Cairbre bowed his head. ‘I am ready, my Lord.’
‘There is great talk in Furbolg of a rebel force in the forest, led by a man named Llaw Gyffes. What do you know of him?’
‘He is an outlawed blacksmith who killed his wife and one of the Duke’s relatives. He escaped from the dungeons of Mactha.’
‘Rather too many of our King’s enemies are escaping from Mactha,’ snapped the leader. ‘Llaw Gyffes, Ollathair — and now this rebel lord, Errin. Is the Duke a sympathizer?’
‘I do not think so. He is an opportunist.’
‘Watch him carefully. At the first sign of treachery, depose him and install Okessa in his place. His loyalty is without question.’
‘Indeed it is, my Lord, but the man is a snake.’
‘Snakes have their uses, Cairbre. Now, to return to Llaw Gyffes: is he building an army?’
‘I have no reason to believe that he is. But then the forest covers several thousand square miles and in it there are many valleys, and mountains and settlements. It is difficult to know what is being planned there.’
‘And the White is too strong for you to observe their plans?’
‘Yes, my Lord. I flew as close to it as I could last night, but the light almost burnt my soul and I had to flee to my body. That is also why I needed the nourishment.’
‘The Beasts will aid the Red, for they will inspire fear — more than fear. Stark and naked terror will radiate from that damned rats’ nest.’
The faces faded, and Cairbre was alone.
Terribly alone…
Bighorn sheep and a few wild long-haired cattle were grazing together on the hillsides, while a small herd of deer were drinking at a stream which bubbled over white rocks on its journey to the river far below.
At the brow of a hill, where marble boulders had been formed into a rough ring, the air began to crackle. Several sheep stopped their feeding and looked up, but their watery eyes could see no predator and there was no smell of wolf or lion upon the breeze. Warily they milled about. Lightning flashed from the boulders, and the sheep ran. A huge bull, his curved horns scarred by many battle trials, swung to face the boulders. A curious smell reached his nostrils, acrid as smoke, leaving a strange taste in the bull’s mouth. The air rippled before him, and a dark shadow fell across the hillside.
There in the circle of boulders stood a huge creature, its head elongated and vulpine, its grey-furred shoulders ridged with muscle. It ambled forward with jaws gaping — long, wicked fangs dripping saliva to its leathery chest. The bull had seen enough; he backed away.
The creature raised its snout as the wind changed and caught the scent of sheep and cattle. Its eyes widened and long talons slid from their sheaths in the flesh of its fingers.
It stood stock still for a moment, then raced at the flock with surprising speed. The sheep scattered, the cattle stampeding towards the stream. His cows threatened, the bull ducked his head and charged. The creature dropped to all fours as the bull approached and at the last second it leapt, high over the bull’s head, to land on its back. Long talons sliced deep into the dark flesh, then ripped clear.
Blood gushing from several gaping wounds, the bull bellowed in pain and rage and, in a wild effort to dislodge its tormentor, rolled to its back. The creature leapt clear. The bull’s head came up as it struggled to rise, exposing the huge jugular. Talons flashed out. The jugular parted and blood fountained from the dying bull as it sank to the grass, hooves scrabbling weakly. The creature snarled and launched a final murderous assault, ripping and smashing through skin and bone and muscle to finally tear out the heart of the bull…
This it devoured. Then, more calmly, it began to tear and bite at the carcass. Hunger satisfied, its head dropped back with snout pointing to the sky. An eerie, unearthly howl echoed through the hills. The deer raced for the sanctuary of the trees and the sheep ran in terror from the hillside.
The first of the Beasts had arrived in the Forest of the Ocean.
‘You are an idiot, poet,’ said Llaw Gyffes as the slender Nuada packed his spare clothes into a large travelling pack. ‘Groundsel is a notorious liar and a foul-mouthed thief. If he doesn’t like your stories, you could end up staked out on a hillside.’
Nuada chuckled. ‘Come with us, mighty hero. Protect us!’
‘Us?’
‘Yes. Arian is accompanying me.’
Llaw’s face flushed and his eyes showed a murderous gleam. He stroked his red-gold beard, struggling for calm. ‘You think it is wise to take a child into Groundsel’s lair?’ he asked.
Nuada laughed aloud and hoisted the pack to his shoulders. ‘Child, Llaw?’ he mocked. ‘Are you blind? She is a woman — and a damned fetching one. Surely you have noticed?’
‘What I notice, or don’t notice, is my own affair,’ snapped the outlaw. ‘How long will you be gone?’
‘Admit it, you’ll miss me. Go on, be a man, admit it.’
Uttering a foul curse, Llaw rose and stormed from the cabin, almost colliding with Arian but stopping at the last minute by grabbing her shoulders. Mumbling an apology, he stalked off towards the hills. Nuada was right. Llaw would miss him. He was bright company and his stories wove webs of magic that could make a man forget he lived in a forest, in a dark cabin. They could ease the pain of loss and make the world seem a place of heroes and enchantment. Without him this was merely another mud-swamped settlement with no hope and no future.
Llaw’s thoughts flew to Lydia, the wife of his heart — a beautiful woman, strong and yet caring. He found his feelings for Arian a betrayal of Lydia’s memory, and hoped her ghost would forgive him. Seeing Lamfhada and the cripple, Elodan, working to build the winter wood supply, he tried to walk past without stopping, but Elodan waved and he knew it would be churlish to ignore them.
‘How goes it?’ he asked.
‘There will be fuel for the winter,’ replied Elodan. ‘Has Nuada gone yet?’
‘No.’
‘He will be missed here, I think. I hope he is not away too long. I’ve never heard a finer story-teller,’ said Elodan. ‘I first knew him in Furbolg. He put on a performance for the King. It was the tale of Asmodin. Superb! The King — may the Gods rot his soul — gave Nuada a ruby the size of a goose-egg.’
‘He doesn’t have it now,’ said Llaw gleefully.
‘No, I understand he gave it to a lady for a single night of pleasure.’
‘The more fool him,’ snapped Llaw, thinking of the two-day journey the poet was about to undertake with Arian. But then all Nuada could now offer her was a second pair of woollen leggings and a threadbare blanket. Even so, the slender poet was a handsome man! Llaw cursed.
‘What is wrong?’ Elodan asked.
‘Nothing!’ said Llaw, striding off.
‘Is he sick, do you think?’ Lamfhada whispered.
‘No, he is in love,’ answered Elodan, chuckling. ‘But then, in my experience, that is very much the same.’
Llaw stopped at his cabin and sat staring at his spartan surroundings. Then with a muttered curse he packed his belongings in a canvas shoulder-sack, tucked a double-headed axe into his belt and walked from the settlement without a backward glance.
Cithaeron was the place to be, he decided. He could get work in a smithy there and build a new life.
As he topped the line of hills he heard a distant howl. It chilled his blood. The wolves were out early this year, he thought — and walked on.
Nuada stepped into the sunshine and watched the outlaw crest the-hill; Arian stopped beside him. ‘What are you looking at?’