‘You foolish child,’ snapped Llaw, his angry eyes fixed on Arian. ‘A curse on you!’
He strode from the hall and Groundsel knelt by Arian. ‘Ask him about us,’ he whispered. Her face white, Arian shook her head. ‘I don’t want to know any more. I am sorry, Dagda.’
As she tried to rise to follow Llaw, Groundsel held her arm. ‘Ask him! I will abide by what he says.’
She shook herself loose and took a deep breath. ‘Tell me of Groundsel,’ she whispered. The outlaw leader blanched.
‘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.’
‘What should we do?’ Arian asked.
‘Whatever you will.’
‘Does Llaw have to die?’
‘All creatures die. Some die well, others badly.’ He looked up at Groundsel. ‘Would you like to hear more, my new Lord Groundsel?’
‘I never asked you about me, but for years you’ve been longing to tell me, you bastard! Well, I’ll outlive you. And when this shining silver rider comes to me, I’ll kill him too. I do not believe you, Dagda. Nothing is writ in those stones that a strong man cannot change. I will make my own decisions.’
‘Indeed you will. Think on that point when you meet the silver rider.’ The old man turned his attention to Arian. ‘You asked what to do. I do not advise, I merely tell what is. But I see a one-handed swordsman and a Child of Power. I see a Craftsman, a wizard with a burden. All must come together. A balance must be restored.’
Arian left him then and made her way to Llaw’s hut, desperate to apologize. She had not meant to ask the question; it had sprung from her concern. Surely he would be able to understand?
But Llaw’s hut was empty, his belongings gone. She ran to the gate and climbed the ladder to the rampart.
Fresh snow was falling, but she could see his footsteps leading away into the darkness of the forest.
Llaw Gyffes pushed on until an hour before dusk, ploughing his slow way through drifts, down icy slopes and across frozen streams, determined to put as much distance between himself and the Dagda as possible. The man was a grim legend in the forest. None knew where he lived, but stories of his travels claimed he had walked the Forest of the Ocean for more than a century. Some said he was a former Knight, others that he was a priest, but all agreed his words were double-edged. Yet still men and women clamoured to hear of their futures — dark or bright, joy-filled or pain-borne. At dusk Llaw had a fire going against the fallen trunk of an old birch. He built a snow wall to the north to shelter him from the bitter wind and settled down to sit out the night.
Damn the girl! Death in the spring… lifeless before an army of enemies he had never courted. What unlucky star had he been born under? Which god had he offended to have his life so ruined? First Lydia — and that blow had been savage — and now a meaningless death.
The stars were bright, the temperature dropping as Llaw built up the fire and gathered his cloak around him. A whisper of movement came from the undergrowth and he drew his axe from his belt and swung his head. Sitting some fifteen feet from the fire, and gazing at him with baleful eyes, was a huge grey wolf. In the light from the blaze Llaw could see that his muzzle was white; he was old, and cast from the pack. From the size of the scarred shoulders Llaw guessed he had once been the leader of the pack; but like all creatures age had withered his strength and a younger male had forced him aside. Llaw reached into his pack, pulling out a section of dried beef which he tossed to the wolf. The beast ignored it. Llaw looked away and added more wood to the blaze. When he looked back the meat was gone, but the wolf still sat.
‘Proud, are you?’ said Llaw. ‘No bad thing, in man or beast.’ He tossed another chunk of meat, this time a little closer. Once more the wolf waited until he looked away before scooping the meat into its jaws. There were few recorded instances of wolves attacking men, and Llaw was not worried about his ability to kill the beast. His axe was sharp, his arm strong. But he was glad of the company. ‘Come, Grey One. Enjoy the fire.’
Another piece of beef landed before the wolf, but to his right, bringing him closer to the warmth. As he moved to the morsel Llaw saw the marks of recent combat on the gnarled shoulders, jagged fang marks deep along the flank. An old scar could still be seen on his right hind leg, causing him to limp. ‘You won’t survive the winter, Grey One. Even a tired rabbit could outrun you, and you’ll bring down no stags. Best you stay with me for a while.’ The wolf settled down on his haunches, grateful for the heat and his first meal in ten days.
The wound on his hind leg had been caused in the summer when a huge brown bear had attacked his mate. He had charged the beast and leapt for his throat, jibut the thick fur had prevented his fangs from sinking home and a swipe from the bear’s talons had opened a long wound in his side. His mate had died, and his own wound had been long in the healing. When the pack had gathered for the winter the challenges had come, as they always did, but he had neither the strength nor the will to withstand them. They had driven him from them many days ago.
He had lived on carrion and the leavings of other carnivores. Then with his strength almost gone he had smelt the man and had been gathering himself to attack him. Now he was unsure… but the meat was good, the fire warm. He settled down warily, his yellow eyes fixed on the man, his hunger now less keen.
Llaw delved into his pack; there were three more pieces of meat. He pulled two of them clear and bit into one. The wolfs head came up and he threw the second piece to it. This time the animal ate it at once. Adding fresh wood, Llaw settled down beside the fire. He did not fear an attack from the wolf. How could he? Did not the Dagda say he had until the spring?
He slept without dreams and awoke in the chill of the morning. The fire had died down to glowing embers and the wolf had gone. Llaw felt a sense of loss. He sat up, shivered and stoked the fire to life, adding twigs he had gathered the previous afternoon. Then he took a copper pot from his pack and filled it with snow, placing it at the edge of the fire. As the snow melted, he added fresh handfuls until the pot was half full with water. Into this he mixed some dried oats, stirring with a stick until it thickened.
The words of the Dagda haunted him still. His enemies were gathering, and he could not avoid them. That left the former blacksmith only one option. He would attempt what the legends said he had already achieved. He would build an army. He would take the war to them.
But how? How could a blacksmith raise such a force? He chuckled, ‘Start with one, Llaw. Find one man… then another. The forest is full of rebels.’ His thoughts went to Elodan, the former Knight. He at least was versed in the ways of war. And the wizard who had helped Lamfhada, he too could be a help. Llaw ate the hot oats, doused the fire and set off to the east.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Duke was mildly drunk as he sat on the ramparts gazing out over the snow-covered countryside. An iron brazier had been set up beside him, but the glowing coals barely countered the freezing wind.
Far in the distance he could just make out the black line of the forest, and beyond it he could picture the sea and the trade route to Cithaeron. The dawn sky was clear and the doves were waking around the tower, wheeling and diving. The Duke shivered and held out his hands to the coals.
Three days ago he had still nursed hopes of riding the storm of the new age. But then the King had arrived, with a thousand riders. The audience had been short, and when the Duke was summoned to his own hall there had been Okessa sitting at the King’s right. And flanking the throne were the eight demonic Red Knights. The Duke had bowed low.