Lamfhada pulled off his sandals and struggled into the boots. ‘They are a little big.’
Ruad pressed his fingers against the boy’s toes.
‘Thick socks should make them more comfortable, and you can grow into them.’
‘Are they magic, Ruad?’
‘Of course they are magic,’ snapped the Craftsman. ‘Do I look like a cobbler?’
‘What will they do?’
‘There is a word which I will write down for you, and when you say that word, the boots will give you speed and strength. You will be able to outrun any man and, over rough ground, even a horseman.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you. They must be priceless.’
‘Unfortunately they are a failure. Yes, even I fail, young Lamfhada. They will not hold the magic. They will give you an hour, maybe two; then they are just boots. But they are good boots.’
‘Can I not restore the magic?’ asked the lad.
Ruad grinned. ‘It will be good practice for you to try, at least. You need the Power of the Black, which is Earth Magic. But the Black is capricious and not easily drawn… and you can only find it at night, under moonlight. I used gold thread, and there is no metal better attuned to the Currents. The difficulty is control. Too much gold and the power is such that no man could wear them and still keep his balance; one leap would carry you so high you’d die of the subsequent fall. Yet too little and the power is exhausted within an hour. The problem has irritated me for a decade.’
‘And the Word?’ Lamfhada asked.
Ruad took a piece of charcoal and wrote it on the table-top. ‘Do you know how to pronounce it? And don’t do it!’
‘I know,’ said the runaway, his blue eyes locking to Ruad’s face. ‘That is your given name, is it not?’
‘It is, boy, and no man must know of it. That is why I asked you never to talk of your work here.’
‘You have shown great trust in me, Ruad. I will not betray it. How is it that men think you dead? And why would you want them to?’
‘You and I are no different, boy,’ Ruad told him. ‘All men are slaves. My joy is that I understand magic better than any man alive. I love to create things of beauty. The Knights of the Gabala were beautiful — their armour beyond compare, their hearts as pure as the hearts of men could be. But there are in the world other powers, aligned to the Red, linked to the Dark-light. My work was sought after by those powers and it still is. But you do not understand me, do you? And indeed, why should you?’
‘Your skill was desired by evil men,’ said Lamfhada. ‘I understand that.’
‘I was captured five years ago by the King’s men and taken to Furbolg; there they burned out my eye. The King wanted magic weapons, but I would give him none.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘By dying. My body was thrown into a pit beyond the castle walls.’
Lamfhada made the sign of the Protective Horn and shivered, but Ruad chuckled. ‘By appearing to die! No heartbeat. No breath. They buried me — thankfully — in a shallow grave. I dug myself clear and staggered to the home of a friend. He nursed me for eight days; then I was smuggled out of the city and made my way here.’
‘One day they will find you, Master. Why not come with me to Llaw Gyffes?’
‘Because I am not ready. And I fear there is something I must undo. But you go. Live your life. Be free — or as free as any man can be.’
‘If only the Knights were still here,’ said Lamfhada sadly.
‘It is childish to dream of what can never be,’ Ruad whispered. ‘Now it is time for you to go.’ He opened a drawer under the bench, taking from it a long knife of razor-sharp steel. ‘Here, you may need this.’
‘Is it magic also?’
‘The worst kind of magic there is. With one thrust, you can destroy a lifetime of dreams and hopes.’
Llaw Gyffes stood alone at the crest of the wooded hill on the edge of the forest, one hand resting on the broad trunk of a twisted oak, the other hooked into his wide leather belt. It had begun to rain, but the tall man appeared not to notice. His eyes were fixed on the jagged plain beyond the forest where several deer were grazing alongside a group of big-horn sheep. In the distance six riders were slowly making their way among the boulders and Llaw watched them for some time. It was obvious they were seeking tracks and they were not hunting deer, for the small herd could clearly be seen from their position and they showed no interest in them. The season was too early for wolf-hunting, the grey timber beasts still high in the mountains. That left only Man.
The sky darkened and rain lashed down,-streaming from Llaw’s oiled leather shirt and drenching his green woollen leggings. Reaching up, he took hold of a thick branch and smoothly hauled himself into the sanctuary of the tree, climbing swiftly to the uppermost boughs where a crude wooden platform had been fastened and the branches above interwoven to form a thick roof. He sat down and parted the leaves so that he could see the riders. They were closer now, but still he could recognize none of them.
He pushed his blond hair from his eyes and lay back, willing himself to relax. Why should he care who they were hunting? Had anyone cared when Llaw Gyffes had been taken? Had anyone come forward to speak in his defence? Feeling his anger mount, he swallowed it swiftly. What point would there have been? You cannot blame them, Llaw. The decision was set from the moment he had smashed the bastard’s skull!
One moment was all it took to change a life. In that single heartbeat, the blacksmith had become the outlaw.
The Duke’s soldiers had been seeking a Nomad merchant accused of treason and had already ransacked several homes — stealing what they wished — when they had come upon Lydia. The officer in charge of the search ordered his men out, but stayed within himself. Seconds later Lydia’s scream was heard by many of the neighbours, but they did nothing. Only a young slave boy had the courage to run to the smithy. Llaw had dropped his tools and raced back through the narrow streets. Two soldiers were outside his door, but before they could draw their swords he fell upon them, his huge fists hammering them senseless. One suffered a broken jaw, the other three fractured ribs. When the smith kicked in the door, smashing the bronze hinges, Lydia was lying across the bed, her eyes lifeless; the officer was buckling his belt.
As Llaw Gyffes advanced into the room, the officer drew his sword and lunged. Batting the blade aside with the back of his hand, Llaw crashed a ferocious blow to the man’s face and the officer fell to his knees, the sword slipping from his fingers. Llaw moved to the body of his wife, seeing the purple bruising at her throat. Then a strangled cry of horror escaped from him and he turned on the stunned killer. Blow after blow he ripped into the man until at last the punished skull split and Llaw found himself kneeling over something unrecognizable. He staggered to his feet, his hands drenched in blood and brain, and stumbled from the house — into a fresh squad of soldiers. Llaw made no attempt to defend himself and they dragged him to the prison at Mactha.
For two months he was kept in an airless dungeon, chained to a wall. They fed him maggoty bread and stale water and left him sitting amidst his own filth. It was in this state that he was dragged before the court.
The trial was held in the Duke’s Hall, and many were the faces Llaw recognized in the balconies above, to his left and his right: friends, neighbours, associates. The Duke sat on a raised dais, flanked by his knights, as the prosecutor outlined the facts. Llaw’s anger flared as he heard the twisted version of events: there was a disturbance in the home of the blacksmith and a squad of soldiers, led by the Duke’s nephew, entered the house. There they found that the blacksmith, Llaw Gyffes, had murdered his wife. Valiantly Maradin had tried to subdue the man, but the blacksmith’s strength was prodigious and he had fought like a demon, killing Maradin and severely injuring two other soldiers.