Free Knights Of Dark Renown by David Gemmell Page A

thought: a heavy, all-disguising beard, to cover the lantern jaw and mask the gash of a mouth with its crooked teeth.
    ‘You are uglier now than ever,’ he told his reflection. Returning to his table he pushed aside the remains of his breakfast and removed the bronze eye-patch, polishing it with a soft cloth until it gleamed. Replacing it, he poured himself a goblet of apple juice and watched the coming dawn, the shadows shrinking back from the trees outside his window.
    He had been happier here than at the Citadel, for the old fortress held too many memories of his father. Calibal had been a stern parent to the son he had not wanted and the boy - ugly and awkward - could do nothing to please him. Every day of his youth had been spent trying to win his father’s love. At last he had succeeded in the Colours, proving himself a greater magician than Calibal; then his father’s indifference had turned to hatred, and he put the boy from him. Even when he was dying, he would not allow his son to sit by his death-bed.
    Poor Calibal, thought Ruad. Poor, lonely Calibal.
    He stood and forced the memories from his mind. For three hours he worked on his designs, then wandered out into the meadow beyond the woods to sit and enjoy the autumn sunshine. Soon the dark clouds would gather, the north wind howl and the blizzards cover the mountains with freezing ice and snow. Already the leaves were turning to gold, the flowers fading.
    A distant figure caught his eye, making slow progress up the hill. Ruad waited as Gwydion approached.
    ‘Lazing in the sunshine?’ said the newcomer, his lined face red with the exertion of the climb, his white shoulder-length hair shining with sweat.
    ‘You should buy yourself a horse,’ responded Ruad, rising to his feet. ‘You’re too old for mountain walking.’
    The old man smiled, took a deep breath and leaned on his staff. ‘I have not the energy to argue,’ he admitted, ‘but a glass of your apple juice will revive me.’
    Ruad led him into the house and poured him a drink, while Gwydion sat down at the table.
    ‘How is life treating you?’ the old man asked.
    ‘I do not complain,’ said Ruad. ‘You?’
    ‘There is always work for a Healer - even one with fading powers.’
    Ruad cut several slices of dark bread and a wedge of cheese, passing them to Gwydion. While the man ate Ruad walked to the doorway, scanning the road to Mactha. All was still.
    ‘Okessa is seeking news of a one-eyed craftsman,’ said Gwydion as Ruad returned.
    ‘I do not doubt it. I made a mistake.’
    ‘You gave magic to the boy, Lug?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That was not wise.’
    ‘Wisdom should be tempered with compassion,’ observed Ruad. ‘Did you come all this way to warn me?’
    ‘Yes and no,’ replied Gwydion. ‘I would have sent a message, but there is a pressing matter you might help me to resolve.’
    ‘You speak of the change in the Colours?’
    ‘Then it is not all in my mind? Good,’ said Gwydion. ‘So my powers are not fading as fast as I believed?’
    ‘No. The Red is swelling, the other Colours fading. Green is suffering the worst, for it is the furthest.’
    ‘What is the cause?’ Gwydion asked. ‘I know that the Colours shift and dance, but never in such an extreme way. The Green is now a shimmering thread - I am hard pressed to heal a sick calf. ‘
    Ruad moved to the hearth, cleared away the ash and prepared a new fire. ‘I do not have any answers, Gwydion. There is an imbalance; the Colours have lost their harmony.’
    ‘Has this, to your knowledge, happened before? I have never heard of such a thing.’
    ‘Nor I. Perhaps it will right itself.’
    ‘You think so?’ asked Gwydion. Ruad shrugged. ‘There is an ugly feeling in the air,’ whispered the old man. ‘In Mactha there have been three murders in the last week. There is fear, Ruad.’
    ‘It is the influence of the Red; it stirs the emotions. I have felt it too - an impatience, an anger, that affects my work. Lately I