‘Let me come with you. Please?’
‘No. Go with Brion. I will feel… stronger if I am alone.’
He strode to his horse and mounted. Then, taking a deep shuddering breath, he touched his spurs to the stallion. Kartia ran forward, but Brion pulled her away as Nuada rode from the glade, not daring to look back. Ramath walked beside him in silence until they reached the last hill; then he reached up and touched Nuada’s hand.
‘I will never be able to thank you enough,’ said the leader.
Nuada smiled, but his mouth was too dry for words and he was trembling. As he guided the horse down into the village, soldiers ran out, ringing him with their lances.
He was ordered to dismount and did so; his limbs were shaking with fear and he stumbled. The villagers flocked out to see him, lining the way ahead. Looking at their faces, he drew strength from their sympathy. One more performance, Nuada, he told himself. Surely you have the strength for that?
He was led beyond the main hall, where only the night before he had held the villagers spellbound with tales of heroism and courage. What he would not give now to see Llaw Gyffes and the other Knights thundering down the hillside to rescue him. Now, there would be a song!
They took him to a dead tree in a clearing and there was the Red Knight, Edrin.
‘So,’ he said, ‘the story-teller returns. Where is your sword, sir Knight, and your helm?’
‘I have no sword,’ said Nuada.
‘I will loan you one. Then, at least, you can fight for your life.’
Nuada shook his head. ‘No. If I were to kill you, these people would suffer for it. You made a bargain: me for them. Honour it.’ He could see the anger in the Knight’s eyes and knew that he had won. For if the Knight had killed him in combat, the word would have spread through the settlements that the new Knights of the Gabala were weaker than the Red Knights of the King. He smiled. ‘What now, sir Knight?’
‘If you are too cowardly to fight, then you will die like a villain.’
Soldiers surrounded Nuada and his armour was unbuckled and pulled from him. Then he was taken to the tree, his arms spread against the rough bark. Two soldiers came forward with hammers and long nails and Nuada gritted his teeth as the sharp points were placed against his wrists. The hammers struck. Blood spurted from his arms as the nails drove through flesh, sinew and bone to bite into the trunk beyond. Nuada sagged… the nails ripped at him. He groaned and tried to raise his head.
The Red Knight took up a bow and a quiver of arrows, carrying them to Ramath.
‘You shoot first,’ he said. ‘Prove yourself a loyal man of the King.’
The leader blinked. ‘I… can’t…’
‘Do it!’ yelled Nuada. ‘Or it is all for nothing. They will kill me anyway; you will not be killing me, they will. Do it. I forgive you.’
Ramath took the bow and notched an arrow to the string. Swiftly he drew and loosed and his arrow punched into Nuada’s chest. One by one the village men were called forward, and each sent a shaft into the lifeless body nailed to the tree.
At last the arrows were spent and the Red Knight’ strode to his stallion. The soldiers backed away and marched from the scene. Ramath ran forward and began to pull the arrows from Nuada’s body, weeping as he did so.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, over and over.
It was to this scene that Lamfhada’s spirit came. He had left the cave to scout the north, and had been drawn to the village by the overpowering outpouring of emotion. He hovered in the air over Nuada’s body and saw the terrible wounds it bore.
Remembering the stag, he thrust his golden hands into the corpse and poured his magic into the body. The wounds closed, but there was no life to be found.
Ramath and the other men, unable to see Lamfhada, watched as the wounds closed and stumbled back from the tree.
Knowing it was pointless, still Lamfhada would not stop. More and more power flowed into the corpse — and through it into the dead apple tree beyond. The branches trembled and buds grew in an instant from every twig and bough, opening into pink and white blossom which began to fall like snow around the scene.
At last Lamfhada surrendered to the inevitable: Nuada Silverhand was dead. The Armourer rose from the scene and fled, distraught, to the cave.
Then Ramath stepped forward and stooped to lift apple blossom from the ground. He turned to his people.
‘He said it was a Holy War. And you have all seen this sign from the Heavens. We will send a messenger to every settlement. Nuada will have his army. By all the Gods, I swear it!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The King’s Scouts charged up the hill into a withering volley of arrows. But still they came on and the hidden archers fell back before them. Elodan waited until the Scouts reached the tree line, then raised a horn to his lips and blew a single note.
Scores of warriors dropped from their hiding place in the trees, knives and swords hacking at the attackers. Elodan drew his sword and spurred his horse into the midst of the fray, cutting and killing. The Scouts fell back, streaming down the hillside.
From the woods opposite Llaw Gyffes, Manannan and a score of mounted warriors galloped into sight. The Scouts scattered before them, but many were ridden down as they ran back along the valley.
Manannan kicked his stallion into a furious gallop and rode through the fleeing men. Ahead of him the Scout’s standard-bearer was carrying the King’s flag, a raven on a field of blue. Manannon cut him down and seized the standard, raising it high for the defenders to see.
The thunder of hooves filled the air and Manannan swung his mount. Riding into the valley were five hundred of the King’s Lancers. The Once-Knight cut left and rode for the trees. Several of the Lancers veered after him and, reaching the tree line, he hurled the standard to a waiting rebel and swung again to meet the charging riders; there were five in the chasing group. Lifting his sword, Manannan spurred the stallion at them. He swayed in the saddle, allowing a lance to slice by him, and hacked the rider from his mount. A second lance glanced from his breastplate and his sword stabbed out to cleave the rider through the ribs. Then he was among them. Unable to use their long lances to good effect, the attackers dropped them and drew their swords. It availed them nothing. Manannan tore into them, his silver blade slicing through armour and mail. The last remaining Lancer tried to escape, but as he turned his steed an arrow flew from the undergrowth and hammered into his horse’s side. The beast stumbled, throwing its rider to the earth; the man rose, but another shaft took him in the thigh. Rebels ran from the undergrowth to despatch him.
Manannan leaned on to the pommel of his saddle and watched the Lancers thunder into the valley. Llaw Gyffes and the other riders gave way before them, riding up into the stands of pine that circled the hills.
Elodan rode out to rein in alongside Manannan. ‘Do you think they’ll come up after us?’
‘Not if they have any sense. They can’t know how many we are, and Lancers are as useful here as a wooden sword. Did we lose many men?’
‘About a dozen. Gwydion is looking to the wounded now. Have you seen Morrigan?’
‘No, I thought she was with you.’
‘She gave chase to some Scouts over to the west,’ said Elodan. ‘Perhaps you should find her.’
Manannan nodded. He rode for some minutes, alert for any stragglers who might still be hiding in the undergrowth. Then he heard a terrifying scream and drew his blade. The stallion baulked at entering the glade from which the noise had come, but he patted its neck and spoke soothingly to it. The horse walked on for several steps, then stopped again. Manannan dismounted and tethered the beast. He pushed aside the undergrowth and saw Morrigan crouching over a struggling man; her teeth were fixed into his throat and as Manannan watched the body began to shrivel.