Kitabı oku: «The Giants’ Dance»
The Giants’ Dance
Robert Carter
For Gerald Wiley, Four Candles.
‘First there were nine,
Then nine became seven,
And seven became five.
Now, as sure as the Ages decline,
Three are no more,
But one is alive.’
The Black Book of Tara
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
PART ONE JEOPARDY’S DILEMMA
CHAPTER ONE THE BLAZING
CHAPTER TWO LITTLE SLAUGHTER
CHAPTER THREE WHAT LIES WITHIN
CHAPTER FOUR THE LIGN OF THE ASH TREE
CHAPTER FIVE MAGICIAN, HEAL THYSELF!
CHAPTER SIX AN UNWELCOME GUEST
CHAPTER SEVEN A GOOD NIGHT’S REST
PART TWO A LOSING BATTLE
CHAPTER EIGHT THIS BLIGHTED LAND
CHAPTER NINE STONEHUNTERS
CHAPTER TEN THE MAD BARON
CHAPTER ELEVEN THE FLIES
CHAPTER TWELVE CAPTIVES
CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE KINDLY STUMP
CHAPTER FIFTEEN A THIEF AT LUDFORD
CHAPTER SIXTEEN MOTHER BRIG
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN THE HOSTS GATHER
PART THREE MADNESS AT LUDFORD
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN HONEY MEAD
CHAPTER NINETEEN A TOAST BY THE DUKE
CHAPTER TWENTY THE MADNESS GROWS
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE A GLIMPSE OF THE ENEMY
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO RAW MEAT
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE THE BLOOD STONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR FLESH ANEW
PART FOUR THE TURNING OF THE TIDE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE TURLOCH’S RING
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CASTLE CORBEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN THE DRAGON’S JAWS
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT JASPER
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE THE NIGHT FLIER
CHAPTER THIRTY THE DUEL
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE A SURFEIT AT DELAMPREY
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO THE SECRET WEAPON
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE IN THE AFTERMATH
AUTHOR’S NOTE
APPENDIX I THE OGDOAD
APPENDIX II THE LORC
APPENDIX III THE LORC IN OUR WORLD
THE STORY CONTINUES IN
About the Author
By Robert Carter
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
THE STORY SO FAR
The Giants’ Dance is the second book in the Language of Stones cycle. The first book, called The Language of Stones, recounted the story of Willand, a boy whose life was changed forever when the wizard, Gwydion, arrived at the village of Nether Norton in the Vale.
Gwydion, it is revealed, brought Will to the Vale when he was a baby, and has returned to reclaim him on his thirteenth birthday. Before Will leaves, Breona, the woman Will has always thought of as his mother, hangs about his neck a talisman of green stone which is carved in the likeness of a leaping salmon. She tells him how she found it inside his blanket when he first came into her arms, and says that it should go with him now he is entering the wide world.
No one from Nether Norton has ever been out of the Vale, and the wide world seems terrifying to Will. Gwydion explains that he must leave the Vale for his own good. Twice he tries to run away and go home, but each time he is prevented by Gwydion’s magic, and eventually the wizard tells him they are being hunted by a fearsome enemy. At first, Will imagines it must be the Sightless Ones, the sinister fellowship of tax collectors who both squeeze the common people and engage in crooked politics with the lords of the Realm, but it soon becomes clear that a far more formidable foe is looking for them. Gwydion will drop only vague hints about this, but he says that Will is a ‘Child of Destiny’ – one whose coming has been foretold in the Black Book.
Soon they arrive at a gloomy tower in the depths of the Wychwoode, and there Will is lodged with the grotesque Lord Strange, a man who is afflicted by a vile spell and who wears the head of a boar. Gwydion leaves Will to live in the tower all summer long, and there he is taught to read and write. He also learns from the local Wise Woman something of the ‘redes of magic’ – these are curious rules that reveal the wisdom of the world and enable magic to be done. But Will’s spirit rebels against Lord Strange. He secretly looks in a forbidden book and reads certain spells, which he then uses for the unworthy purpose of trying to impress a pretty girl. What he attracts instead is the marish hag, a dangerous supernatural creature that inhabits the ancient wood. He is almost drowned by the hag, and only saved by Gwydion’s return.
But Will has also gained friends in the Wychwoode, among them the mysterious Green Man to whom he renders an unwitting service, and the girl, Willow, with whom he discovers Grendon Mill. This, it turns out, is Lord Strange’s secret armoury, where men have cut down the great oaks of a sacred grove to roast into charcoal so that weapons of war may be forged.
When Gwydion returns, he shows his great displeasure at Lord Strange’s activities. In turn, the hog-headed lord blames King Hal whose preparations for war are being fed by the mill. The wizard then leaves angrily, taking Will with him.
As they travel south Will is asked if he knows about King Arthur. He says he knows about him from old tales. Gwydion tells him that the tales about the sword in the stone speak about an Arthur who became king a thousand years ago, but that he was only the second incarnation of an original Arthur. That Arthur was an adventurer who lived in the time of the First Men in the far distant past, and travelled from the land of Albion into the Realm Below to bring out sacred objects known as ‘the Hallows’. Moreover, there is a prophetic verse that speaks of a third and final incarnation of Arthur…
Will begins to feel uncomfortable because it seems that the wizard is convinced that Will himself is that third incarnation.
Unfortunately, the prophecy is confirmed at every turn. At Uff, Will recognizes the White Horse, and stands upon the Dragon’s Mound where he experiences a vision of an army massing below. The earth yields up the gift of a horn to him, and in Severed Neck Woods Will is given the freedom of the wildwood by the Green Man himself.
They come at last to the royal hunting lodge of Clarendon, where Gwydion warns the weakling monarch, and asks for aid in a vital magical mission that will prevent the Realm from sliding into war. But the royal court is already deeply under the influence of the beautiful but greedy queen and her violent ally, Duke Edgar of Mells.
The queen is pregnant, and it seems to Will that Duke Edgar is the father. Will also suspects that the gentle king has been poisoned by them. And he notices a sinister figure lurking nearby, invisible to everyone but Will and the queen. Only later does he learn that this is the sorcerer, Maskull, Gwydion’s arch-enemy, who, among other things, is trying to find Will and kill him. Fortunately, Maskull does not realize Will is present, but even so events are about to take a turn for the worse. Gwydion’s request for royal aid is refused, and he is attacked by Duke Edgar, and forced to employ a powerful vanishing spell, which is accomplished only just in the nick of time.
Where Will and Gwydion vanish to is a sacred place, even by the standards of the Blessed Isle. They appear on cliff tops high above the sea, standing on the westernmost point of land in the whole world. Here Gwydion renews his strength and explains to Will about ‘the lorc’. This is a network of powerful earth streams that extend throughout the Isles. Long ago, he says, an array of standing stones was set up on these streams of power by an ancient race, the fae, who lived at the time of the First Men, but who long ago retired into the Realm Below. Each stone is filled with an immense quantity of harm.
According to the Black Book, these ‘battlestones’ were disposed across the Isles with the intention of repelling invasions. The fae believed that despotic sorcerers would one day arise in the Tortured Lands and begin to enslave men’s minds with a powerful idea called the Great Lie. In time the Isles themselves would face conquest, and their people, the First Men, would be enslaved – unless the lorc was erected as a defence. After much debate, the battlestones were wrought and put in place, and the secrets of the lorc bequeathed to the First Men when the fae withdrew.
For many centuries, the Isles remained free from interference. The Age of Trees passed into a second, lesser Age. Then the First Men failed, and the Isles became the haunt of giants and fire-breathing wyrms. When a third Age dawned, the Age of Iron, the hero-king, Brea arose and set foot upon the shores of Albion. He vanquished the giants and proclaimed the Realm, settling the land once again. After that the Realm went unmolested for eighty and more generations, until the time when, as the fae had foreseen, the Slavers’ power burgeoned in the east. By the time of King Caswalan, the sorcerers of the Tortured Lands had spread the Great Lie far and wide. They commanded huge armies, and made no secret of their desire to conquer the Isles. Their first coming, a thousand years after the landing of Brea, was repulsed. But soon afterwards the secret of the lorc was betrayed and its protective power undermined. The invading Slavers were then able to block the vital flows of earth power by building in stone. They shattered the Realm into many shards with their slave roads, and so the lorc was broken. But by Will’s time the slave roads are more than a thousand years old. Many have begun to fall into ruin, and the lorc, so long inactive, has begun to awaken…
Gwydion tells Will that he urgently needs to find and uproot the battlestones or there will be a bloodbath. Each stone will mark a place of great slaughter, and the ensuing chaos will enable Maskull to gain control of the mechanisms of fate. If Maskull is allowed to steer the Realm it will slide towards a devastating future – a future wholly without magic, and one in which strife and terror will reign for five hundred years.
Will and the wizard sail back from the Blessed Isle, and soon afterwards encounter a skeleton inside a yew tree. It is the remains of a lad Will’s age (and with a similar name) who has recently gone missing. He has been magically murdered. It is grisly evidence that Will is still being sought by Maskull. It cannot be long before he realizes that the wizard’s young bag-carrier is his quarry, and so Gwydion decides that Will must once more be lodged in a place of comparative safety.
Meanwhile, Gwydion makes absolutely sure that Will is Arthur’s third incarnation, by stirring up his latent magical talents and teaching him to ‘scry’. And so, using Will’s partly-fledged abilities and the wizard’s command of ancient lore they manage to locate their first battlestone, the Dragon Stone. As they dig it up, Will experiences for the first time the frightening mental disturbances caused when such stones are threatened, but eventually Gwydion wraps it in binding spells and they take it to a place where Gwydion thinks it may be temporarily stored.
Once at Castle Foderingham, the stone is carefully mortared into a dungeon under the keep – Gwydion hopes it will remain dormant there while he searches for further fragments of the Black Book in order to discover how to drain the stone of its harm. But the owner of Castle Foderingham is Duke Richard who, with some justice, considers himself to be the rightful king of the Realm. He has just discovered that his claim to the throne has been fatally weakened because the queen has at last given birth to a son. He is also already aware that the boy is not the king’s child, but fathered by Duke Edgar, who happens to be Richard’s political rival. Richard must do something about this, and soon. And Gwydion realizes that he must accompany Duke Richard on his urgent mission to the great city of Trinovant, or affairs will certainly take a turn for the worse. Thus, Will is abandoned once more. Now he must live with the duke’s family and the captive battlestone. He is told that under no circumstances must the Dragon Stone be interfered with.
As the weeks become months at Castle Foderingham, Will turns from boy to man. He begins to learn lordly ways alongside Duke Richard’s sons. But while he learns how to ride and hunt and fight as they do, he also starts to understand more about his own developing magical talents. He is befriended by the old herbalist, Wortmaster Gort, and battles with the duke’s fierce heir, Edward. One night, despite Will’s warnings, Edward acquires a set of keys and leads his many brothers and sisters down to visit the Dragon Stone. There, though they do not understand it at the time, they are stricken by the stone, and none more so than Edward’s brother, Edmund.
Life at Foderingham settles down again, but soon a wagon train of new weapons bound for the king’s armoury is captured by Duke Richard’s men, and Will is unexpectedly reunited with Willow, the girl he met in the Wychwoode. As vassals of Lord Strange, she and her father had been set to drive one of the ox-wagons from Grendon Mill to Trinovant, but they were intercepted by one of Duke Richard’s allies. When Will sees how scared they are of returning home to face Lord Strange’s wrath, he begs the duchess that they be attached to Duke Richard’s household, and she agrees.
Willow says that Will is turning into a young lord. Will thinks there might be more to Willow’s unlikely arrival than meets the eye – perhaps the Dragon Stone is warping the fate of everyone around it, as Gwydion has hinted it may do. Perhaps they are all riding for a fall.
As winter closes in, the news from Trinovant is sketchy, but Will learns that Gwydion’s patient diplomacy has so far failed to settle peace upon the factions. Despite having extracted the Dragon Stone the influence of the reawakening array of battlestones continues to increase. The harm contained within them begins to corrupt the political atmosphere. Greed, vengeance and malice begin to get the better of the spirit of compromise within the opposing parties, and the Realm slips ever closer to war.
Will’s fears grow when Duke Richard gathers his armies and moves his household to Ludford. This is a great castle, deep in the hills of the west. As soon as he arrives, Will’s sensitivity to the stones’ influence begins to grow beyond his control. A bout of suspicion overtakes him. He feels that Edward is becoming his rival for Willow’s affections, and so acute does his jealousy become that he begins to fear for his sanity. When Gwydion appears Will says he believes the duke has fetched the Dragon Stone to Ludford and is trying to use it to his own advantage. Gwydion settles his fears and then gives Will a choice: he can either stay at Ludford and fight with Edward for Willow’s favour, or he can venture out upon the land as Gwydion now must, and help in the tracking down of the other battlestones – and especially the crucial Doomstone, which appears to control the others. Will reluctantly chooses to follow the wizard, and Gwydion says that this brave decision is yet another proof that he is indeed the Child of Destiny that was foretold.
Gwydion now explains Maskull’s intentions. The two magicians are the last remaining members of an ancient wizardly council of nine whose task it was to direct the progress of the world along the true path. As Age succeeded Age their numbers have shrunk, until there are now only two, but one of the nine was always destined to become ‘the Betrayer’. When three wizards remained there was still room for doubt, but as soon as the phantarch, Semias, failed it became clear that Gwydion’s long-held suspicions about Maskull must have been right. Maskull has now thrown aside all pretences of guardianship and is working openly upon a plan of immense selfishness. As a sorcerer – one who misuses magic to his own benefit – he is seeking to direct the future along a path of his own choosing. It is one that will concentrate power in his own hands, but will also entail a new Age of Slavery and War far more dreadful than any that has gone before.
Maskull must be defeated, but the battlestones are the immediate problem. Fortunately, they can be made to reveal verses that predict events and describe in maddening riddles where the next stone in the sequence lies. Will manages to track down two more battlestones, and though neither of them is the Doomstone, they seem to be making progress at last.
But Maskull lays a clever trap at the stone circle known as the Giant’s Ring. Will is caught, and Gwydion is lured in to save him. Wizard and sorcerer fight and the wizard is defeated. His body is burned and his spirit banished into an elder tree. But he is saved by Will who braves his fears to restore his mentor to human form. Gwydion then sets to work on the perilous task of draining the nearby battlestone.
After several quantities of harm have been drained from it a verse is forced from the stone:
The Queen of the East shall spill Blood,
On the Slave Road, by Werlame’s Flood.
The King, in his Kingdom, a Martyr shall lie,
And never shall gain the Victory.
which, in the language of stones, has an alternative reading:
When a Queen shall Enslave a King,
Travel at Sunrise a Realm to gain,
Werlame’s Martyr shall lose the Victory,
And lie where Blood never Flows.
Gwydion is elated, but as soon as he has read the verse disaster strikes. An entrapping spell that Maskull has set on the stone causes the remaining harm to escape all in a rush. Will and the wizard must flee through the night on the back of the White Horse of Uff which Will summons using the magical silver-bound horn that was given to him one Lammas night. They are pursued through the darkness by the manifest harm that has emerged from the battlestone. It almost catches them, but is then forced to fight with the earth giant, Alba, whom it devours. The harm is dispersed at last by Will as the red light of dawn glints from his raised sword above the forgotten battlefield of Badon Hill.
They turn again to face two great armies marching, ready to give battle in the east. The shrine town of Verlamion is dominated by the great chapter house of the Fellowship of the Sightless Ones, and it is here that the Doomstone lies. Gwydion tries once again to avert disaster. He uses all his persuasion on Duke Richard, but the Doomstone has too strong a grip on the minds of those who have been drawn here to fight.
The duke’s army closes on Verlamion, which is strongly garrisoned by King Hal. As the two hosts come together, thousands of men clash in a terrifying death-struggle. Showers of deadly arrows darken the skies, and as soldier battles soldier in the market square, wizard battles sorcerer in a flame-fight that blasts across the rooftops in a blaze of fiery magic and counter magic.
Will is trapped among the savagery and bloodshed below. He knows he must reach the Doomstone and try to stop the battle, but the stone is somewhere inside the chapter house. Will claims the ‘sanctuary of the Fellowship’ and so gains entry. He fights his way through hundreds of blind, kneeling, enraptured Fellows before he locates the deadly stone under the Founder’s shrine. The power of the Doomstone is very strong, but Will remembers everything that Gwydion has taught him. He digs deep and finds the courage to do what he must – go down into the tomb to attack the battlestone directly.
As his spells are spoken out, the Doomstone fights back, but Will hangs on grimly. Appalling visions are cast into his mind, and it is only when he uses the leaping salmon talisman which Breona gave him that the stone submits. There is a blinding flash, and when the smoke clears he sees that the monstrous slab has been cracked in two!
Will emerges from the tomb, his head ringing. Outside, the roar of battle has ceased, brother has stopped killing brother, and war seems to have been averted. But there has been bloodshed – Duke Edgar, Baron Clifton and several of the other corrupt lords who have been controlling the king now lie dead. Others, including Queen Mag, have fled. As for Maskull, Will finds him atop the fire-blackened curfew tower where he has been conducting his own magical duel against Gwydion. When Will confronts him, Maskull recognizes him as the Child of Destiny, and prepares to kill him, saying, ‘I made you, I can just as easily unmake you.’ But as Maskull readies the killing stroke he is vanished away by a spell that Gwydion manages to land on him while his back is turned.
Now the battle is truly over. The king and Duke Richard jointly announce that they will ride to Trinovant together and put in place the foundations of good government.
Will is rewarded and says he wants nothing more than to return to his home village of Nether Norton with Willow, whose father has been killed in the fighting.
As they part, Gwydion gives Will a magic book, and bids him read from it often.
Will and Willow arrive home to general delight. Will tells his friends in the Vale that the king has freed them from the tithe and so they will never again have to hand over their livestock and grain to the sinister Sightless Ones. Then Will is reunited with his happy parents – after all they have not lost a son but gained a daughter – even so, there is a sense that things are not over quite yet.
More than four years have now passed since the fighting at Verlamion. We meet Will and Willow again in Nether Norton in the Vale at the Lammastide festival. It is the time of the first fruits and of harvest blessing and the joining of man and woman…
PART ONE JEOPARDY’S DILEMMA
CHAPTER ONE THE BLAZING
Flames leapt up from the fire, throwing long shadows across the green and dappling the cottages of Nether Norton with a mellow light. This year’s Blazing was a fine one. Tonight was what the wizard, Gwydion, called in the true tongue ‘Lughnasad’, the feast of Lugh, Lord of Light, the first day of autumn, when the first-cut sheaves of wheat were gathered in to the village and threshed with great ceremony. On Loaf Day, grain was ground, and loaves of Lammas bread toasted on long forks and eaten with fresh butter. On Loaf Day, Valesfolk thought of the good earth and what it gave them.
Today the weather had almost been as good as Lammas two years ago when Will had taken Willow’s hand and they had circled the fire together three times sunwise, and so given notice that henceforth they were to be regarded as husband and wife.
He put his arm around Willow’s shoulders as she cradled their sleeping daughter in her arms. It was a delight to see Bethe’s small head nestled in the crook of her mother’s elbow, her small hand resting on the blanket that covered her, and despite the dullness in the pit of his stomach, it felt good to be a husband and a father tonight. Life’s good here, he thought, so good it’s hard to see how it could be much better. If only that dull feeling would go away, tonight would be just about perfect.
But it would not go away – he knew that something was going to happen, that it was going to happen soon, and that it was not going to be anything pleasant. The foreboding had echoed in the marrow of his bones all day but, unlike a real echo, it had refused to die away. Which meant that it was a warning.
He brushed back the two thick braids of hair that hung at his left cheek and stared into the depths of the bonfire. Slowly he let his thoughts drift away from Nether Norton and slip into the fire-pictures that the flames made for him. He opened his mind and a dozen memories rushed upon him, memories of great days, terrible days, and worse nights. But the most insistent image was still of the moment when the sorcerer, Maskull, had raised him up in a blaze of fire above the stone circle called the Giant’s Ring. That night he had seen Gwydion blasted by Maskull’s magic, and afterwards, as Gwydion had tried to drain the harm from a battlestone, the future of the Realm had balanced on the edge of a knife…
It had been more than four years ago, but the dread he had felt on that night and the redeeming day that had followed remained alive in him. It always would.
‘Will?’ Willow asked, searching his face. ‘What are you thinking?’
He broached a smile. ‘Maybe I’ve taken a little too much to drink,’ he said and touched his wife’s hair. It was gold in the firelight and about as long as his own. He looked at her, then down at the child whose small hand had first clasped his finger just over a year ago. How she had begun to look like her mother.
‘Ah, but she’s a beautiful child!’ said old Baldgood the Brewster, his red face glowing from the day’s sunshine. He had begun to clear up and was carrying one end of a table back into the parlour of the Green Man. The other end of the table was carried by Baldram, one of Baldgood’s grown sons.
‘Seems like Bethe was born only yesterday,’ Will told the older man.
‘She’ll be a year and a quarter old tomorrow, won’t you, my lovely?’ Willow said dreamily.
‘Aye, and she’ll be grown up before you can say “Jack o’ Lantern”. Look at this big lumpkin of mine! Get a move on, Baldram my son, or we’ll be out here all night!’
‘My, but he’s a bossy old dad, ain’t he?’ Baldram said, grinning.
Will smiled back at the alehouse-keeper’s son as they disappeared into the Green Man. It was hard to imagine Baldram as a babe-in-arms – nowadays he could carry a barrel of ale under each arm all the way down to Pannage and still not break into a sweat.
‘Hey-ho, Will,’ one of the lads from Overmast said as he went by.
‘Hathra. How goes it?’
‘Very well. The hay’s in from Suckener’s Field and all’s ready for the morrow. Did you settle with Gunwold for them weaners?’
‘He offered me a dozen chickens each, but I beat him down to ten in the end. Seemed fairer.’
Hathra laughed. ‘Quite right, too!’
‘Show us a magic trick, Willand!’ one of the youngsters cried. It was Leomar, Leoftan the Smith’s boy, with three of his friends. He had eyes of piercing blue like his father and just as direct a manner.
Will asked for the ring from Leomar’s finger, but when the boy looked for it, it was not there. Then Will took a plum from the pouch at his own belt and offered it.
‘Go on. Bite into it. But be careful of the stone.’
The boy did as he was told and found his ring tight around the plumstone. He gasped. His friends wrinkled their noses and then laughed uncertainly.
‘How’dya do that?’ they asked.
‘It’s magic.’
‘No t’aint. It’s just conjuring!’
‘Away with you, now, and enjoy the Blazing!’ he said, ruffling the lad’s hair. ‘And you’re right – that was only conjuring. Real magic is not to be trifled with!’
Two more passers-by nodded their heads at Will, and he nodded back. The Vale was a place where everybody knew everybody else, and all were glad of that. Nobody from the outside ever came in, and nobody from the inside ever went out. Months and years passed by without anything out of the ordinary happening, and that was how everybody liked it. Everybody except Will.
Though the Valesmen did not know it, it was Gwydion who had made their lives run so quietly. Long ago he had cast a spell of concealment so that those passing by the Vale could not find it – and those living inside would never want to leave. The wizard had made it so that any man who wandered the path down from Nether Norton towards Great Norton would only get as far as Middle Norton before he found himself walking back into Nether Norton again. Only Tilwin the Tinker, knife-grinder and seller of necessaries, had ever come into the Vale from outside, but now even his visits had stopped. Apart from Tilwin, only the Sightless Ones, the ‘red hands’, with their withered eyes and love of gold, had ever had the knack of seeing through the cloak. But the Fellows were only interested in payment, and so long as the tithe carts were sent down to Middle Norton for collection they had always let the Valesmen be. Four years ago, Will’s service to King Hal in ending the battle at Verlamion had won him a secret royal warrant that paid Nether Norton’s tithe out of the king’s own coffers, so now the Vale was truly cut off.
And I’m the reason Gwydion’s kept us all hidden, Will thought uncomfortably as he stared again into the depths of the fire. He must believe the danger’s not yet fully passed. But with Maskull sent into exile and the Doomstone broken, is there still a need to hide us away?
Maskull’s defeat had given Gwydion the upper hand, but he had shown scant joy at his victory. He and Maskull had once been part of the Ogdoad, the council of nine earth guardians whose job it had been to steer the fate of the world along the true path. But then Maskull had given himself over to selfishness, and though a great betrayal had been prophesied all along, that had not made it any easier for Gwydion to accept.
Will sighed, roused himself from his thoughts and looked around at the familiar surroundings. It was strange – in all his months of wandering he had thought there was nothing better than home. And now he had a family of his own there was even more reason to love the way life was in the Vale. And yet…when a man had extraordinary adventures they changed him…
It’s easy for a man to go to war, he thought. But having seen it, can he so easily settle down behind a plough once more?
It hardly seemed so. Occasionally, a yearning would steal over Will’s heart. At such times he would go alone into the woods and practise with his quarterstaff until his body shone with sweat and his muscles ached. There was wanderlust in him, and at the root of it was a mess of unanswered questions.
He stirred himself and kissed Willow on the cheek. ‘Happy Lammas,’ he said.
‘And a happy Lammas to you too,’ she said and kissed him back. ‘I guess we’re just about finished with the Blazing. Looks like everyone’s had a good time.’
‘As usual.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ he asked, his eyebrows lifting. ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘It looks like you did,’ she said, a strange little half-smile on her lips.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
She fingered the manly braid that hung beside his ear. ‘I saw you looking into the bonfire just then. What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking that only a fool would want to be anywhere else today.’
She smiled. ‘Truly?’
‘Truly.’
It was good to see everyone so happy. They had watched the lads and lasses circling the fire. They had listened to the vows that had brought the night’s celebration to a fitting close. Some had plighted their troths, and others had made final handfasting vows. Now couples were slipping off into the shadows, heading for home.
There was no doubt about it, since the ending of the tithe the Vale had prospered as never before. They had put up three new cottages in the summer. They had filled the new granary too, and all this from the working of less land. Now the surpluses were not being taken away to make others rich, the plenty was such that Valesmen’s families had already forgotten what it was to feel the pinch of hunger.
‘About time this little one was abed,’ Willow said.
‘Yes, it’s been a long day.’
They walked up the dark path to their cottage, his arm about her in the warm, calm night. In the paddock, Avon, the white warhorse that Duke Richard of Ebor had given him, moved like a ghost in the darkness. Away from the fire the stars glittered brightly – Brigita’s star, sinking now in the west; Arondiel rising in the east; and to the south Iolirn Fireunha, the Golden Eagle.
An owl called. Will remembered the Lammastide he had spent six years ago sitting with a wizard atop Dumhacan Nadir, the Dragon’s Mound, close by the turf-cut figure of an ancient white horse. Together they had watched a thousand stars and a hundred bonfires dying red across the Plains of Barklea.
He sighed again.
‘What’s that for?’ Willow asked.
He scrubbed fingers through his hair. ‘Oh…I was just thinking. You know – about old times. About Gwydion.’
It seemed a long time since Will and the wizard had last set eyes on one another. How good it would be to wander the ways as they had once done. To walk abroad again among summer hedgerows, enjoying the sun and the rain, or feeling the bite of an icy wind on their cheeks.
‘I wonder what he’s doing right now?’ Will muttered.
‘Unless I miss my guess, he’ll be striding the green hills of the Blessed Isle,’ Willow said. ‘Or sitting in a high tower somewhere out in the wilds of Albanay.’
Will’s eyes wandered the dark gulfs between the stars. ‘Hmmm. Probably.’
‘Wilds?’ he could almost hear Gwydion chuckle. ‘It is not wild here. See! These trees in a line show where a hedge once grew. And what of those ancient furrow marks? The Realm has been loved and tended for a hundred generations of men. It is almost, you might say, a garden.’
While Willow went indoors to put Bethe into her cradle, Will lingered in the yard at the back of their cottage. He could smell the herbs, all the green leaf he had grown in the good soil – plants ripe and ready to offer the sweetness of the earth’s bounty. The scents of the orchard were keen on the still air. He heard Avon whinny again, and tried to recall when he had noticed the elusive feeling in his belly before, but when he looked inside himself he was shocked.
‘A premonition about a premonition,’ he told himself wryly. ‘Now that would be something…’
Willow came out and said, ‘I’m glad we chose to call her Bethe. There’s strong magic in naming, for I can’t think now what else we could have called her.’
‘Bethe is the birch tree,’ he said. ‘“Beth”, first letter of the druid’s alphabet, and Bethe our firstborn.’
‘I like that.’
‘You know, the birch was the first tree to clothe these isles when the ice drew back into the north. Her white bark remembers the White Lady, she who was wise and first taught about births and beginnings, the one who some call the Lady Cerridwen. Our May Pole is always a birch, and Bethe was born on May Day, which is my birthday too. In the old tongue of the west “bith” means “being”. And “beitharn” in the true tongue means “the world”. Maybe that’s the reason I suggested the name and why you agreed – because our daughter means the world to us.’
Willow squeezed him close and laid her head against his breast. ‘There’s such a power of learning in that book of yours.’
She meant the magic book that Gwydion had given him that sad day at Verlamion. He said, ‘There’s much to read and more to know. It’s said that a country swain comes of age at thirteen years, that the son of a fighting lord may carry arms in battle at fifteen, and that a king must reach eighteen years to rule by his word alone – but one who would learn magic may not be properly called wise until he has come to full manhood.’
Willow looked at him. ‘And how old’s that?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But as the saying has it: “The willow wand is slow to become an oaken staff.” And so it must be, for if I know anything at all it’s that there’s much more to be understood in the world than can ever be learned in one man’s lifetime.’
Now it was Willow’s turn to sigh. ‘Then tell me true: do you read that book every day in the hope that one day you’ll become a wizard too? Like Gwydion?’
He laughed. ‘No. That I can never be.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because Gwydion gave it to me and bade me read it. And I gave him my word that I would.’
She squeezed him again, but this time it was to stress her words. ‘Well, now, you’re going to promise me something, Willand Bookreader: that you won’t be burning any candle stubs over hard words tonight!’
He grinned. ‘Now that I’ll gladly promise!’
They held one another in the starlight for a moment. A shooting star flared brilliantly and briefly in the west, and then a coolness stirred among the leaves of the nearest apple trees. She looked up, and he felt her stiffen.
‘What is it?’
But there was no need for an answer, for there, high up over the Tops, an eerie purple glow had begun to bruise the sky.
‘Don’t look at it,’ she told him, turning away suddenly.
He felt his foreboding intensify. ‘It’s…it’s only the northern lights.’
‘I don’t care what it is…’ Her voice faded.
He stared at the flickering as it grew. ‘Gwydion once told me about the northern lights,’ he whispered, ‘but I’ve never seen them.’
As he looked into the darkness he felt the earth power crackling in his toes. The apple trees felt it too. His eyes narrowed as he realized that this flaring glow was not – could not be – the northern lights. This was brighter, more focused, and it spoke to him.
‘Will, come inside!’ she said, pulling at his arm.
‘I…’ The light pulsed irregularly like distant lightning, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was livid. It seemed to reach out from a source that was hidden by the dark hills surrounding the Vale. When he recalled what he knew of sky lore, his unease grew, for this was no natural light.
His thoughts went immediately to the lorc, that web of lines in the earth that fed the battlestones. They had glowed with an eerie light. At certain phases of the moon they had stood out in the darkness, clothed with a pale and otherworldly sheen.
‘Look!’ he said, pointing. ‘That halo. It seems to be coming from near the Giant’s Ring.’
The ancient stone circle could not be seen from the Vale. It was in Gwydion’s words Bethen feilli Imbliungh, the Navel of the World, a place of tremendous influence, and the fount through which earth power erupted into the lorc. That, Will had always supposed, was the reason the fae had set up one of their terrible battlestones there, the one that had fought Gwydion’s magic and won.
‘It can’t be the battlestone, can it?’ Willow asked as she peered into the inconstant light. ‘You said Gwydion had drawn all the harm out of it.’
‘So he did. But tonight is Lammas when the power of the earth waxes highest.’
‘We didn’t see lights there last year. Nor any year before.’
Willow’s words ceased as a low rumbling passed through the ground. It was so low that it could not be heard, only felt in the bones. Will heard Avon whinny, then came the sound of ripe apples dropping in the orchard. The ground itself was trembling. As he stared into the night he was aware of Willow’s frightened eyes upon him. Then two flower pots fell from the window ledge at the back of the cottage. He heard them crack one after the other on the stone kerb below. Willow jumped.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m going to see if Bethe’s all right.’ She vanished into the cottage.
Will let her go, listening only to the night as the rumble passed away beneath his feet and stillness returned to the Vale. Gwydion had once spoken of mountains of fire that rose up in remote parts of the world, mountains that spewed forth flames and hot cinders. But there were none of those in the Realm. He had spoken too of tremblings that shook the land from time to time. They came sometimes as workings that had been delved deep under the earth long ago shifted or fell in on themselves.
Could that have caused the rumblings?
And if so, what about the light?
There was something about that light that caused a shiver to run up Will’s spine. This rippling, eye-deceiving glow was the same colour as the flames that had once trapped and burned him within the compass of the Giant’s Ring. It was purple fire that had lifted him up high over the stones and had begun to consume his flesh. Purple fire that would have killed him in dreadful agony had not Gwydion’s magic saved him. And such a flame as that came only from Maskull’s hands.
‘By the moon and stars, he’s found me…’
A great terror seized him. He recalled the time when he had sat alongside Gwydion in a cart and the wizard had told him what could happen if someone tried to tamper magically with a battlestone. ‘If all the harm were to be released in a single hand clap…it would be enough to torment the land beyond endurance.’
And who else but Maskull would dare to tamper with a battlestone?
Fears stirred, wormlike, in Will’s guts as he looked up at the Tops now. There was no doubt what he must do. He went inside and lit a fresh candle. The damp wick crackled as it caught from a flame that already glowed in its niche. Dust still sifted down from the rafters in the gloom. Willow stood by the cradle, her daughter in her arms. Bethe had been woken up by the quake and was mewling.
‘Where’re you going?’ Willow asked, seeing him climb the ladder into the loft.
‘To call on an old friend.’
He went to his oak chest and brought out the book that grew bigger the more it was read. He brought it down the ladder, took a soft cloth and wiped clean the great covers of tooled brown leather. There was not much time. Soon the other Valesmen would notice the glow and they would come for his advice.
He placed the treasured book on the wooden lectern by the fire, a piece of furniture he had made himself specially for it. Then he composed himself for the ritual that should always attend the opening of any book of magic.
He placed his left hand flat on the book’s front cover and repeated the words of the true tongue that were written there:
‘Ane radhas a’leguim oicheamna;
ainsagimn deo teuiccimn.’
And then he voiced the spell again in plain speech.
‘Speak these words to read the secrets within;
learn and so come to a true understanding.’
There were no iron clasps on this book as there were on most others, for this book was locked by magic. As he muttered the charm the bindings were released and he was able to open it. Inside were words for his eyes alone. He turned to a special page with Gwydion’s parting words in mind.
‘…should you find yourself in dire need, you must
find the page where flies the swiftest bird. Call
it by name and that will be enough.’
His fingers trembled as the page before him began to fill with the picture of a bird, black and white with a russet throat and long tail streamers. He hesitated. Is this truly a moment of ‘dire need’? he asked himself. Am I doing the right thing?
He looked inside himself, then across to where Willow nursed their daughter, and suddenly he feared to invoke the spell. But then he saw the livid light flare and heard Bethe begin to cry, and he knew he must pronounce the trigger-word without delay.
‘Fannala!’
He spoke the true name of the swallow. Immediately, his thoughts were knocked sideways as if by a great blow to his head. A bird flew up out of the book and into the candlelight. There was a flash of white breast feathers and it was gone, so that when Will’s bedazzled eyes tried to follow it he lost it in the shadows. When he looked again not knowing what to expect, a grey shape had appeared in the corner.
‘Who’s there?’ Willow shouted, clutching Bethe close to her and snatching up a fire iron.
Will was overwhelmed. It seemed that a great bear or tiger cat had appeared in the room and was making ready to attack. Yet the shape gave off a pale blue light that faded, and then the figure of an old man walked out of the darkness.
The wizard was tall and grave, swathed in his long wayfarer’s cloak of mouse-brown. His head was closely clad in a dark skullcap, and his hand clasped an oaken staff. Bare toes peeped out from under the long skirts of his belted robe, and he wore a long beard that was divided now into two forks.
‘A swift, I told you! Not a swallow! Fool!’
Will stared as the wizard stroked the two stiff prongs of his beard together and made them into one.
‘Master Gwydion…’
The wizard looked around the homely room with heavylidded eyes, his brow knotted. He footed his staff with a bang against the fireplace. ‘I hope you have good reason to summon me thus!’
Will felt the wizard’s displeasure like a knife. Their parting had been more than four years ago, and Will expected warmer words.
‘Good reason?’ Willow said, putting down the fire iron but still unwilling to have her husband roughly spoken to beside his own hearth. ‘I should say there’s good reason. And less of the “fool”, if you please, Master Gwydion. Those who don’t mind their manners in this house gets shown off these premises right quick, and that’s whoever they may be.’
Gwydion turned to her sharply, but then seeming to bethink himself he swept out a low bow. ‘I have offended you. Please, accept my apologies. If I was rude, it was because I was upon an important errand and I did not expect to be disturbed from it.’
Will stepped towards the door without hesitation. ‘I can’t be sure, Gwydion, but I think this is something you ought to see.’
Once they were outside Gwydion shielded his eyes from the purple glare, then took Will’s arm. ‘You were right to summon me. Of course you were.’
Will’s heart sank. ‘What is it?’
‘Something I have feared daily these four years.’
‘Hey!’ Will called, but Gwydion had already taken himself halfway down the path. ‘Hey, where are you going?’
‘To the Giant’s Ring, of course!’
‘Alone?’
‘That,’ the wizard called over his shoulder, ‘is entirely up to you.’
Will watched the wizard stride away into the darkness. He looked helplessly towards the cottage door. ‘But…what about Willow? What about Bethe?’
‘Oh, they must not come! There is likely to be great danger on the Tops.’
Will ran to the doorway and put his head inside. ‘Gwydion needs my help,’ he said. ‘I have to go with him.’
Willow dandled their daughter. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘Up onto the Tops.’
Her pretty eyes quizzed him, then she sighed. ‘Oh, Will…’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t be long. I promise.’ He held her for a moment, then kissed her hurriedly, unhooked his cloak and left.
‘What do you think it is?’ he asked as he caught up with the wizard.
Gwydion tasted the air. He made hissing noises and held out his arm, but no barn owl came to his call. ‘Do you see how the night creatures hereabouts have all gone to ground? No bird can fly in this glare.’
They climbed up the stony path that no one but Gwydion could ever find. It led up through the woods of Nethershaw, yet it wound past trees and the phantasms of trees and passed through impenetrable thickets of brambles that parted to let Gwydion through but then closed behind Will. He scrambled smartly up a mossy bank after the wizard and felt the earth crumbling away under his toes. But then the trees gave out and a dark land opened before them, stark under the purple glow.
They walked onward across tussocky grass, over pools of shadow and a maze of spirals that Will sensed patterning the earth. Soon five great standing stones loomed out of the night, huddled closely one upon another like a group of conspirators. They were, Will knew, vastly ancient, all that remained of the tomb of Orba, Queen of the Summer Moon, who had lived in the Age of the First Men.
She it was who had ruled the land here long ago, and close by was the dragon-ravaged tomb of her husband, Finglas, now no more than a bump in the flow-tattooed earth. The wizard swung his staff before him, his eyes penetrating the dark like lamps. Will’s heart was hammering as the wizard paused and shaded his eyes against the sky’s sickly violet sheen. ‘It’s not coming from the Giant’s Ring after all,’ he said. ‘It’s coming from somewhere in the west!’
The wizard drew Will to a sudden halt beside him. ‘Behold! Liarix Finglas!’
The awesome flickerings rose up in the sky behind the King’s Stone like a monstrous lightning storm. Will saw the great, crooked fang cut out in black against the glare. Beside it stood the twisted elder tree where Gwydion had once been trapped by sorcerer’s magic. Four years ago he had crossed blackened grass; now it had regrown and was lush and dew-cool underfoot.
A clear view to the west opened up. There the sky was smudged by cloud, and far away a great plume had risen up through the layers, its top blown sideways by high winds, its underside lit amethyst and white.
‘Look,’ Will cried. ‘It’s a lightning storm on the Wolds!’
‘Did you ever see such lightning as that?’ When Gwydion turned a silent play of light smote the distant Wolds, making crags of his face. ‘And the rumble that shook down your pretty flower pots? Was that thunder?’
‘It seemed to come from far away.’
Gwydion gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘You want to think the danger is far away and so none of your concern. But remember that the earth is one. Magic connects all who walk upon it. Faraway trouble is trouble all the same. Do not try to find comfort in what you see now, for the further away it is the bigger it must be.’
Will felt the wizard’s words cut him. They accused him of a way of thinking that ran powerfully against the redes and laws of magic.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said humbly. ‘That was selfish.’
‘Liarix Finglas,’ Gwydion muttered, moving on. He slid fingers over the stone, savouring the name in the true tongue. ‘In the lesser words of latter days, “the King’s Stone”. And nowadays the herding men who come by here call it “the Shepherd’s Delight”. How quaint! For to them it is no more than a lump from which lucky charms may be chipped. Oh, how the Ages have declined! What a sorry inheritance the mighty days of yore have bequeathed! We are living in the old age of the world, Willand. And things are determined to turn against us!’
He heard the bitterness in the wizard’s words. ‘Surely you don’t believe that.’
The wizard’s face was difficult to read as he turned to Will again. ‘I believe that at this moment, you and your fellow villagers are very lucky to be alive.’
A chill ran through him. ‘Why do you say that?’
The wizard offered only a dismissive gesture, and Will took his arm in a firmer grip. ‘Gwydion, I asked you a question!’
The wizard scowled and pulled his arm away. ‘And, as you see, I am avoiding answering you.’
‘But why? This isn’t how it was with us.’
‘Why?’ Gwydion put back his head and stared at the sky. ‘Because I am afraid.’
A fresh pang of fear swam through Will’s belly and surfaced in his mind. This was worse than anything he could have expected. Yet the fear freshened his thinking, awakened him further to the danger. He felt intensely alert as he looked around. Up on the Tops the sky was large. It stretched all the way from east to west, from north to south. He felt suddenly very vulnerable.
With a sinking heart he looked around for the place where they had unearthed the battlestone and found its grave, a shallow depression now partly filled and overgrown, but the burned-out stone was nowhere to be seen.
‘You’re not as kindly as I remembered you,’ he told Gwydion.
‘Memories are seldom accurate. And you too have changed. Do not forget that.’
‘Even so, you’re less amiable. Sharper tongued.’
‘If you find me so, that is because you see more these days. You are no longer the trusting innocent.’
‘I was never that.’
The wizard gazed up and down an avenue of earthlight that stretched, spear-straight across the land. To Will’s eye it was greenish, elfin and fey. But it was a light that he knew well, though very bright for lign-light, brighter than he had ever seen it. It passed close by the circle of standing stones.
‘That shimmering path is called Eburos,’ Gwydion told him. ‘It is the lign of the yew tree. Look upon it, Willand, and remember what you see, for according to the Black Book this is the greatest of the nine ligns that make up the lorc. Its brightness surprises you, I see. But perhaps it should not, for tonight is Lughnasad, and very close after the new moon. All crossquarter days are magical but now is the start of Iucer, the time when the edges of this world blur with those of the Realm Below – Lughnasad upon a new moon is a time when even lowland swine rooting in the forest floor may see the lign glowing strongly in the earth. “Trea lathan iucer sean vailan…” Three days of magic in the earth, as the old saying goes. Even I can see it tonight.’
Will nodded. ‘The lorc is once more growing in power.’
Gwydion met his eye. ‘I feared you would say that.’
Frustration erupted sourly inside Will. ‘But how can that be? I destroyed the Doomstone at Verlamion. The heart of the lorc was broken!’
‘But was the Doomstone destroyed?’
‘Do you doubt that I told you the truth?’
There was silence.
‘The battle stopped, didn’t it?’ Will said.
The wizard inclined his head a fraction. ‘The battle did not continue.’
‘I only know what I saw, Gwydion. The Doomstone was cracked clean across. It must have been destroyed, for it fell silent and all the Sightless Ones in the chapter house lost their minds.’
To that the wizard made no reply other than to give a doubtful grunt. Then he raised his staff towards the livid glow. They walked the lign together across the crest of the Tops. Earth power tingled in Will’s fingers and toes as he walked. They soon came to what looked from a distance like a ring of silent, unmoving figures. He looked at the perfect circle of eighty or so stones, the ring that was forty paces across. The shadows cast by each stone groped out across the uneven land. He felt as if he was intruding and said so.
‘You know,’ Gwydion said in a distant voice, ‘the druida used to come here unfailingly at the spring equinox – and then again in the autumn of each year. Ah, what processions we had when the world was young! They brought their white horses, all marked red upon the forehead like so many unhorned unicorns. Here they made their signs two days before the new moon and sat down to drink milk and mead and witness the waxing of the power of the lorc. They were great days, Willand. Great days…’
They entered the Ring respectfully, going in by the proper entrance, bowing to the four directions before approaching the centre and sitting down. The stones of the Ring were small, no taller than children, hunched, misshapen, brooding. The greatest of them stood to the north. When Will had come here four years ago he had made no obeisance, asked no formal permission, but when he had touched the chief stone there had been a welcome all the same. He had been privileged to feel the rich and undiminished power that lay dormant here. Before Maskull’s sorcery had ambushed him he had felt an enormous store of power, something as vast as a mountain buried deep in the earth, and its summit was the Ring. That sense was still here, a muted but deeply comfortable emanation, a power that spilled endlessly from the Navel of the World. Will understood very well why the stone-wise druida had come here twice a year without fail.
He waited for Gwydion to decide what to do, and meanwhile he watched the distant glow in the west until it guttered low and they were bathed in darkness. Breaths of wind ruffled the lush grass. Overhead high veils of cloud were sweeping in. They were not thick enough to hide the stars, but they made them twinkle violently, and that seemed to Will a sign of ill omen.
He pulled his cloak tighter about him and was about to speak when he felt a presence lurking nearby. As he turned, a wild-haired figure broke from cover. Then a blood-freezing scream split the silence. The figure dashed towards them, and came to within a pace of Gwydion’s back. An arm jerked upward, and Will saw a blade flash against the sky.
‘Gwydion!’ he cried.
But the wizard did not move.
Will was aware only of soft words being uttered as he dived low at the figure and carried it to the ground, pinning it. Will’s strength slowly forced the blade from the fist that had wielded it. He was hit, then hit again, in the face, but the blows lacked power and he held his grip long enough to apply an immobilizing spell, which put the attacker’s limbs in struggle against one another.
‘Take care not to hurt her, Will. She cannot help herself.’
He shook the pain from his head and staggered to his feet. The furiously writhing body repulsed him. Strangled gasps came from the assailant as he picked up the blade.
‘Who is she?’ He wiped his mouth where one of the woman’s blows had drawn a little blood. ‘It’s lucky you heard her coming. I had no idea.’
‘I did not hear her so much as feel the approach of her magic.’
‘That’s a trick I wish you’d teach me.’
Gwydion grunted. ‘It was never easy to kill an Ogdoad wizard. And quite hard to take one by surprise.’
Will shook his head again and brushed back his braids. Then he turned the blade over in his fingers. It was broad and double-edged and had a heavy, black handle. ‘This knife is an evil weapon,’ he said, passing the blade to Gwydion.
The wizard would not take it. ‘It is not evil.’
‘No?’
‘Nor is it a weapon. Or even a knife. Did I teach you to think that way?’
‘It looks like a dagger to me,’ he muttered. ‘And it would’ve made a mess of you.’
‘Look again. It is made of obsidian, the same black glass which the Sightless Ones use in the windows of their chapter houses. It is a sacred object, one used in ritual and not to be lightly profaned with blood.’
‘Well, the blood it was intended to spill was yours.’
‘It has more in common with this.’ Gwydion drew the blade of star-iron from the sheath that always hung on a cord about his neck. He held it up. ‘An “iscian”, called by some “athame”, though strictly speaking athamen may be used only by women. It is not a dagger but a compass used to scribe the circle that becomes the border between two worlds. It is the season of Iucer, and tonight this Sister has travelled here by magic. I do not know why she has chosen to meddle far above her knowledge, but look what it has done to her.’
Will turned to where the woman still kicked and struggled as arm fought arm and leg fought leg.
‘Release her, now. But be mindful of the powers that flow here.’
Will rebuckled his belt over his shirt and straightened his pouch. He felt his heart hammering as he danced out the counterspell. At length the woman’s body collapsed into the grass, as if her bones had been turned to blood. Though slender, she was of middle age, with long hair, silvered in streaks now. Twenty years ago it would have been dark and she would have been a handsome woman.
‘Speak to me now!’ Gwydion commanded, and made a sign above her head.
The Sister shrieked and writhed, but then her voice became one of malice.
‘Slaughter great,
Slaughter small!
All slaughter now,
No Slaughter at all!’
‘Peace!’ Gwydion said, and made a second sign over her.
Instantly she fell quiet, and seemed to sleep comfortably.
‘Who is she?’ Will asked.
‘She comes from one of the hamlets near…that.’ Gwydion gestured towards the last glimmerings of lilac fire in the west. ‘She invoked a spell of great magic to bring herself here. She should not have done that, nor would she have unless her life had been threatened. By rights she should not even have known how to use such magic, but curiosity is a powerful urge in some of the Sisters of the Wise. This time it has saved her life, though we shall soon see if it was worth the saving.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The spell was ill-wrought. It has touched her mind with madness. That is, I hope, the only reason she tried to fall upon me as she did.’
Will examined the blade critically. ‘I didn’t know it was the practice of Sisters to go abroad with their athamen upon them.’
‘Ordinarily, they do not. Take care to keep that one from her, Will. I recognize it for what it is, and I believe that unless you keep it away from her she will try to kill herself with it when she wakes.’
CHAPTER TWO LITTLE SLAUGHTER
Gwydion slowly unwound the strands of magic that had afflicted the woman. Will marvelled at the wizard’s calm composure as he laid her down inside the circle and danced the harm from her. He laid charms upon her head, made signs above her body with his staff, and finally he drew a glistening adder from her mouth. He laid it down to vanish into the night.
Afterwards Will found himself drawn to watch the simmering lights. The corner of his lip tingled, and a lump had started to come up where the witch’s flailing fist had marked him.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Do?’ Gwydion stirred. ‘Perhaps you should decide what’s best.’
‘You’re the wizard.’
‘But it was you who summoned me.’
‘Yes, well I thought you ought to know about…that. It seemed to me to be Maskull’s doing.’
‘You are right. It is.’
Will was about to ask the wizard how he could be so sure, but then he remembered how seldom Gwydion was wholly open with the truth, and how closely he shepherded his wisdom. Of course a wizard needed to, for he was a guardian and therefore must be adept at manipulation. It was the entire purpose of the Ogdoad to steer fate in order to keep the world going along on the true path, and so many times during the long history of the Realm members of the wizardly council had intervened at crucial moments. Gwydion knew about cause and effect and the motivation of folk, and he had lived for such a time that long consequences were plain to his eyes. Will understood very well that there were some things Gwydion could afford to divulge and others that he must certainly not, but it did not hurt any the less to think that certain of the wizard’s secrets probably concerned his own origins.
He felt discomfort run through him while the Wise Woman twitched and muttered in dream at their backs and all three waited for the dawn to come. At last, the east grew grey with filtered light.
‘She’ll be worried,’ he said, meaning Willow. ‘I’ll bet she hasn’t slept a wink.’
Gwydion stared at him for a moment and then broke off the look. ‘Why not wait until the sun is truly up?’ he said. ‘You will find it easier to decide by the full light of day. The spell that cloaks the Vale is of necessity a powerful one. It is unlikely that even you would succeed in finding your way home in this half light.’
‘Decide? About what?’
‘About what you should do.’
Will sighed. He had heard Gwydion speak this way before, and he wondered where it was leading.
In the grey of that cold hour before sunrise the dew was penetrating. Thin mists rolled in the valleys that clefted the Tops, and as the stars went out one by one, he went over to the elder tree. He would not approach it too closely for fear that it might swallow him up again. Instead, he kicked his toes at the edge of the hole from which the battlestone had been taken. It was like the gap from which a rotten tooth had been pulled, but the pain and the stench had almost been washed from the ground.
‘Gwydion, where’s the stump gone?’
‘Stump?’
‘The big piece of battlestone that was left.’
‘I took it away.’
He inclined his head, surprised. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I wanted to give it to my friend Cormac.’
‘It’s a strange gift for a friend.’
‘Strange, perhaps, but useful certainly. Cormac is Lord of the Clan MacCarthach. He is a lord of the Blessed Isle, and a great builder of castles. Once drained, the battlestones are changed from deadly to mildly benign. Once the harm is gone there remains a small residue of kindness that works much as a charm does. I believe the stone will sit well once it is mortared into the ramparts of Cormac’s castle of An Blarna.’
‘What power will it confer, there? Invulnerability?’
‘Ha! Not that. Cormac will have to look to his own security as ever he did. But now he will be able to defend himself with the gift of diplomacy, for it seems that this particular stump gives those who touch it a fine way with words.’
‘Then you yourself must have slept seven nights upon it, I’d say.’
Gwydion laughed. ‘Did I never tell you that mockery is a very childish skill? I will have you know that many is the night since last we met when I have wished myself upon a bed that was as soft as a castle parapet.’
‘I’m wishing myself abed at this very moment.’ Will stretched again and yawned. ‘As sorry as I am for your poor old spine, it’s time I rested mine. I really should be going home.’
At this Gwydion looked silently away, and Will knew the wizard had more to say for himself. They sat until the skylarks began singing, until the eastern sky had turned a fragile blue above the pale mists of a summer dawn. Long, low streamers of cloud hovered close by the eastern horizon, as pink as the boiled flesh of a salmon. They turned slowly to fiery gold as the sun rose to burn off night mists that still clung to the land.
‘Did you ever find the Black Book?’ Will asked, meaning the ancient scroll that Gwydion had often spoken about, the one that told of the history of the battlestones.
The wizard stiffened. ‘I did not, and perhaps I never will. But I have not been idle. I have learned something of what the Black Book might once have contained. There are here and there snippets to be found, lines taken from fragments, copies of copies, translations made from memory long after the Black Book was lost. My gleanings have been meagre; still they have given me some much-needed clues regarding how best to set about the perilous task of draining a battlestone.’
‘Surely you don’t think—’
‘My first attempt was foolhardy. I am aware of that now. But if I had been wiser sooner, then I should not have done as I did. And where would that have left us?’
Will grunted. ‘All decisions must be made on the basis of imperfect knowledge, I suppose.’
The wizard’s chin jutted. ‘I will say that now I believe I have almost learned enough to try again.’
There was a noise then, and Will turned. ‘Look! The Sister. She stirs.’
They went to attend the Wise Woman as she came out of sleep. First her eyes opened and rolled in her head, then she struggled weakly and spoke like one in a fever. Gwydion lifted her head and made her drink from a small leather bottle. Then he said firmly, ‘Where are you from, Sister?’
‘My home is at Fossewyke, Master,’ she said in the voice of a young girl.
‘That is by Little Slaughter, is it not?’
Her eyes roamed, but then she said, ‘Yes, Master. It is in the vale of the Eyne Brook.’
‘Well, get you home now without delay. Do not eat or drink again until night falls. By which time you will be wholly yourself again. Do you promise to do as I bid you?’
‘Yes, Master.’
Will hid the sheathed blade away from her as Gwydion pointed a warning finger in her face. ‘To thine own self be true – now promise me that also.’
‘I promise, Master.’
‘Go now! Prosper under the sky, and do not be tempted to meddle again with crafts that lie beyond your scope.’
And with that the Sister rose to her feet and skipped away as briskly as a lamb, leaving Will in awe of the power that lay in Gwydion’s words.
‘Is she in her right mind again?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘Not yet. But by sundown she will be, save for a strong cider headache. And that might teach her to go more slowly in high matters. I did not chastise her further, for she must have acted in fear to save her life. By rights great magic such as she used should have killed her, but it did not, and that is a discrepancy which troubles me.’
‘Discrepancy?’ Will asked, his heart sinking. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Come, Willand, I have a favour to ask of you.’
He followed, going towards the lign and out along it to the west until Gwydion said:
‘Slaughter great,
Slaughter small!
All slaughter now,
No Slaughter at all!
‘Do you know what that means?’
Will shook his head. ‘Should I?’
‘It is the answer to the lights that burned last night over the Wolds.’
‘How could that be an answer?’
Gwydion sat down on the ground. ‘I will tell you, but first you must tell me again what happened to the Doomstone of Verlamion, the same which you think you destroyed – but cannot say how.’
Will sat down too. He thought back to the desperate moment when he had struggled against the Doomstone. He told all he could remember of what had taken place in the cellar under the great chapter house of the Sightless Ones. The Doomstone had been none other than the slab that covered the Founder’s sarcophagus.
‘In the end I used this to break it,’ he said, hooking a finger inside the neck of his shirt.
He had meant to draw out his fish talisman and show it to Gwydion, but it was not there. He patted his chest in puzzlement, then remembered how the day before he had washed his hair and replaited his braids ready for the Lammas celebrations. He had hung the fish on a nail and had forgotten to put it back on. It was only the figure of a fish, no bigger than his thumb, carved in green and with a red eye, but he missed it.
‘No matter,’ he said regretfully. ‘It’s probably not important.’
Gwydion’s grey eyes watched him. ‘The power of magic is often made greater by tokens. Much strength may be drawn upon in time of peril if a true belief lies within your heart. You knew what to do without being taught. I have said it many times, Willand, you are the Child of Destiny. The Black Book has said so.’
He chewed his lip, a heavy weight burdening him. ‘I don’t know where I come from, and that scares me, Gwydion.’
The wizard touched him with a kindly hand. ‘Willand, I must interfere as lightly as possible where you are concerned. I know little enough about the part you are to play, except a pitiful portion revealed by the seers of old. Believe me when I say that I am hiding nothing from you that it would serve you to know.’
He sighed and hugged his knees. ‘I’ve been having the same nightmare over and over lately. An idea comes to me in shallow sleep – that Maskull is my father.’
Gwydion shook his head. ‘The Doomstone traded in fear and lies. The planting of deceits in men’s minds is the way all such stones make a defence of themselves.’
‘Then how do you explain what Maskull himself said when I faced him on top of the curfew tower? That was something else I can’t forget. He said, “I made you, I can just as easily unmake you.” I’ve wondered too many times what he meant by it.’
Gwydion said gently, ‘Maskull is not your father. Be assured of that.’
‘Then why did he say what he did?’
‘Try to forget about it.’
The wizard got up and walked away. Will wanted to leap up, to go after him and badger him on the matter, but Gwydion’s certainty made him pause, made him remember that a wizard’s secrets must be respected.
‘If you say so.’
As he watched his long morning shadow stretching before him, a keen hunger gnawed at his spirit. After a while, he shivered and got up. A cool westerly breeze had sprung up and he felt an ache in his bones that he thought must be coming from the dampness of the grass. The power flowing from the Giant’s Ring was subsiding as the sun rose higher, but still he could feel the echoes coursing in darkness beneath his bare feet. He looked inside himself for an answer, then went to talk with Gwydion about the power that moved in the earth.
‘Can’t you find a way to stop the empowering of the lorc?’ he asked. ‘Why not halt the flow right here at its source? That way the battlestones would never awaken.’
Gwydion shook his head. ‘What you suggest is impossible.’
‘But why? You said the Giant’s Ring controls the earth flow like a sluice controls a millstream. I can feel the influence surging under here. It’s huge.’
‘So it is, but I could not control it any more than I could dam a raging river torrent with my bare hands. And in any case, it would do no good. Any attempt to block the flow would wreak havoc – blocking the millrace would surely stop the mill-wheel turning, but it would also raise the millpond to overflowing and eventually it would burst the dam. To interfere with the lorc directly would risk disrupting all the earth flows that sustain us. In the end it would turn the Realm into a wasteland.’
‘If the power of this lign is anything to go by, I’d say the lorc is about to do that anyway. It’s definitely waking up. Can’t you feel it, Gwydion? Have your powers declined that much?’
The wizard’s glance was sharp. ‘Declined? You know very well that I could never feel the lorc directly. In that respect, your abilities are unmatched.’
Will’s mind tuned to a sound high in the air. The untiring warbling of the skylark. Could they hear that song in the Vale too? Could Willow hear it? He stopped and turned.
‘What’s the favour you wanted to ask me?’
Gwydion leaned on his staff. ‘I now know what must be done. No matter what the dangers, I must find the battlestones one at a time. I must either drain them or bind them, for I dare not confront them as you did the Doomstone.’
‘How many more have you found?’
‘In the past four years? None.’
‘None?’ The news was shocking.
‘Without your talent to guide me I have been blind.’ Gwydion opened his hands in a gesture that showed there was no other answer to the problem.
‘You should have called on me,’ Will told him. Then he saw the trap the wizard had set for him, and added, ‘Before Bethe was born I would gladly have come with you.’
Gwydion met his gaze knowingly. ‘Would you?’
He stared sullenly into the western haze, noting the starlings and how they flew. Their movements said there was something wrong with the air, something nasty blowing in from the Wolds.
‘You know I would have done anything to help you, Gwydion.’
‘But would you have wanted to?’ The wizard pulled up his staff and gestured westward. ‘I see you can taste the bitterness that lies upon the west wind. Do you smell that ghastly taint of burning? It is human flesh. We must go now. Straight away. To the hamlet of Little Slaughter to see what a fatal weakness in the spirit of a powerful man has done.’
Will’s heart sickened to hear the words that he had known were coming since before sunrise. ‘I’m a husband and a father now. I can’t just leave without a word. It’s harvest time, Gwydion, and I promised Willow I wouldn’t be long.’
His words were reasonable, sane by any standard. But they already sounded hollow in his ears.
As the morning wore on, the August sun rose hot on their backs. Will saw its golden beams glittering on the headwaters of the Evenlode stream, and by midday they were across it and turning south, so that the sun began to fill the ups and downs of their path with shimmering patches and pools.
They went a league or two out of their way to the south and passed many folk on the road. Gwydion made a sign to them and warned Will to silence. Some people seemed to see Will but not the wizard. Some seemed to see neither. Others turned about as if alarmed, or at least puzzled by some unaccountable presence. Occasionally there were those who embraced Gwydion as if they had been met by a long-dead kinsman, and to these Gwydion gave a word in friendship and sometimes a token of reward.
They came down to a little river and saw a bridge-keeper’s shack. Here two men in red livery guarded the bridge. Arms had once been painted on a board but they had faded and peeled away.
Neither the keeper of the Windrush crossing nor the two men-at-arms seemed to notice them, though a witless beggar put his hands out for a blessing and Gwydion clasped his hand briefly as he passed.
‘Welcome, Master Jack-in-a-box!’ the beggar said.
‘Keep up!’ Gwydion warned as Will looked pitifully at the beggar’s sores.
‘Has he no friends to take care of him?’ Will asked angrily. ‘Is he a man or a dog? And why is he clad in such filthy rags? Is there no Sister here? What sort of place is this?’
‘We are at the village of Lowe, and shall soon be through it,’ Gwydion said.
‘Can nothing be done for the people here?’
‘This village belongs to an ill-starred fellow whose company is best avoided. This lord has driven the local Wise Woman away, and for that his people will one day murder him, for it is a true rede that “by the least of men shall the best of men always be judged”.’
There were cottages clustered here, with folk sitting at their doors. Half a dozen dirty children played in the way, and the people seemed odd. They made no acknowledgment of Will’s greetings as he passed. One old woman, however, received Gwydion as a subject would receive a king. She gave him a bundle which was put into the wizard’s crane bag which was instantly passed to Will to carry. As they left the village and rose up the hill high above the mossy thatches Will looked back down into the valley to where the brimming waters of the Windrush shone in brash daylight. There was a large manor some way to the right of the bridge.
‘Do not look at it,’ Gwydion said, and pulled him onward.
‘But how did the village get that way?’
‘It is a place of poor aspect. Land-blighted. Not every village in the Realm is as well set as Nether Norton. Many do not have a kindly lord. You should think yourself fortunate that the Vale is a place without any ruler, for some delight in making themselves overmighty while they may.’
Their journey, Gwydion had said, would not take them far, but they had already walked many a long league and Will’s feet ached. They were going to the place where the violet light had burned, but it was ever the wizard’s way not to go anywhere very directly. He took account of the flows in the land, choosing ancient paths, or striding along great arcs that swirled from hill to saddle and then swept on along the spring-lines of an upland or plunged down into the cool heart of a wood. Always the wizard’s staff would swing out in a striding rhythm, seeking narrow deer paths, and more often than not Will found himself following in his guide’s footsteps instead of walking at his shoulder as he preferred. Seldom did they follow the ways used by men, though sometimes they found dusty tracks, or a line of gnarled trees, or a trackway that meandered among planted fields. By now Will had begun to worry about Willow and his regret at their not having said a proper farewell was eating at him. He went through what he would have liked to have said, then he pictured his daughter crawling across the grass while her mother gathered windfall apples, and that image brought him back to the events of the night and to the matter in hand.
There were dangers. There was no denying that, for Maskull was implicated. And no denying the bubbling excitement in Will’s belly that others might have feared to call fear.
When he paused to take stock he saw people in the distance, working in the fields or making their way to market. As soon as Gwydion saw them he turned away and passed into the dark shade of a wood. He whispered to himself, nor was he whispering blessings. From time to time he would put his hands flat on the smooth grey trunk of a tall beech tree to mutter an incantation or to ask the air for directions. He stooped to crumble soil between his fingers, then to drink a handful of cool water which he found bubbling fresh from the earth. Will thought of old Wortmaster Gort, whose own skills upon the land were a delight. But he had once said that a true wizard such as Gwydion knew all parts of the Realm, from having walked every step of it a dozen and one times. He said that Gwydion could tell from the taste of a handful of water, or the feel of a pinch of dust, where he stood to the nearest league, just as carriers upon the Great North Road might know how far they had gone just by listening to the way people said certain words.
‘How far is it now?’ Will asked.
‘Not far.’
When Will began to feel hungry, Gwydion plunged into a wood and brought out a great armful of morels. They had a delicious taste. And again, down beside a stream where willows grew he found several white fleshy growths on the tree trunks that looked like giant ears and tasted like they looked but which filled the belly well.
Here there were many dry-stone walls and sheep meadows, and ahead a country of windy heath on which the bracken was slowly turning russet. Gwydion halted as they approached one of the ancient roads that he detested so much. Will looked up and down it, finding that his eye could follow it a long way to north and south. It was dead straight and did not yield to the earth in any way. Though old and broken in places now, still it scarred the land like a knife wound.
‘Slave road!’ Gwydion said with disgust as he hurried to the far side. ‘The straightest of them, built here fifty generations ago, when the Slaver empire took the Isle by force. Its name now is the Fosse. Do you see how it still works its dividing influence upon the land?’
After so long following Gwydion, Will’s feet had learned how to tread a true path through the land. When he planted his feet and felt for the earth streams, he could sense the way the power was turned and pent up as if into brackish pools by the ancient highway. He could see what Gwydion meant about the village of Lowe being a place that was land-blighted. He wondered at how his talent had sharpened and matured during the past few years. What could that mean?
After crossing the Fosse their own path trended more southerly. The land began to open out and there was more rising than falling. They began to cross a wide sweep of planted country that rose up into the higher Wolds. At length, Gwydion stopped and danced magic, calling out in the true tongue that there might now be an opening. In moments a path between the briars appeared where no path had been before. They went along it, and Will felt a tingle in his bones, the same he had felt when entering the Vale. At that time there had been joy in his heart, but not now, for the smell of burning had been rising on the wind and he began to taste something unpleasant at the back of his throat. Fine grit stuck to his lips and gathered in the corners of his eyes. The track before them and the leaves on the trees and bushes were dusty. Now they gave way to leaves that were rain spotted and again to leaves washed clean by a recent downpour.
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