The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  ‘It’s hard to tell. But I think it’s warmer than it was. We’ve had no sun all morning, yet it feels like the sun’s been playing on it the whole day. And look at this—’ He ran his hand over the stone, showing how it had bowed upward. ‘It wasn’t like this before.’

  ‘Do you mean it has changed its shape?’ Gwydion asked.

  ‘To my eye it seems there’s now a bulge in the middle that wasn’t there before.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He looked again. ‘Yes. When I was lying on it, it was flat. Don’t you think I’d have noticed a curve like that?’

  ‘That is hard to say.’ Gwydion seemed amused. ‘You were a little taken up with other matters at the time as I recall.’

  ‘It’s an obvious bulge, Gwydion. And it wasn’t there before. Perhaps you should put more binding spells on it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The wizard’s eyes did not move from the horizon ahead. ‘But remember, not everything is what it seems. And it is the business of a battlestone to work upon the weaknesses of the mind.’

  Though they saw many dwellings along the way, all had their doors closed and their windows barred. They met few folk and spoke to fewer yet. News of war was thin, either because those they met did not know, or did not want to say. By noon they had come among the western fringes of what Gwydion said were the Hills of Clent. He said they must cut west off the main highway and along a dusty lane to avoid Hag’s Wood and Wychburgh Hill. Then, at Fiveways, they chose the most northerly fork and crossed the Stoore at the new bridge, making good speed now along the carrier’s road until the light began to die.

  Gwydion made much of the lightness of the traffic, and the fact that there had been no bridge-keeper to levy the toll. He got down and looked closely at the ground. ‘A dozen horses were last to ride through here, all well-shod. I know the farrier and the smith who made the shoes. I know two of the horses.’

  ‘That bridge worries me.’

  Gwydion looked around, licking his lips thoughtfully. ‘The local lord is absent. It seems the Commissioners have been scouring this neighbourhood too, for what lord would overlook a source of silver if he could spare a man to collect it?’

  ‘The local lord, whoever he is, won’t have missed much revenue today.’

  ‘Yet this place is one that usually thrives. We have seen few young men along the way. Those going to market were women and children and old men. The flocks and herds have been led up to higher ground.’

  ‘I thought there was little enough livestock to be seen. What’s the reason?’

  Gwydion cast him a knowing glance. ‘If you thought an army of five thousand hungry men was going to pass close by your village, would you leave your flocks to graze in meadows beside the highway?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  They rolled on through the quiet landscape. The baron’s carthorse was old and had given much, and Gwydion would not ask more of her than he should. When Will’s impatience next got the better of him the wizard said simply, ‘“More haste, less speed.” Think on it.’ He said he could tell from the very silence how much rumour had been rife. He also said that with the harvest in and the tithes taken, lordly granaries would now be at their fullest. ‘What better time is there to have a harvest of men?’

  Will cast an eye at the stone and shuddered. It seemed that the further they took it from its proper place in the lorc the hotter and more bulbous it grew, but the change was happening so slowly that he could not be sure of it.

  ‘What if we cross a lign with it?’ Will asked suddenly.

  ‘Did we cross ligns with the Dragon Stone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. But this one’s different.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s active. It’s doing things.’

  They stopped eventually at Oakey, where Gwydion entered the famous grove and stood under the Thousand Year Tree in whose shade he said a famous king of old had once been crowned.

  ‘That was in days now long gone,’ he said, his eyes misting with memories. ‘And Great Arthur hunted here each year. He gathered acorns for the royal planting ceremony. It is foretold that another tree, grown of an acorn shed by the Thousand Year Tree, shall in future time turn the fate of the Realm.’

  ‘How can a tree do that?’ Will asked, checking again for any further changes in the stone.

  ‘By hiding in its branches one who shall be pursued. So the seers have said.’

  ‘It’s a mighty strange business, prophecy. And little enough was said of it in the book you gave me.’

  ‘Little enough is known. Seers do not understand their talent. They are rarely able to give more than misty clues as to what will be. And some things are hidden from them entirely. But time is a cartwheel, which, though it rolls onward, also rolls around. And there are wheels within wheels, for that is the essential self-similar nature of our world, so that events repeat themselves time and again, and through this we may learn much and even prophesy after a fashion through the use of experience alone. Likewise, we may learn much from the experiences of those that have gone before us. That is why the wise man pays close attention to the rede, “History repeateth itself”, for that is a great truth, be the wheels of a man’s life ever so great or ever so small…’

  Gwydion’s philosophies meandered on and Will yawned. In the failing light it seemed to his eye that the stone moved and then lay still again. He watched it for a while longer, but it did not move again and so he decided he might just have imagined it.

  They spent the night in the grove, out in the open, yet Will felt wonderfully safe and secure. He recalled to Gwydion the night they had rested in Severed Neck Woods, and the marvellous dream he had had of the Green Man coming to him with his kingly retinue of elves and his earthy embrace.

  ‘Perhaps modesty has changed your memory of that night into a dream,’ Gwydion told him as they settled down by their fire. ‘It was no dream. You were given the freedom of the wildwood, and that is a very great honour. That is why I steered us here. We will sleep soundly tonight, despite our burdensome cargo.’

  As Will laid his head down he said, ‘I think you should tell me where we’re going.’

  ‘To a place where we already know a battlestone may be stored in some degree of safety.’

  ‘Where? A castle?’

  ‘To the cave of Anstin the Hermit.’

  He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘But you said the Plaguestone killed him.’

  ‘So it did.’

  ‘Then how would this stone be safe there with no one to watch over it?’

  ‘No one but the Sister who fetched Anstin’s food knows he is dead. And she has pledged herself to silence.’

  ‘But if Maskull should learn about it, will he not be drawn there to tamper with it?’

  Gwydion’s expression hardened. ‘I hope he will not learn of it.’

  ‘But if he does?’

  ‘Maskull knows much, but he never knows as much as he believes, for he is arrogant. In the matter of the stones he has tried to follow me, then, whenever he thought it possible, to leap one step ahead. But this has done him little good. He reached the King’s Stone before us, yet he did not try to raise the battlestone or harness it to his will. He thought only to lay dangerous spells upon it to entrap me.’

  ‘Then you think he knows less than we do about the lorc?’

  ‘He does not behave as if he knows more. Perhaps fear is preventing him from using the harm he knows lies within the stones. Certainly he did not have the courage to lift the stone he had found at Tysoe.’

  Will laced his fingers behind his head and lay back. ‘You once told me that Maskull knows where I came from. Is that true?’

  Gwydion took a long time to answer. ‘He knows more than I.’

  ‘But how can that be?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that.’

  ‘Cannot? Or will not? Gwydion, I deserve to know.’

  ‘Recall what the rede says: “A little knowledge makes fools of most men, a
nd is a danger to us all.”’

  ‘You think I’m unready? That I’ll let whatever it is floor me? That it will lead me astray from my true path?’

  The wizard shifted slowly. ‘Inappropriate knowledge often does lead people astray.’

  ‘But so does a lack of it! You’ve already told me that. I must know who I am and where I’m from.’

  ‘You are the third coming of King Arthur.’

  ‘But you know more about me, and you’re not telling.’

  ‘Not yet. And you must hope that my decision is well judged.’

  ‘Gwydion, I’m not a child any more!’

  ‘Trust me, Willand. Trust to my judgment, as I trust to yours.’

  He clamped his teeth together, angry now. He had thought about telling Gwydion of the conversation he had had with Morann, but now he decided against broaching that difficult topic. The jewelmaster had said as much in one night as Gwydion and Gort had managed in six years. The next time he met Morann he would find out all he wanted to know.

  ‘Good night, Gwydion.’

  ‘Good night, Willand. Sleep well tonight and you shall rise tomorrow all the fresher.’

  All the next day they moved the Aston Oddingley stone northward across a land of open heath that was dotted with gorsethorn bushes and distant meres shining silver under a milky pale sky. These lakes reminded Will of the false water he had often seen shimmering far ahead along hot summer roads, and served to remind him that not everything a man saw was what it seemed to be.

  When he turned again to check the stone, he saw that it had certainly grown fatter around the middle. When he put his hand out to touch it he was forced to draw it away quickly. When he spat on the stone to test it, his spittle sizzled. That was enough.

  ‘Gwydion! The stone! It’s boiling hot! If we don’t do something the cart’s going to catch fire!’

  The wizard turned. ‘Take one of the empty casks and fetch water.’

  ‘I have a better idea: I’ll empty everything we have over it now. Go on just a little further. We’ll soon have all the water we need.’

  Will had seen that up ahead the branch of the River Mease which they had been following drew nearer to the road. While he emptied their drinking water over the stone he told Gwydion to drive into the ford and then stop. The stone seethed and steamed as he made a pad of his cloak, and put it against the end of the stone to protect his feet. He braced his back and pushed with his legs, until the stone began to slide towards the end of the cart.

  Gwydion turned and saw what he was trying to do. ‘Stop! It must not be allowed to touch bare ground!’

  Will stopped. ‘Why not?’

  ‘What would stop it feeding on the earth streams hereabouts? You say it is already active. It must have been close to fulfilling its destiny when we lifted it. Much closer than I thought.’

  Will abandoned his efforts and jumped down into the sluggish, shin-deep stream. He cupped his hands and began splashing water up and over the back of the cart. Vapours swirled up from the stone like escaping ghosts. He kept on splashing until the bed of the cart was drenched and no more steam would rise. Then he filled their casks and watered the horse, watching silently as Gwydion stood once again over the stone and began to tighten the magical bonds that enclosed it.

  The wizard seized his arm. ‘And now I must ask questions of it.’ He climbed down and danced out interrogation spells in the river, splashing, muttering, crying out as his feet trod the slimy stones of the riverbed. The water rose dark up the hem of his robe as he whirled and kicked in a kind of rapture. At last he collapsed to his knees in the stream, arms raised above his head.

  ‘Let me help you.’ Will reached out.

  ‘We must go on with all speed,’ the wizard said intensely, taking his arm. ‘We must not linger here. I can feel Maskull’s presence as surely as a sweathound picks up a day-old scent.’

  ‘Maskull?’ Will looked around, feeling suddenly naked to the sky.

  ‘He is not here now, but he has been here lately. And he knows we are here now. The waters have told me that much.’ Gwydion’s eyes seemed to track something in the middle distance, then they snapped back to Will’s own. ‘We must get on!’

  The wizard gave the dripping stone a dagger glance. ‘I was right. We did not lift this menace from the lorc soon enough. It is drawing close to the appointed time.’

  Will rubbed at his mouth, knowing what Gwydion’s words meant. ‘I hoped things wouldn’t come to this.’

  ‘Unfortunately, they have. Courage, Willand! We can still reach safety, but we must attempt a draining the very moment we reach Anstin’s cave. There we will have our best chance of success, for I know well the ground thereabouts.’

  Gwydion unclasped his cloak. ‘Our casks are full. Let us soak our mantles and wrap the stone in them.’

  When it was done, Will led the horse out of the stream, then he climbed up alongside the wizard and hoped his fears were not showing.

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Seven leagues, no more.’

  Seven leagues! It seemed a very long way, but Will knew he must try to raise good cheer in his heart. He began to sing, not a great song of heroic deeds as told by the courtly balladeers, but a little ditty repeated by children to learn their measures,

  ‘Thirteen inches are a foot,

  From three feet a pace is cut.

  Two paces clear a handspan make,

  Long as a fathom, pole or rake.

  Eleven fathoms yield a chain,

  Ten chains doth a furlong gain.

  Of these furlongs, twenty-and-four,

  Comes a league, and not an inch more!’

  When the song was done he looked back along the road and told himself they had already come twice seven leagues so far. ‘We can do it!’ he said. ‘We’ll just take it like the horse does – four legs at a time!’

  Gwydion smiled a chastened smile. ‘I can think of no better travelling companion than you, Willand. Though I presently wonder what might be the cause of your unreasonable optimism.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with looking on the bright side, Gwydion.’

  ‘Indeed, there is not!’

  Later that day the clouds parted here and there, showing patches of blue sky. Then the sun began to come in and out as if it could not make up its mind what to do. It patterned the farmland around with light and dark that moved across their path from left to right. Will found it unsettling travelling a road in the certainty that Maskull had come this way only a short while beforehand. And Gwydion had said the sorcerer knew where they were.

  Will tried to clear his mind of that idea as if it was the stone’s doing. To distract himself he watched a sparrowhawk hovering up ahead by a small hill. It plunged and vanished.

  ‘The men of a hated master are easier to confound,’ Gwydion announced as the cart rumbled on northward across the quiet land.

  The words had come out of the blue and Will repeated them. ‘“The men of a hated master are easier to confound.” Is that a rede of magic?’

  The wizard shook his head. ‘Merely the inscription on one of the gold coins of common sense.’

  ‘And what’s written on the tails side?’

  ‘Probably that men fight best for love.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Certainly. Why else is so much effort put into making them love bright banners? For once that is done they can be made to fight under them. The rede you are probably thinking of says: “He who rules by fear rideth the tiger cat.”’

  Will thought about that for a while, then he said idly, ‘Are they fierce creatures, then, these tigers?’

  Gwydion raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you never seen one?’

  ‘You’re becoming forgetful: we do not have them in the Vale.’

  ‘A pity! It would keep your Valesmen on their toes if they were to have the odd tiger stalking Pannage Woods. Perhaps I shall bring one for you. There are tigers in the king’s menagerie in Trinovant. They are somewhat like brindled
cats, only a dozen times longer, and fierce and delightful all at once.’

  Will grinned. ‘Like stripy lions, you mean?’

  ‘And what do you know of lions?’

  ‘Again, you’re forgetting – there are four of them caged at Ludford, by the gates of the castle. Gort told me they were brought out of the south, the gift of a sea merchant who hoped to win trade favours of Duke Richard at Callas port.’

  ‘The Wortmaster spoke the truth. They are a royal symbol, a living advertisement of the duke’s continuing hopes that one day he will sit the throne of the Realm, that his blood shall be restored to its rightful—’

  Suddenly, the wizard broke off and looked fixedly ahead. Though there was no threat that Will could see, he called the horse to a halt. Then he leapt from the cart and put his arms up like the branches of a tree.

  ‘What is it?’ Will asked. He followed the wizard’s eye. There was some cultivated land, a stand of trees to their right, the trace of a waterway, nothing very remarkable. ‘Gwydion, tell me what ails you!’

  But Gwydion made no reply, and when Will turned round he saw vapour rising from the cloaks that they had wrapped around the stone. It seemed like vapour, but then he sniffed the air and realized that all the water had boiled away, and what was rising was smoke.

  ‘Oh, by the sun and moon!’

  He leapt down and pulled the bung out of the nearest of the casks. Water gouted over the singed cloaks as he shook it over them. The stone underneath began sizzling and steaming again like a frying pan.

  ‘Stop that confounded noise!’ Gwydion shouted.

  ‘The cloaks! Look, Gwydion! They’re nearly afire!’

  ‘Never mind them!’

  He looked in amazement to Gwydion, but the wizard only knelt down and pressed the side of his head to the ground.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Will demanded.

  ‘Tshhh! Mounted men! Many hundreds. Coming…’ he said, then he stared up at the sky and his eyes rolled up inside his skull and he fell backwards like a man who had been shot through the heart by a crossbow bolt.