by Alan Garner
The svarts and the lyblacs were in confusion, and, for the moment, lacked the united courage to advance. Durathror was quick to seize the chance. He faced the crowd, and spoke in a voice for all to hear.
“See how the invincible perish! If such is the fate of the mara, how shall you endure our wrath? Let him who loves not life seek to follow further!”
The mob slunk back. But now the morthbrood were at hand, and they were not to be so promptly awed. He knew he had won only a breathing space – just long enough to prevent their being overrun while Susan gathered her strength.
And then Durathror saw what he had lost all hope of seeing: a lone man on the top of Shuttlingslow, two miles away. And as he looked he saw the fall figure leave the crest, and begin to descend.
Durathror joined the others; they, too, had seen.
“But I dunner think yon bunch have,” said Gowther. “Now, how are we going to hold out while he gets here?”
“It is an hour’s journey over this ground,” said Fenodyree.
The morthbrood were conferring with the svarts: there was much shouting, and waving of hands. The svarts were not keen to risk the mara’s end, while the morthbrood did not want to take the brunt of the dwarfs’ swordsmanship themselves. The Morrigan, in her black robes, was screaming furiously.
“Cowards! Liars! They are but five! Take them! Take them now!”
Fenodyree did not wait for more.
“Come,” he said. “We cannot hold them if she is here. We must seek where we may make a stand against them.”
A hundred yards was all they had, and as soon as they moved, the morthbrood surged after them. From the beginning there was little promise of escape, but when they crossed over the top of the hill, and came to a deeply sunk, walled lane, and saw warlocks streaming along it from both sides, they realised finally that this was the end of all pursuits, and, though it may seem strange, they were glad. The long struggle was nearly over, either way: a heavy load of responsibility was lifted from their hearts.
“We shall run while we can!” cried Fenodyree; and he jumped down into the lane and pulled himself over the wall on the other side. “Look for a place for swords!”
But they had no choice. Lyblacs, armed with staves, thronged the side of the valley below them.
“A circle!” shouted Gowther. “Colin! Susan! Into th’ middle!”
And so they took their stand: and all evil closed upon them.
“They are not to die, yet!” cried the Morrigan. “Who takes a life shall answer with his own!”
Back to back the dwarfs and Gowther fought, silently, and desperately. And in between crouched the children. The bestial shouts, the grunts and squeals of dying svarts, echoed from valley to valley. Fenodyree and Durathror wove a net of light with their swords as they slashed, and parried, and thrust. And when Gowther swung his stick skulls split and bones cracked. Their one hope was to survive until the wizard came, but where an enemy fell there was always another to take his place; and another, and another, and another, and another.
They fought themselves to a standstill. Gowther’s stick was knocked from his hands, but he bent and took up a svart-hammer in either hand, and from that moment the slaughter increased. Following his example, the weaponless children snatched themselves weapons, and entered into the fight.
And thus for a while the battle ran their way. But it was the last flare of a guttering candle before the night swamps all. The end came suddenly. A svart-hammer crashed home above Fenodyree’s elbow, and the bone snapped with the noise of a whiplash. His sword-arm hanging useless, Fenodyree was a broken wall, and soon the enemy would pour through the breach. Durathror acted. He pushed out his free hand behind him while keeping his eyes fixed on his work.
“The stone! Give me the stone!”
Without questioning, Susan ducked behind Gowther, took off the chain bracelet, and locked it about Durathror’s wrist. As she did so, a dozen pairs of hands clutched her, and dragged her backwards: but too late. Durathror sprang into the air. Valham enfolded him, and he turned towards Shuttlingslow in a last attempt to save the stone.
And the birds fell upon him like black hail. He disappeared from sight as though into a thunder cloud. The lightning of his sword flashed through the smoke of birds, and the earth grew dark with their bodies; but there were also white eagle feathers, with blood upon them, and their number grew.
The battle on the ground was done: all eyes were upon that in the air. Nothing of Durathror could be seen as the cloud moved slowly away, but few birds were dropping now.
Lower down the hillside a round knoll stood out from the slope, topped by a thin beech wood; and on its crown a tall pillar of gritstone jutted to the sky like a pointing finger. Clulow was its name.
Over this mound the last blow was struck. A white object fluttered out of the base of the mass, hovered for a moment, pitched forward, and crashed through the trees, and lay still.
Down rushed the lyblacs and svarts, howling. At the noise, the figure stirred. Durathror raised his head. Then he hauled himself upright against a grey trunk, steadied himself, and began to walk up the hill. He lurched and stumbled from tree to tree. His mail shirt was ripped half from his back, and Valham hung in ribbons. Often he would stand, swaying on his feet, and it seemed that he must fall backwards, but always he would stagger on, bent almost double, more wound than dwarf, and, at the last, leaning his full weight upon his sword.
So Durathror came to the pillar of stone. He put his back against it, and unclasped his belt. Loosening it, he threw it round the column, and buckled it tightly under his arms so that he should not fall. When this was done, he grasped Dyrnwyn in both hands, and waited.
For ten yards around, the hilltop was bare of trees, and at the edge of the circle the svarts halted, none wanting to be the first to cross the open ground and meet that sword. But it was only for a moment.
“There is the stone!” cried Shape-shifter from behind. “Take it!”
“Gondemar!” thundered Durathror.
Where he found the strength is a mystery and a great wonder. But such was his fury that none could withstand him, not even Arthog, lord of the svart-alfar, that was as big as a man. In the thick of the press he came against Durathror, and Durathror brought his sword round in an arc. The svart parried with his hammer, but Dyrnwyn clove through the stone, and Arthog’s head leaped from his shoulders. But no sword can shear through stone unpunished, and at the next stroke the blade snapped halfway to the hilt. Yet still Durathror fought, and none who faced him drew breath again; and the time came when the svarts and lyblacs fell back to the trees to regain their strength and to prepare a last assault.
Durathror sagged in his harness, and the stump of Dyrnwyn hung by his side. His head dropped forward on to his chest, and a silence lay upon the hill.
CHAPTER 21
THE HEADLESS CROSS
Grimnir ran. Fear, excitement, greed drove him.
From the top of Shuttlingslow he had watched the chase right to the fall of the mara; and from that high vantage point he had seen something else, something approaching rapidly, away to the north, and although he had been on his guard against danger from that quarter for months, the form it had taken, and the time it had chosen to appear, could not have disturbed him more.
He came unnoticed over the hill above Clulow soon after Arthog died, when every eye was upon Durathror as the svarts withdrew from that still figure with the splintered sword. His gaze rested on the prisoners, each held by two warlocks of the morthbrood, standing between the main body and the wood; and Grimnir checked his stride, hope and distrust conflicting within him.
For above the clearing in the wood circled a carrion crow. It spiralled down, barely moving its wings, and came to rest on top of the standing-stone. A long time it perched there, watching, motionless. The silence was overpowering. And then the crow launched itself into the air, and resumed its measured glide. Closer to the drooping warrior it came, closer … closer, and settled on h
is shoulder. But Durathror did not move. His trial was over.
A sigh rose through the trees, and the crow hopped from the dwarf’s shoulder to the ground. Straight to his wrist it went: and from there back to the pillar, with Firefrost dangling at its beak. The bird threw up its head, neck feathers blown into a ruff, and, with wings outstretched, began to dance a clumsy jig. It rolled grotesquely from side to side, its head bobbing up and down, and a yell of triumph burst forth on every side.
Grimnir cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Yes, he must act at once. If the crow should drop its eyes and look above the throng it could not fail to notice … Swiftly he strode down the hill and pushed through the morthbrood. And as he went a new cry moved with him; for in turning to see who was coming so impetuously from behind, the crowd looked beyond him … and panicked.
Colin, Susan, Gowther, and Fenodyree had watched Durathror’s battle in an agony of helplessness. Fury and despair had done their worst; their minds were numb with shock. So it was with little interest or emotion that they turned their heads when the note of fear ran through the morthbrood. Then Grimnir came upon them. He faltered, but only for a second. “Kill them,” he said to the guards.
Susan opened her mouth, but no sound would come. For the first time in memory or legend Grimnir had spoken. And the voice was the voice of Cadellin.
The morthbrood were scattering in all directions. The guards were more intent on saving their own lives than on taking life away from others. For this is what they saw. Racing out of the north was a cloud, lower than any that hid the sun, and black. Monstrous it was, and in shape a ravening wolf. Its loins fell below the horizon, and its lean body arched across the sky to pouncing shoulders, and a head with jaws agape that even now was over the far end of the valley. Eyes glowed yellow with lightning, and the first snarls of thunder were heard above the cries of the morthbrood. There seemed to be one thought in all their minds – escape. But when Managarm of Ragnarok is about his master’s bidding, such thoughts are less than dreams.
The svarts and lyblacs were beginning to break when Grimnir entered the wood. He kicked and trampled through them towards the pillar. The crow was still there, squatting low, its head deep in its shoulders, glaring at the oncoming cloud. It saw Grimnir on the edge of the clearing, read his purpose in a flash, and sprang. But Grimnir was too agile. He jumped, snatched high, and his fingers closed about the bird’s scaly shins, and swept it out of the air. The other thin, gloved hand wrenched Firefrost from its beak. Grimnir cast the heap of feathers viciously against the pillar, and fled.
“Eh, up!” said Gowther. “Here he comes again!”
The children and Fenodyree were still groping at the implications of what had just happened and it was not until Gowther cried, “And he’s getten thy bracelet!” that they came back to life.
They might not have been there for the notice the morthbrood and all the rest took of them. Even Grimnir ignored them as he sped up towards the lane.
“After him!” shouted Fenodyree. “He must not escape!”
The hillside was thick with pell-mell bodies, but Grimnir could not be easily lost, and they set off blindly, without thinking what they could do if they caught him. Grimnir leapt on to the wall and stood poised, as though staring at something in the lane. Then he turned, and ran back down the hill, moving faster than ever. But Grimnir had barely left the wall when he staggered, and a sharp cry broke from him, and he toppled on to his hands. A double-edged sword stood out from his back. Along the blade coiled two serpents of gold, and so bright were they that it pained the eyes to look at them.
Slowly Grimnir rose, until he was on his feet. The sword dropped to the ground. He took three steps, swayed, and fell backwards. The deep cowl slid from his face, and the madness was complete. It was the face of Cadellin, twisted with pain, but nevertheless Cadellin; kind, noble, wise, his silver beard tucked inside the rank, green, marsh-smelling, monk-like habit of Grimnir the hooded one.
Susan thought she was out of her mind. Colin could not think or speak. Fenodyree wept. Then there was a crunching of rock above them, and they looked up: someone was climbing over the wall. It was Cadellin.
He came towards them over the snow, and his eyes, too, were full of tears. No words were spoken in greeting, for it was a moment beyond words. Cadellin dropped on one knee beside Grimnir, and the tears spilled on to his cheeks.
“Oh, Govannon!” he whispered. “Govannon!”
Grimnir opened his eyes.
“Oh, my brother! This is the peak of the sorrow of all my years. That it should come to this! And at my hand!”
Grimnir raised himself on one elbow, and, ignoring Cadellin, twisted his head towards the wood. An eager light gleamed in his eyes. Among all the haphazard scuttling, one figure moved with a set purpose, and that was Selina Place, who was running towards the little group as fast as she could, her robes streaming behind her.
Grimnir brought his head round, and stared at his brother, but he did not speak. Their eyes spoke through the barrier of years, and across the gulf of their lives.
Again Grimnir turned to Selina Place. She was close. He looked up into the smoking jaws of Managarm, then at Cadellin. A bleak smile touched the corners of his mouth, and he lifted his fist, and dropped the stone into Cadellin’s hand, and fell back, dead.
Cadellin took up the sword, and sheathed it. He strove to keep his voice level.
“I am sorry we could not meet at dawn,” he said. “I did not expect to come upon the mara.” He looked at Firefrost resting in his palm. “Nor did I expect this. There will be much to tell in Fundindelve. But first …”
He turned to the Morrigan. She stood a dozen yards away, glowering, uncertain. She was not sure what had happened. Then Cadellin held up Firefrost for her to see.
“Get you to Ragnarok!”
Selina Place, fury in every line of her, shrieked, and ran. And as she ran a change came over her. She seemed to bend low over the ground, and she grew smaller; her robes billowed out at her side; her thin legs were thinner, her squat body heavier; and then there was no Selina Place, only a carrion crow rising into a sky of jet.
“Make haste,” said Cadellin, “or we ourselves shall be lost. Gowther Mossock, will you stand here in front of me? I shall put my hand on your shoulder. Colin, Susan, stand on either side: take hold of my robe: do not let go. Fenodyree, sit by our feet: cling fast to my hem. Is Durathror not with you?”
“He is here,” said Fenodyree. “But he will not come again.”
“What is it you say?”
Fenodyree pointed.
“Durathror! Quick! We must guard him!”
“Stay!” cried Fenodyree as Cadellin made towards the wood. “There is not time, and it would be of no use. See! Managarm is on us!”
All the sky to the north and east was wolf head. The mouth yawned wider, till there was nothing to be seen but the black, cavernous maw, rushing down to swallow hill and valley whole. Witches, warlocks, svarts, lyblacs, stampeded southwards, crushing underfoot any that blocked the way. The birds outdistanced them all, but they were not swift enough.
One bird alone did not go south. It flew towards the advancing shadow, climbing ever higher, until it was a black dot against a blacker vault, and even a dwarf’s eyes could not tell if it did clear the ragged fangs that sought to tear it from the sky.
As the hill slid down the boundless throat Cadellin lifted his right hand, and held Firefrost on high. Gowther stood firm. Colin and Susan clasped their arms about Cadellin’s waist, and Fenodyree grappled to him with his one good arm as much of the wizard’s robes as he could hold.
“Drochs, Muroch, Esenaroth!”
A cone of light poured down from the stone, enclosing them in a blue haze. A starving wind, howling like wolves, was about them, yet the air they breathed was still. Slanting yellow eyes were seen dimly through the veil; hungry eyes. And there were other noises and other shapes that were better left unknown.
The fury raged and beat a
gainst the subtle armour, but it was as nothing to the power of Cadellin Silverbrow with Firefrost in his hand.
And at last, at once, the darkness passed, and the blue light faded. Blinking in the sunlight of a brilliant sky, the survivors of the wrath of Nastrond looked out over fields of white; wind-smoothed, and as empty of life as a polar shore. No svart or lyblac stained the snow; no gaunt figure lay close by; the pillar of Clulow was bare. Away to the south a black cloud rolled. There was joy, and many tears.
And this tale is called the Weirdstone of Brisingamen. And here is an end of it.
PRAISE
“The Weirdstone of Brisingamen is one of the most important books in children’s fantasy. It has been an enormous inspiration to me and countless other writers, and is as enjoyable and fascinating now as it was when I first read it, wide-eyed and mesmerised, at the age of ten.”
Garth Nix
“Alan Garner is indisputably the great originator, the most important British writer of fantasy since Tolkien. Any country except Britain would have long ago recognised his importance, and celebrated it with postage stamps and statues and street-names.”
Philip Pullman
“Alan Garner’s fiction is something special. Garner’s fantasies were smart and challenging, based in the here and the now, in which real English places emerged from the shadows of folklore, and in which people found themselves walking, living and battling their way through the dreams and patterns of myth.”
Neil Gaiman
“The wonderful debut by one of our greatest writers. Garner writes books that really matter, books driven by powerful forces within himself, our history, our language, our mythology, our world.”
David Almond
“I’ve forgotten most of the books I ever read, even the ones that felt unforgettable at the time. But a glimpse of The Weirdstone of Brisingamen puts me straight back into that underground tunnel with Colin and Susan. The book has been haunting me for forty years and seems determined to accompany me to the Afterlife.”
