The Language of Stones

by Robert Carter

  Well, now it was over…

  But as he watched the uncaring stars wheeling in their courses overhead, he knew that he was dreaming a hopeless dream. Things could never be again as they once had been. Maskull had won, and the world would turn sour.

  In utter wretchedness he lifted himself up. His body trembled so much he could hardly stand. His hair was singed, scorched away all down one side where his braids had burned like candle wicks. He limped across the swathe of charred grass until he reached the elder tree. How he wished now that he had had the courage to rush forward and fling himself at the sorcerer in a last act of brave defiance. But he had been far too afraid.

  But what was worse than everything was knowing that he had been the lure that had drawn Gwydion to his doom. ‘You shouldn’t have chosen me,’ he accused the tree. ‘You said I was a Child of Destiny, but I knew I wasn’t. You ought to have left me at home and living my happy little life, but you didn’t! And now look where all your wisdom’s got you!’

  He half expected the tree to answer him, but it did not. Instead a cool breeze sprang up and the smell of green came in from the west, taking away some of the stink of charred grass, and the old tree rustled where its leaves were caught by currents of air.

  Will looked miserably up at it, and in a voice cracked by anguish, he began to argue. ‘I know I shouldn’t just go home, Master Gwydion, but what else can I do? I can’t go wandering round the Realm looking for stones while there’s a war raging. Not on my own. What would I do with them? Cart them all up to Anstin’s cave? How long do you think it would be before Maskull found me and turned me into a pile of ashes too?’

  The tree creaked, but otherwise stood in silent judgment on him. In the faint starlight, the grass was singing, and he recalled something that Gort had once said about the fae and the Green Man, that they were always remembered by the trees and by the grass.

  He felt a salt tear roll down his cheek.

  ‘I suppose they’re all lying abed down there in the Vale looking up at the Tops and telling one another there’s a thunderstorm been blowing up. Poor folk! They don’t even know there’s a war coming. They don’t know anything at all about the world.’

  He searched for the glow of his camp fire. He wanted to find the crane bag. There was a shirt inside that he could use to bind up his hands. But when he got there his fingers were too burned to untie the thongs and he had to tear at them instead with his teeth.

  Something shiny fell out, and he stared at it. It was the silver horn he had won so long ago. He had forgotten all about it and now it made him cry out in fresh agony because in the crucial battle he had not given it a single thought, and so Gwydion had died.

  ‘It was my fault after all,’ he wailed, thinking how things might have been if the Green Man and all his elfin warriors had heard the summons.

  He let the horn lie among the ashes and started back towards the tree, but something else caught his eye in the darkness, and he went to where it lay. It was close by the huddle of smoking rags that was all that remained of Gwydion’s brave last stand. It was the wizard’s staff, lying half hidden in the grass where it had been thrown clear of the burning. He reached down to pick it up, and as he did a movement at his back made him turn.

  There was a white shape curling there, vaporous and indistinct. Terror spasmed in him, but then a cat miaowed.

  ‘Pangur Ban…’ he whispered, too drained to feel anything other than gratitude that a friend had come to him in his hour of need.

  He propped Gwydion’s staff alongside the gnarled trunk of the elder and sat down, his back against the tree, and took the cat in his arms. When he closed his eyes the burning roared in his hands and face and his head seemed filled with red noise. But the cat rubbed himself against Will’s chest and purred, until the pain thinned and Will wept.

  He did not know how long had passed, but by the time the chill of night had entered his bones he knew what he must do.

  ‘Wortmaster Gort,’ he murmured through blistered lips. ‘He’ll know how to help. I must find him, but first—’

  With a concentrated effort, he put the cat aside and got to his feet, then he climbed the barrow on which the nowdarkened Liarix stood. Waves of pain flashed through him. He groped across the scorched grass, and would not stop until he had come to the disturbed earth where the battlestone lay in the dirt. Pangur Ban would not go near the exposed stone, but stayed close by the elder tree. In the darkness, Will almost fell into the pit, but he felt his way slowly around the edge with outstretched hands until he came to the ink-dark place where Maskull had lain in wait. When his fingers touched the stone a fresh torrent of pain flowed in him. He took his hand away and screamed, but then slammed his hand back against the stone and tried to feel through the pain for the inscription.

  It was like thrusting his hand into molten lead, but even though the pain blotted almost everything from his mind, still it seemed to his tormented fingers that the surface was as smooth as slate. The agony was so great that he could feel the shutters of his mind closing. He knew he must not fall into unconsciousness, and drew back. Instantly the magnified pain lessened. He fell to his knees to draw breath, his eyes streaming. When he had gathered his wits he saw that anything he got from the battlestone would have to be taken by magic. Perhaps it had never borne any mark. Perhaps Maskull had read and erased whatever there had been.

  So even this was a dead end. With no ogham to read, all ways forward were blocked. He got up and came back to where Pangur Ban waited.

  ‘I tried,’ he told the cat, holding up his hands. ‘I’m just not cut out to be a hero.’

  ‘It is a great rede of magic that only he who seeks can eventually find.’

  Will’s eyes opened wide and for a moment he thought he must be hearing things because cats do not talk and the voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Gwydion?’

  ‘Maskull may have pillaged the darkness from every hidden corner of the world with the intent to undo all the work of the Ogdoad, but he is still not as great as you and I when we stand together!’

  ‘Gwydion!’

  ‘And what happened to Master Gwydion, may I ask? Are you always so quick to lose your manners?’

  He stared around but saw no sign of the wizard. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Inside the tree. Trees seem to be Maskull’s favourite trick these days.’

  Will felt his stomach churn and tears came to his eyes. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said. ‘Like the lad at Preston Mantles.’

  ‘Wale was not a wizard, alas! But even I will be trapped in here until the tree dies, unless you can find a way to release me.’

  Will wiped at his stinging eyes. ‘I’ll get an axe and chop it down!’

  ‘What? And torture me?’ the voice cried. ‘I would feel it keenly, for my consciousness is now one with the tree. If this old witch-elder should die I would not soon be able to return to the world.’

  ‘But you told me your spirit was inside a philosopher’s stone, buried in a secret place in the Far North!’

  ‘So it is. And I have hidden it well – you would never find it.’

  ‘Then…what should I do?’

  ‘The only way I can be restored is by the use of great magic, the kind that only Ogdoad wizards can accomplish.’

  ‘But who shall I bring? There are no other Ogdoad wizards left in the world, except…’

  ‘I do not think you can very well ask Maskull.’

  ‘Then who?’ Will’s heart was thumping. ‘I thought I would go and fetch the Wortmaster.’

  ‘There is no time for that. And in any case this work goes far beyond anything my good friend Gort has ever dealt with. Maskull’s spells often employ the power of night. It’s likely that if I do not find release by dawn I will have to stay here.’

  ‘But what can be done in just a few hours?’ Will asked. ‘Master Gwydion, tell me what to do and I’ll do it!’

  ‘It will require great magic. It will be both delicate and dangerous
. Are you ready to try it?’

  Every fibre of Will’s being recoiled from the idea, but he nodded. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘First you must open your mind as I have taught you. Then you must allow me to borrow your body for a little while.’

  Will blinked. ‘Borrow my body?’

  ‘I need to – how shall I put this? – I need to use it for a little while.’

  ‘But what about my own spirit? Where shall I go in the meanwhile?’

  ‘Your consciousness will have to come in here.’

  ‘You mean, I’m to go into the tree? And you’ll be standing out here – inside me?’

  ‘That is more or less the gist of it. Only when I am free to move will I be able to work the magic needed to release you.’ There was a pause. ‘I shall not pretend that the procedure is without danger. Let us hope your understanding of the true tongue is by now as deep as it needs to be. For the invocation you must appreciate the shades of meaning in the words that I shall ask you to speak, for intention counts for much in the uttering of spells.’

  ‘Master Gwydion, I’m not sure I can do this.’

  What he meant to say was that he was sure he could not.

  ‘Heroes do not know they are heroes until the moment of proof comes.’

  Will closed his eyes and looked inside himself. He was trembling. There was only fear there, but what had Gwydion said about the three weaknesses? Hatred, jealousy and fear. In his own way he had triumphed over hatred and conquered jealousy. Now it was time to banish fear. Though he felt almost ready to faint, he drew a deep breath and said in his strongest voice, ‘Master Gwydion, I’m ready.’

  ‘Then lie down close to the foot of the tree. Hold the foot of my staff in your left hand. Make sure the head of it touches the trunk. Open your mind and I will do the rest. Now, say after me…’

  Will did as he was told. He composed himself and closed his eyes. His face and hands raged maddeningly, but he tried to clear his mind of pain then opened it and repeated the ancient words. It was not difficult, because the true tongue was beautiful, and what he had learned of it made it even more so. Gwydion’s staff began to tremble and even though his eyes were tightly shut Will saw a blinding light that seemed to come from the head of the staff.

  A strange sensation began to pass through him. It felt as if he was floating, but it soon became like falling, endlessly as if into a bottomless void. Yet almost before he had time to grow fearful the feeling was gone and he began to feel a wind caressing his skin, blowing through his hair and across his face. A profound sense of place came to him, as if he had been here for all eternity. The seasons and cycles seemed to wheel overhead endlessly. The stars and the clouds were his friends, the moon was his lover, and the sun both mother and father. He fed on sunlight and drank in the rain and gloried in the spring and slept through the winter and felt the earth streams rising and falling in the ground all around…

  Yet when he tried to open his eyes he found he could not. He could not move at all. He realized that he was no longer breathing, and that no pulse was stirring his heart. ‘I’m trapped!’ he thought. He tried to struggle, but there was nothing to struggle against and nothing to struggle with. It was how he had imagined being buried alive must feel. He thought again of the Preston Mantles skeleton and his mind reeled at the lonely, terrifying death Wale must have suffered. It was a death he knew he too would soon suffer, if Gwydion made a mistake.

  Why is nothing happening? his mind screamed. Why doesn’t Gwydion do something?

  But then a cooler, calmer part of him replied that all his struggles were against nothing more than his own fear. He could hear Gwydion’s voice now, faint, as if coming from far away. He could not understand what it said, though he strained to hear. Then there came three taps against the tree, and he felt them like touches against his own flesh. He tried to call back but he was mute. He could do nothing. The floating, falling sensation took hold of him once again and this time he recognized it for what it was. The time had come to let go and allow himself to leave the tree, or he would be as stuck as Gwydion had been. All at once he felt the bonds that held him begin to slacken. He opened his mind and trusted to his deliverance.

  This time the blind fall stretched out endlessly. What had felt like a terrifying plunge before now seemed more like flying. A pure sense of freedom took him, as if his spirit had been released to go where it would. It seemed to him that he was very high up and looking down over all the sleeping world. But then a terrific jolt hit him, and the sense that he was hurtling down from a great height came back. He gasped, gulped air and the stinging returned with a rush into his face and hands. The next moment he was lying crumpled, his face pressed into the ground and the dewy turf cooling his forehead. It was miraculous – when he tried to turn over, his body did exactly as he told it. When he tried to breathe, a great lungful of fresh air plunged into him.

  He opened his eyes. The dark of this now moonless night was brilliant compared to the darkness he had just known. Stars spangled the sky, but there was a dark patch among them.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he cried.

  Gwydion leant heavily on his staff. He was exhausted, barely able to speak, but he murmured. ‘Who do you think?’

  He tried to jump up and hug the wizard. ‘Oh, Master Gwydion!’ He staggered. ‘I tried to read the stone, Master Gwydion, but it has no verse on it!’

  ‘Steady! You have been out of your mind. Your thoughts were smashed up by the clash. Magic does that sometimes.’

  Will gasped, caught hold of Gwydion’s staff and clung to it. When its head began to glow with a weird light, the wizard braced his feet and quietly helped him take a long draught of restoring power from the earth. With refreshment came renewed pain. It throbbed in Will’s face and hands. He blew softly on the backs of his hands in turn, but found little relief.

  Gwydion urged him to approach the battlestone. He saw that despite its great strength, its emanations did not spread far for they were pent up by the Liarix. Even so, Will could feel its power surging eastward along the lign.

  ‘Be careful, Master Gwydion. The lorc is in spate tonight.’

  When the wizard reached the pit he bent down to look in. The battlestone was smooth, and in the blue glow of the wizard’s staff it looked as if the dirt had been whirled out from around it by a vortex.

  ‘What has the fool done with his magic?’ Gwydion said, laying his blackened hands on the stone. He made words, then stood up. ‘As I feared. Maskull’s skills were ever showy and incomplete. He was always more concerned with appearance than substance, which is a true sign of knavery. Nor has he used much care in his magic this time. Hasty casts have been made, and one has been used to hide the inscription.’

  ‘Can’t you take the spell off again?’

  ‘Perhaps, if I knew what it was. But magic is not an endless resource to be raised at need. After the struggles of tonight my strength needs a little while longer to recover.’ He looked around as if seeking for something in the darkness. ‘And a guard-spell has been mounted that will work at least until sunrise. As I suspected, Maskull has used the powers of the night. No doubt he is gambling that dawn will come and trap me forever in yonder tree. He is a difficult adversary, for he knows me well – but not half so well as he thinks!’

  ‘Why did he not kill me, Master Gwydion?’

  ‘Because he still thinks you are no more than a wizard’s bag-carrier, an upstart fledgling crow, for that is how I have represented you all along.’

  ‘But he came to Foderingham and then to Ludford. I saw him, thinking I saw Death.’

  ‘It was not to find you that he went to Foderingham, but to look for the Dragon Stone. And later, he went to Ludford in anticipation of my arrival there, for it was ever the habit of the Ogdoad to draw nigh to the meeting places of temporal power, and it has lately been his way to watch for what I might have left unguarded so that he may lay down traps for me.’ Gwydion speared his staff into the displaced earth. ‘Maskull knows
me of old, but equally well do I know him. He is a beetle who will fly over many a sweet flower to land in a cow-shard. Remind me sometime to school you in the Rede of Friendship, which lies close to the heart of magic.’

  ‘What did he mean by all that talk of worlds colliding?’

  ‘Vanity! Vain dreams of supremacy and domination. He thinks there is freedom in that. And he supposes there must be war to bring about this “collision of worlds” that he craves. Whatever it is, he thinks he is bringing it upon us by his own efforts. He does not see just how much he has become a slave to the power of the lorc.’

  Will looked down at the baleful slab that was greedily supping strength in the werelight. ‘I know one thing,’ he said, and made Gwydion look up. ‘This must be the Doomstone.’

  The wizard’s glance was so penetrating that it scared him. ‘Do your talents tell you that?’

  ‘I don’t feel it, but I think it must be so.’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘Because Maskull said so while he was gloating over his victory. He said something like: “Stand here, Gwydion Elder-tree, and keep watch over my victory stone. When the armies come as they must they’ll cut you down and feed you into their fires.” I think it must mean the first battle will be fought here.’

  Gwydion placed his hands on Will’s shoulders. ‘Do not think, Willand. Feel.’

  He opened his mind and new fears overwhelmed him. ‘What do you mean to do?’

  ‘I want you to look and listen.’ Gwydion straightened, his face grim in the dull blue glow of his staff. He hissed at the stone like an angry cat and then stretched out his left arm. A moment later a silent white shape flashed into the werelight. It was a barn owl and it perched lightly on the wizard’s outstretched sleeve.