The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  The wizard went on. ‘Anstin understood very well the dangers the Plaguestone posed, but as ever he had a wry answer at the ready. “There can be no danger to a man who is already composed for the grave,” said he. And I replied that, in truth, there was no gainsaying him. Therefore, this man whose fingers once knew stone so well kept the Plaguestone for thirteen seasons of the year under close watch and ward. At all times he lived in its presence. Fearlessly and with great strength he repulsed its struggles to ensnare him. When I returned to him just before the end he told me movingly of the continuing misery of his life, how he wished to pledge his last day to my cause if I should choose to attempt a draining of the Plaguestone. Hearing this bravery, how could I have done other than agree?’

  Gwydion stirred and the living flame of the candle shivered. ‘I will not tell in detail what happened that night in the cave of Anstin the Hermit. Suffice to say that there are few horrors that were not visited against his mind and body as the black breath of the stone was slowly drawn. I had learned much from my earlier mistakes, but even so the drawing out of the Plaguestone did not go well. The Black Book said the Plaguestone was far less powerful than the Doomstone, yet it was all I could do to drain it. Poor Anstin died when a cloud that had issued from the stone enveloped his body. He alone soaked up the harm, yet until the moment he was burst asunder he laughed at death and showed more courage than all the knights of this Realm might hope to muster. Such is the power of what lies within.’

  Will clasped his hands in respect. He tried to dispel the images that swarmed in his mind, but it was difficult, for he himself had been under attack from a battlestone and his memory of the agony was sharp. Never before had he heard Gwydion speak with such a power of sadness in his voice. But the wizard was not yet done, and strength gathered in his words again. ‘Friends, my decision to try to drain the Plaguestone was not taken lightly. There is a very deep rede of magic that says: “There is no good and no evil in the world, except that which is made by the wilful action of people.” Yet all things are but vessels in which two contrary kinds of spirit are equally mixed. Some call these spirits “bliss” and “bale”, the one having the power to drive kindness and the other the power to drive harm. Men, by their choices, liberate both into the world just by moving through it. We upset the balance whatever we do, unwittingly and without malice, sometimes through our failings, sometimes even when we strive to do what is best. But those imbalances are mostly small, and it is only when malice aforethought is involved that the balance is more widely upset, for then the malicious man acts as a sieve. He strains out the bliss from all that he touches, and so he gathers harm about him in ever greater concentration.’

  ‘But how are kindness and harm different from what the Sightless Ones preach about good and evil?’ Will asked. ‘Aren’t you just using different names for the same things?’

  ‘Do not think that! Words are important. Dogs are not cats, which is why we trouble to call them by different names.’

  ‘But surely good and kindness are the same, aren’t they?’

  ‘If you mean kindness, then you must say kindness. Good and evil are notions invented by the Fellowship for their own purposes, and the difference is this: the Sightless Ones say there are conscious sources of good and evil. They say that both good and evil are active in the world, driven by intent; one is sent to scourge us, and the other to save us. The Sightless Ones would have us believe that invisible monsters of great power use us as their playthings. This is quite different from the magical understanding of the spirits of kindness and harm which lie latent and in balance and scattered throughout all things.’

  Will shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘The idea of good fighting to survive evil is a very dangerous one. It represents the second greatest tool of the Fellowship, and is something that softens and warps the minds of any who allow themselves to see the world in those terms.’

  ‘The second greatest?’ Will raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean there’s a worse one?’

  ‘Much worse. Long ago the Sightless Ones harnessed an even more dangerous idea, one that came from the Tortured Lands of the east. It is an idea that makes folk into willing slaves once it is planted in their heads.’

  ‘A simple idea can do that?’

  ‘Do you doubt it?’

  ‘But what can it be?’

  ‘I dare not tell you for, though it is lethal, it also has great appeal. It might seize you and destroy you, and do so seemingly within the bounds of your own free will.’

  ‘Gwydion, I am no longer a child. I have a child of my own.’

  ‘Then I will tell you, but…are you sure you are ready to hear it?’

  He thought about that for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, I’m not sure. How could I be? Maybe I’m just letting idle curiosity get the better of me.’

  ‘Ah, now that is a mature response. Then I can at least refresh your memory on the matter: the idea is called the Great Lie. The Sightless Ones have used it ruthlessly to bend the common people to their will, for once brought to a false belief they are easily persuaded into other lies. They become obedient and willingly swap their lives for no more than the promise of a better one to come. Thus may a man’s true fate be twisted out of his own control. Thus is a real, living person sent walking into a glittering maze of deceptions.’

  Will sat back, unsure about what Gwydion was saying. He knew little enough about the Sightless Ones, except that thinking about their red, scaly hands made him itch. He wanted to ask how an idea could make a man give up his life, and what reward could possibly be offered to make him do it, but then he thought about what he had seen inside the great chapter house at Verlamion and he knew that whatever this idea was, it certainly did drive men insane.

  He held up his hand, suddenly fearful. ‘I don’t think I’m ready to know what the Great Lie is.’

  Gwydion smiled and then said, ‘Perhaps we are straying from the true path, for the kindness and harm that exist in the battlestones are another thing entirely. What is known is this: the fae of old readied two similar stones and worked high magic upon them. They drew all the kindness they could from the first and put it into the second, while at the same time they drew almost all the harm from the second and put it into the first. Thus the sister-stone was filled twice over with unbalanced kindness, whereas the battlestone contained a double measure of almost pure harm. The draining in which Anstin offered himself as bait was attempted to prevent a battle in which thousands would have died, but there was a second reason. We must not permit the battlestones to fall into Maskull’s hands, for he will certainly misuse them if he can. My belief is that, at present, he knows less than we do about them, but he learns speedily and is ever ready to experiment in matters which he would not touch if he were wiser. I fear he may have taken the Dragon Stone. Perhaps he has even put it back into the lorc. That is why tomorrow we must go to Nadderstone and see for ourselves.’

  In the silence that followed, Will heard the muted sound of merry revels coming from the rest of the inn. Voices were raised in laughter, a round of song and the scraping of a long-handled fiddle. Perhaps Gwydion’s spell of defence against eavesdroppers had spent itself. Duffred came in to collect the trenchers and to flap the crumbs from the table. He brought a measure of brisk good cheer with him that dispelled their thoughtfulness, and when he asked if they needed their tankards refilling, they agreed that that was a very good idea.

  They spoke more lightly for a while, reminiscing about this and that until at last Morann rose up. ‘I think it’s time I was away to my bed.’

  ‘In that case, may you remember to forget only what you forget to remember,’ Will told him in parting toast.

  Gwydion drained his tankard. ‘Black swan, white crow, take good care, wheresoever you go!’

  Morann picked up his knife and sheathed it. ‘And I have a parting toast for the both of you: may misfortune follow you all the days of your life…’ he smiled a warm smile, �
�…but never catch up with you.’

  And with that Morann was walking with uneven steps towards the passageway, and soon the stairs were creaking under his heels. When Gwydion also took his leave, Will sat alone in the snug for a few moments, his thoughts darkening as he wondered about Willow and their baby daughter and the peril that still seemed to him to hang over the Vale like a dark cloud.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE LIGN OF THE ASH TREE

  Will was surprised to find the sun high in the sky by the time he awoke. Bright shafts of sunlight pierced the shutters, and he sprang up from the mattress and got dressed as quickly as he could, fearing that Gwydion and Morann might have left without him.

  But he soon found them outside in the yard, talking with the inn’s people.

  ‘Morning, Gwydion. Morning, Morann.’

  ‘And a fine morning it is,’ Morann said.

  ‘Ah, Willand,’ Gwydion said. ‘I hope you are feeling able today. There may be tough work ahead.’

  Dimmet sniffed at a side of beef that was hanging in his out-house. ‘Not too high for the pie, nor yet too low for the crow,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Now, Master Gwydion, shall I expect you back by noon?’

  ‘You may expect us, Dimmet, when next you see us.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Dimmet said affably. ‘I’ll take that to mean I should mind my own business.’

  He went off to take delivery of the milk jugs, but soon Duffred had hitched Bessie, the bay cob, to the tithe wagon. Will got up onto the cart to sit alongside Morann and Gwydion, and then they were off, heading east along a road that Will had travelled before.

  A rolling land of good, brown clay met them as they drove steadily onward. The going was easy past Hemmel and Hencoop. The wagon ruts that had been made in the road during a wet spring had been baked into hard ridges by the summer sun and worn to dust. Hills to their left threw out low green rises that sloped across their path, and the sun shone on the part-harvested wheatfields to their right. But soon, tended fields gave way to wilder country.

  Gwydion told of the times he had visited Caer Lugdunum, an ancient fortress that had once stood on a hill a little way to the north, and how graciously he had been received in poem and song by the druida who had lived there. Then Morann sang ‘The Lay of the Lady’ in a rich, clear voice that knew the true tongue well. His song was about the brave Queen of the East and the stand she had made long ago against the armies of the Slaver empire. It was so sad a song that Will felt shivers pass through him, and it was a long while before he returned to himself and felt the hot sun on his face again. When he did, he found that Bessie had already covered half the road to Nadderstone.

  Hereabouts the land was scrubby and unkempt, and Will looked to a cluster of bushes on his left that he knew hid a pond. Gwydion had once said there was probably star-iron in the bottom of it, and now Will realized how the pond had been made, by a shooting star landing hard on the earth, though one much smaller than the one that had smashed Little Slaughter. The thought made him shiver.

  ‘There’s power flowing here,’ Morann said, his blue eyes on the far horizon. ‘We may expect miracles, or worse, I’m thinking, before the day is done.’

  ‘Remember, the road follows the path of a lign,’ Gwydion said, ‘whether we can see it or not. Willand, do you feel anything yet?’

  ‘Not yet, Master Gwydion. You can be sure I’ll speak up soon enough when I do.’

  A short shower of rain came to refresh the land and went away again as soon as it had come. They continued across the valley and soon Will noticed a tall tower of mottled brown stone. It was the same one he had seen before, standing sentinel on a ridge, above lands that had once been tilled by the Sightless Ones, or those who laboured for them. But those fields were now neglected and overgrown, and that caused Will to wonder, for the Fellowship was notorious for never allowing its lands to lie fallow if gold could be mined in them.

  As they drew near Will was shocked to realize that the tower was now in ruins, as was the cloister and chapter house it had served.

  ‘What happened to the Fellows?’ he asked in amazement.

  ‘Gone,’ Gwydion said.

  They passed by two large fishponds. Once this place had made Will feel very uneasy. And now, as their road climbed up past the tall, iron-brown walls and vacant windows of the chapter house, Will suppressed a shudder. He turned to Gwydion and saw the wizard’s keen, grey eyes examining the battlements. The wizard called Bessie to a halt.

  ‘What are we stopping for?’ Will asked.

  Gwydion handed him the reins. ‘We must look into what has happened.’

  Will shielded his eyes against the sun and studied the tower, but he saw nothing more noteworthy than a lone gargoyle that stuck out from the corner of the parapet high above them. Morann jumped down from the cart and they both followed Gwydion through a yard of tumbled graves beside the chapter house.

  The garden that had once held neat rows of green plants was now overgrown and its bee skeps smashed. The iron weather vane that had once shown the sign of a white heart and had stretched its four arms out above the roofs, had been cast into a corner of the yard. The roofs themselves were broken and pulled down too. Ahead the great gates were unhinged, and where, to Will’s recollection, the arch of the doorway had been incised with the curious motto:

  Now the stonework was defaced so that only the letters R, A, N, S and I remained. Gwydion stood before the doors, deep in thought.

  ‘Strange,’ Will said, looking at the damage. ‘Do you think it means something?’

  ‘Everything means something.’ Gwydion made no further answer but continued to stare at the arch and then to run his fingers over the letters.

  Morann spoke in a low voice. ‘Isnar is the name of the late Grand High Warden of the Sightless Ones. It seems the letters of his name were spared from the Fellowship’s motto when the rest were stricken out.’

  Gwydion stirred. ‘This has meaning, for it surely was Isnar who ordered the roof of this chapter house to be broken in.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Will asked.

  ‘Because no one else has the power to order it.’

  Will heard the scurry and squeak of rats as they moved inside. Black glass had been shattered from windows. It crunched underfoot in the dampness. Two or three winters had ruined the fabric of the building, yet a greasy odour still clung to the place. They came back out into the open, entered the walled tithe yards and saw hurdles of woven willow sticks scattered about the cobbles. They were all that remained of stock pens and stalls. There was rotting gear here, tools for hauling animal carcasses: blocks, hooks, red rusted chains…

  Will picked his way through the ghastly ruins and saw the slaughter sheds and the stone basins that had once caught the hot blood of terrified animals. The slaughter knives and poleaxes were all gone from their racks, but the grim channels and lead pipes put down to feed a line of barrels were still there. In the next shed was what remained of the fat-rendering cauldrons – the vats and moulds where the Sightless Ones had once mixed up wood-ash and fat to make their ritual washing blocks. The stone floor was still waxy from old spills, and slippery.

  Will’s skin tingled as he looked around, but he could not be sure if it was the lign that was causing it. The pillars of the cloister stood like broken teeth now and the space of the great hall was open to the sky, though half of the roof beams remained overhead like the ribs of a great whale. Will saw ear-like growths on the timbers, and many of them were nibbled, as if by rats, though how rats had got up so high he could not imagine. Fragments of gilding and painting remained on the walls. Everything was defaced, rain-washed and sun-faded, and the gravestone floor was scattered with thousands of broken candles and spoiled washing blocks. The place seemed to have been ransacked and then abandoned quite suddenly many months ago. There had been much violence done here.

  ‘Now you see the horrible truth about what happens when the Sightless Ones gather the tithe,’ Morann said. ‘It�
�s not just carts full of grain they take to hoard and sell. Horses, cattle, sheep, fowl – all go into their slaughterhouses.’

  Will saw the place where sheep and calves had been strung up to have their throats cut. Anything that walked on two legs or four was bled into ritual jars, then soap and wax made from their fat.

  ‘A sickly smoke always hangs over the houses of the Fellowship at tithing time,’ Gwydion said. ‘Many trees are hewn and much wood burned for ash to make soap. Flesh is boiled up and rendered of its fat, and the meat buried or left to rot, for the Fellows partake only of the blood.’

  Will knew that the soap was used in ritual washing, which was why townspeople nicknamed the Fellows ‘red hands’, though never in public for that was punishable and could end in a person’s lips being cut off.

  ‘And why do they make so many candles?’ Gwydion asked, and when Will made no answer he added, ‘The Fellowship make candles to light their sacred pictures.’

  Will looked to the wizard and then up at the faded remnants of paint and gold leaf. ‘But…why? When the Fellows have no eyes to see them? And why would a Grand High Warden want to visit destruction upon one of his own chapter houses?’

  ‘The Fellows call such a thing a “Decree of the Night Fogs”,’ Gwydion told him distantly. ‘It is ordered only rarely. It is their punishment for deviation.’

  ‘Deviation?’

  ‘That is, if a house strays from their creed so far that they cannot whip it back into line. Then they cut it off and trample it into dust. This is done partly lest the disease spreads to other chapter houses, and partly by way of example. They erase all reference to the broken house from their records. They destroy its chronicle, take away its adherents. Such a house becomes to them a house that has never stood, and the Fellows who failed become men who have never lived.’

  ‘Is that what happened here?’ Will said, looking around. He could feel the prickling in his skin growing stronger and wanted now only to get away from the place.