the journey.’
‘No!’ screamed Bersis. But Groundsel, with the last of his strength, dragged his opponent over the edge and the two figures toppled out into space.
Morrigan ran to the precipice and stared down. The Red and Silver figures were still locked in a deadly embrace, but now they looked like children’s toys sparkling in the sunlight. Smaller and smaller they became, until at last they were dashed against the jagged rocks below.
At the moment of impact Morrigan averted her eyes. The undead stallion fell to the boards, its flesh stripping away, and a terrible stench was borne to Morrigan on the breeze.
At the far end of the bridge the soldiers were gathering for another rush. But suddenly a horn sounded and the hillside was alive with forest men who charged into the startled troops. Morrigan did not watch the slaughter; she moved to the edge of the chasm and looked down at the tiny figures.
‘You were a man, Groundsel,’ she said.
Sheera watched as the Duke of Mactha led his fifty riders from the village. For ten days she had observed their training, or joined with other groups practising archery or sword work. Of Errin she had seen little, and her patience was wearing thin. She had spurned the safety of Cithaeron in order to avenge her sister’s death, but now she felt useless — and worse, ignored. She had seen Llaw Gyffes walking the hills with Arian, but only twice had Errin sought her out — once to see that she was comfortably ensconced in a primitive cabin, and a second time when she received a nick in her upper arm after an over-enthusiastic practice session with longswords.
‘Why must you put yourself in danger?’ he had asked her as he examined the shallow cut.
‘What sort of question is that?’ she responded. ‘Am I not also a part of Llaw’s army?’
‘You are a woman,’ he stated, as if that answered the question.
‘Is Morrigan not a woman? Or Arian?’
‘That is different. Morrigan is… strange. Arian has been raised in the forest. Anyway, I have no say over the others.’
‘You have no say over me,’ she stormed. ‘The only connection we have is that you killed my sister.’