well-fitting woollen trews and leather tunic, then looped his baldric over his shoulder with the sword and scabbard nestling at his right side. Finally he pulled on a pair of soft doeskin riding boots and gathered his blanket. The pack he left where it lay.
Outside the stallion was cropping grass at the far wall. The man who had been a knight walked past the beast and on to the smithy. It too was dust-covered, the tools rusted and useless, the great bellows torn and tattered, the forge open - a nesting-place for rats.
Manannan picked up a rusted saw-blade. Even had it been gleaming and new, it would have been useless to him. The silver steel of the helm was strong enough in its own right, but with the added power of Ollathair’s enchantment it was impervious to everything but heat. He had once endured two hours of agony as a smith sought to burn the bar loose. At last, defeated, the craftsman had knelt before him.
‘I could do it, sir, but there would be no point. The heat needed would turn your flesh to liquid, your brain to steam. You need a sorcerer, not a smith.’
And he had found sorcerers, and would-be wizards, seers and Wyccha women. But none could counter the spell of the Armourer.
‘I need you, Ollathair,’ said the Once-Knight. ‘I need your wizardry and your skills. But where did you go?’
Ollathair had been above all a patriot. He would not have left the realm unless forced. And who could force the Armourer of the Gabala Knights? Manannan sat silently among the rusted remains of Ollathair’s equipment and fought to remember conversations of long ago.
Considering the size of the empire it had once ruled, the lands of the Gabala were not large. From the borders of Fomoria in the south to the coastal routes to Cithaeron was a journey of less than a thousand miles. East to west, from the Nomad steppes to the western sea and Asripur, was a mere four hundred. One fact was sure - Ollathair would avoid cities; he had always hated the marble monstrosity of Furbolg.
Where then? And under what guise?
Ollathair had been merely the name chosen by the Armourer, but there was another name he used when wishing to travel alone and unreported. Manannan had discovered this by chance ten years before, during a visit to the northernmost of the nine Duchies. He had stopped at a wayhouse and seen the owner showing off a small bird of shining bronze that sang in four languages. As the man lifted his hand, the bird circled the room and a sweet perfume filled the air.
Manannan had approached the man, who had bowed low upon seeing the Gabala armour.
‘Where did you come by the bird?’ he had asked.
‘It was not stolen, sir, I promise you. On the lives of my children.’
‘I am not here to judge you, man. It was merely a question.’
‘It was a traveller, sir... two days ago. A stocky man, ugly as sin. He had no money for a room and paid with this. Am I right to keep it?’
‘Keep it, sell it; it is not my concern. Where did this traveller go?’
‘South, sir. Along the Royal Road.’
‘Did he give you a name?’
‘Yes, sir - as is the law. And he signed the register. I have it here.’ He lifted the leather-bound book and showed it to the Knight.
Manannan caught up with Ollathair the following afternoon on a long open stretch of road. The Armourer was riding a fat pony.
‘Is there no peace?’ Ollathair asked. ‘What is the problem?’
‘There is no problem that I know of,’ Manannan told him. ‘This is a chance meeting. I saw your handiwork at the inn; a little extravagant for a night’s lodging, was it not?’
‘It’s flawed; it will not last out the week. Now ride on and leave me to a little serenity. I will see you at the Citadel in a week.’
Now as Manannan looked about him at the cobwebs and the decay, he shivered.
Perhaps Ollathair would have chosen another name. Perhaps he was dead.
But with no other clues the Once-Knight had no choice. He would ride to the north and seek news of a
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