The Weirdstone of Brisingamen a-1

by Alan Garner

  “Grimnir!” said Durathror.

  “Whist now!” said Gaberlunzie, who was the only one undisturbed. “Sit you all down again. It is nothing of the sort. It is what I have been expecting. Cloudless skies, snow, such frost as this, and darkness not two hours away—what more natural than a good, white mist to blind the morthbrood and speed us on our road? Now on to my horse, and away!”

  The fog was about them, absolute.

  “You hold on a minute!” said Gowther. “Before we try to fit six on one horse, I’d like to know how you think we’re going to find our way in this lot. It’s about as much as I can do to see my feet.”

  “Do not worry, friend: my eyes are not your eyes, and my horse is not of earthly stock: we shall not stumble. But come! Are we to argue here until the day of doom? Mount!”

  And they did mount. Durathror and Fenodyree bunched together in front of Gaberlunzie; behind him sat the children, and behind them Gowther, his arms on either side of Colin and Susan, holding Gaberlunzie’s cloak in his fists.

  Gowther expected to come off within a minute of starting—that is. if the horse could start. But a flick of the rein, and they were away like the wind; no horse ever sped so smoothly. Fields, hedges, ditches, flowed under its hoofs. The snow muffled all noise of their passage as they plunged full tilt through the mist. The air whipped about them, and their hands grew black, and cold grasped their heads as if with pincers.

  After a while they left hedges behind, the land became broken and uneven, but they did not falter. Wide trenches opened under them, one after another, dangerously deep and ghostly, broken walls, gaping like the ruins of an ancient citadel, lowered on either side. It was as though they were riding out of their own time back to a barbaric age, yet they were running only by the peat stacks of Danes Moss, a great tract of bogland that lay at the foot of the hills.

  Trench after trench they crossed, and each a check to the morthbrood, should they follow after; for Gaberlunzie was of a cunning race. And so they came into the hills, and down to a lonely road in a valley.

  “We are in the forest now.” said Gaberlunzie.

  He swung his horse off the road, and in one sailing leap they were among the trees. A broad path cut upwards through the close-set ranks, and here Gaberlunzie slowed to a walk.

  “I shall not stop; you must leave as best you may, so that my trail will be unbroken. Do not stop to cover your own, but look for a place of shelter. Later you will see foxes: do not harm them.”

  “But what of yourself?” said Fenodyree. “It will not do to be abroad after sunset.”

  “The morthbrood are welcome to the chase! For I shall go by Shining Tor, and Cat’s Tor, and the Wind-gather Rocks, and the sun will rise for me out of the three peaks of Eildon. I do not think the morthbrood will be then so keen.”

  Five minutes later they said their good-byes, and tumbled into the snow.

  “Do as I have said,” called Gaberlunzie, “and you will come to no harm here; and when you meet Cadellin, say I wish him well.”

  Durathror was the last to leave, and as he picked himself up, the form of Gaberlunzie, one hand raised in farewell, blended into the mist, and passed out of his sight for ever.

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving all these tracks,” said Colin.

  “There is little else we can do,” said Fenodyree. “And I feel that Gaberlunzie knows what he is about. Our task is to hide, and this is the place. Take care lest you shake the snow from the branches!”

  The trees grew only a few feet apart, and the sweeping branches came close to the ground, so close that even the dwarfs had to crawl, while Gowther had to pull himself along on his stomach.

  They went downhill from the path a good way before Fenodyree stopped.

  “Here will be as safe as anywhere. Even without the mist you can see no more than a few yards. Let us make ourselves as comfortable as we can, for we shall not stir again until we go to greet Cadellin.”

  * * *

  Down the path through the forest two slim shadows moved. Coming to the trampled snow, and the trail leading under the branches, they stopped, and sniffed. And then they began to roll and frolic all around; two foxes sporting on a winter hillside. When every trace of human feet was obliterated, they set off down the trail, throwing the snow into confusion as they fought.

  The sound of their approach reached the dwarfs ears, and they waited, sword in hand, for whatever was drawing near. Then the foxes tumbled into sight, and landed on their haunches, side by side, flecked with snow, their red tongues lolling, and their sharp eyes narrowing, in a wicked, panting grin.

  For a while they sat there, and Durathror was about to speak, but they hung up their tails, and streaked away downhill.

  “Thank you,” said Fenodyree.

  “Why?” said Colin. “What were they doing?”

  “Covering our tracks rather well I reckon. said Gowther. “Now yon’s what I call clever.”

  “And the scent of a fox is stronger than that of either men or dwarfs,” said Durathror, smiling.

  He smiled again, alone to himself in the night while the others slept, when he heard the baying of hounds pass over the hill, and fade into the far distance.

  CHAPTER 20

  Shuttlingslow

  No one slept much all through the second, and last, night in the forest. It had been a strain on the nerves to lie inactive, yet constantly alert, for a whole day. The cold was no longer a problem, and the food of Angharad was safeguard against hunger and thirst for many days, so there had been nothing to do but wait, and think.

  It was as though the night would never end yet they could find little to talk about, wrapped in their cloaks, five dim shapes against the lighter background of the snow.

  And, because of the snow, it was never quite dark, even in the forest: and although they could not approach the dwarfs’ powers of sight the children found that, as the night wore on, they could see well enough to distinguish between individual trees and the hillside.

  Tension mounted with every hour. But at Last Fenodyree said:

  “Dawn is not far off. Are we ready?”

  * * *

  They climbed up the path. The marks of hoofs were still there for the dwarfs to see, but they were overlaid with many tracks; hound, svart, and others.

  After a long drag uphill they came above the forest on to a bleak shelf of moorland; and out of the far side of the plateau, half a mile distant, the last two hundred feet of Shuttlingslow reared black against the paling night.

  They halted, and stared, prey to their emotions at the sudden appearance of the long-sought goal. It was so very near.

  “Yonder it is,” said Durathror, “but shall we ever reach it?”

  They looked cautiously around. The snow lay two feet deep upon the moor. Not a tree could be seen in the gloom; only a dark line of wall, the dry stone walling of the hills, cut across the landscape. Once committed to this waste, once they had made their mark, there could be no drawing back. And after all those miles of stealth it seemed madness to walk out across such naked land. More, an actual fear of the open spaces came over them, even the dwarfs; they felt light-headed, and weak-kneed, and longed for the security of a close horizon.

  Then Gowther squared his shoulders. “Come on,” he said, “let’s be doing.” And he strode off towards Shuttlingslow.

  It was a hard trek, and a stiff climb at the end of it, but both were achieved without sight of the morthhrood or any of their kind. Up they toiled, hands and feet working together on the near-perpendicular slope; up and up, till their lungs felt torn and their hearts were bursting. Thirty feet more! They had done it! In spite of all the forces ranged against them, they had done it!

  They lay panting on the flat summit ridge. All about them was nothing but the air. When exultation had died, they crawled round until they were lying in a rough horseshoe, facing outwards. In this way, while keeping together, they could watch all the surrounding land except for the southern approach, which was
hidden by the far end of the ridge. The crest of Shuttlingslow is only a few yards wide, and they were able to talk without raising their voices.

  Fenodyree reckoned that dawn was less than half an hour away. All eyes strained to pick out Cadellin as soon as he should appear. Once Durathror thought he saw him, but it was a troll-woman striding across a hillside miles away. It grew lighter. North, south, and east, the hills rolled away, and to the west, the plain, a lake of shadow into which the night was sinking.

  “Isn’t it time we were seeing him?” Colin asked. He could now see the straight track they had drawn across the plateau. The others too, were glancing in that direction.

  “The sun has not yet risen,” said Fenodyree. “He will come.”

  But he did not come. And soon they could no longer pretend that it was night. There was no break in the ceiling of cloud, but the day would not be denied.

  “It looks as if we’ve shot our bolt, dunner it?” said Gowther. “Do we just lie here and wait to be picked like ripe apples?”

  “We must wait until the last moment,” said Fenodyree. “And wherever we go now we shall not escape the eyes of the morthbrood.”

  “It looks like being a grand day, then; Friday the thirteenth and all!”

  “Ay.” said Durathror. “Between nine and thirteen all sorrow shall be done.”

  Their spirits drained from them their trail stood out as clearly as if it had been painted black. And there was no Cadellin.

  Occasional specks moved singly or in groups across the white backcloth of hills, and out on the plain, from the smudge that was Alderley Edge, drifted what might have been a plume of smoke, but was not.

  “Now that they are astir,” said Durathror, “Cadellin must needs come quickly, or he will come too late.”

  As it gained height the column of birds split into patrolling flocks, two of which headed towards Shuttlingslow. When they were a mile away it became obvious that one flock would pass to the south of the hill, and the other to the north. The northerly flock raced over the plateau, and the watchers on the hilltop wanted to close their eyes. Suspense did not last. The leader swung round in a tight circle over the line of footprints. and brought the flock slowly along the trail, close to the ground.

  “Do not move!” whispered Fenodyree. “It is our only chance.”

  But the muspel cloaks were not proof against keen eyes at close range. The whole flock shot skywards on the instant, and broke north, south, east, and west to din the alarm. One or two remained, at a safe height, and they cruised in beady silence. The specks in the distance slowed, changed course, and began to move in towards a common centre—Shuttlingslow. More appeared, and more still, and distant, thin voices were raised in answer to the summons, and mingled with them the whine of the mara, and a baying note, that the children had heard once before at St Marys Clyfle, and Fenodyree more recently in the forest. From all over the plain clouds of birds were rushing eastwards. Durathror stood up.

  “Is this the end of things, cousin?”

  “It may be.”

  “Where is Cadellin Silverbrow?”

  “I cannot think! unless it be that he is dead, or prisoner, and either way we are lost.”

  “But if he’s coming from that direction.” cried Colin, pointing south, “we shouldn’t see him until he was right at the top!”

  “Fool that I am! Quick! We may throw away all hope by standing here!”

  Half-way along the ridge the birds attacked. In a cloud they fell, clawing and pecking, and buffeting with their wings. And their attentions were directed against Susan above all. In the first seconds of advantage they fastened upon her like leeches, and tangled thickly in her hair. And their strength was human, But before they could drag her from the hill Dyrnwyn and Widowrnaker were among them.

  Backwards and forwards along the crest the conflict raged, until the ground was red and black, and still they came. Not before fully a quarter of their number had been hewn from the air did they abandon the fight.

  Durathror and Fenodyree leaned on their swords, heads hanging. All were torn and bleeding; but the wounds were not deep.

  “It is well they broke,” panted Fenodyree, “for I was near spent.”

  “Ay,” said Durathror, “it will go hard with us if they come again.”

  Gowther reversed his grip on his ash stick, which he had been wielding with terrible effect, and pointed.

  “And yon have not been idle, sithee. We’ll have to be thinking quick!”

  The morthbrood were pouring in from all sides; only to the south-west was the land not thickly dotted with running figures. The near groups were not heading for the top of Shuttlingslow, but were moving to encircle it; and out of the valley of Wildboarclough, seven hundred feet below at the foot of the hill’s eastern slope, came a band of svarts, five hundred strong. There was no Cadellin.

  “Can western this flood, cousin?” said Fenodyree.

  Durathror shook his head.

  “By weight of numbers they will conquer. But since it has come to this we must draw what teeth we may before we go down to rest. And it is how I would wish to die, for so have I lived.”

  “Well, I’m not going to let them have the stone as easily as that!” cried Susan. “You stay if you like, but I’m off!”

  And she started down the hill at a mad speed towards where the numbers of the morthbrood were thinnest.

  “Come back Sue!” shouted Colin.

  “No!” said Gowther. “She’s the only one round here as is talking sense. Well, come on! Are you fain to let her go by herself?”

  They sprang after Susan; floundering in the snow, leaping, bounding, falling, rolling, they hurtled after her, unmindful of bruises, caring nothing for safety, while the air clamoured with the shriek of birds.

  Once off the escarpment their gait slackened, yet they were making every effort to hurry. The snow was knee-deep, and clogged the feet like a nightmare. Rocks, reed clumps, hummocks of grass sent them stumbling at every stride. The birds flew low but did not attack.

  Over Piggford moor Susan ran, flanked by dwarfs with gleaming swords. A few stray svarts, and the loose-limbed scarecrow creatures barred the way from time to time, but they fell back at the sight of the hard blades. They preferred to join the crowd that was now sweeping round the sides of Shuttlingslow.

  The moor curved down three hundred feet to a stream that Susan did not discover in time, and they all slithered into the water, and lost precious seconds there. Choking, they scrambled up the opposite hill. And that climb exhausted the last of their strength. It beat them mentally as well as physically, for it was a convex slope, and the skyline, the apparent top of the hill, was always receding. It was never far away, but they could never reach it. Soon it was nearly beyond them to climb the stone walls that blocked their path, and when they did totter to the crest, and saw that it was only a wide shelf, and that a further incline awaited them, all but Durathror collapsed as though their legs had been cut from under them.

  Durathror looked behind him. Except for one or two stragglers, Pigglord moor was bare. Yet the noise of the chase was loud: he heard it clearly, even through the bedlam of the milling birds. The morthbrood must have crossed the stream.

  “Up!” he cried. But they were not at the top of the final rise when the pursuit came into sight. The svarts, with their snow-skimming feet. and the tireless, bobbing lyblacs had outstrippcd the morthbrood, and they had at their head one that was worse than all—a mara, grey and terrible. And before the mara ran the two hounds of the Morrigan, their blind heads low to the scent, and their mouths hanging red.

  “Stay not for me!” shouted Durathror, facing about.

  For a second Fenodyree wavered, then he nodded, and pushed the others on towards the crest of the hill.

  The hounds were well ahead of the mara, and the first, drawing near, slowed to a walk, ears pricked forward.

  “Ha!” cried Durathror.

  The hound paused.

  “Ha!”


  And as it leapt he ducked, and thrust upwards with both hands to his sword, and the beast was dead before it hit the ground. But it wrenched Dyrnwyn from Durathror’s grasp in its fall, and then the other sprang. But Durathror was lightning itself in battle, and the teeth closed not on his throat, but on his forearm which he rammed between the wet jaws, and over he went, hurled on to his back by the weight of the monster. And while they wrestled the mara strode by unheedingly.

  Durathror fumbled for the dagger at his waist: he found it, and the end was quick.

  But he could do nothing to save the others. Already the mara towered over them. Bravely, rashly, Fenodyree launched himself upon it, but Widowmaker flew from his hands in a shower of sparks at the first blow, and, leaning down from its twenty feet of grim might, the troll grasped Susan by the wrist, and plucked her from the ground.

  The scream that cut the air then stopped svarts and lyblacs in their tracks, and even the birds were hushed. Durathror hid his face, and groaned; tears flooded his cheeks. Again the piteous cry, but weaker now. Durathror knew his heart must break. Again. And again. Shouting wildly, mad with grief, he rose, and snatched for his sword. But the sight that met him brought him straight to his knees. For, limp, in the snow, just as she had fallen, was Susan, Beside her was the mara, and it was shrinking . Like a statue of butter in a furnace heat it writhed and wasted. Its contours melted into formlessness as it dwindled. No sound did it utter again, save a drawn-out moan as movement finally ceased. And there on the moor-top stood a rough lump of rock.

  Half-unconscious, Susan knew little of the mara’s fate. As the spiral-patterned clouds and flashing lights withdrew from before her eyes she could only stare at Angharad’s bracelet, dented and misshapen from the grip of the stone-cold hand that had fastened upon her wrist.

  “Are you all reet, lass?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I’m not hurt. It was the bracelet, I think. What’s happened?”