The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  And so he was roused. His eyes bled as he tore them open. He looked at the dead fingers that grasped the leaping salmon. He forced himself to concentrate on it, to stand barefoot in the ankle-deep snow, shattering the ice from him where it had formed on his body. Willow had somehow resisted the stone’s monstrous magic. Perhaps it had not thought her worthy of attention. That would be its undoing. He raised his arms and let forth a defiant burst of the true tongue, calling down all the powers of the air upon the white stone.

  The warmth that came from within flooded him to blood heat. Feeling returned. Life went roaring through him again like the heat that Gwydion had taught him to summon while travelling the winter land. Love had done this – it was a force against which nothing could stand.

  His body dripped and steamed. Water pooled on the ice. He became enwrapped in an aura of light and heat and gradually part of him became aware that the snow had stopped falling. The sky was clearing above, and the westering sun was throwing yellow beams across a small landscape of white drifts, beyond which a summer’s day still prevailed across the Middle Shires. Yet here was the stone, still white and tall, silent and malevolent and unbroken. He gathered up all the strength left inside him, made blue fire and threw it. Once! Twice! Thrice! He ringed the stone as he had seen Gwydion do. He danced on the ice, kicking through the snow, chanting incantations that bound the stone ever tighter. In the end he had used the stone’s own deadly defences against it, for the ice had become his floor and he could never have danced out magic this powerful in neck-deep water.

  The first of his tasks done, he put his hands to his temples and took a deep breath. He knew he must fight the exhaustion and emptiness that threatened to undermine the calm he would need to seal the spells. The stone shone brilliantly, but while the blue rings sparked and flashed and complained, they held. They stayed tight on the stone’s malice like the hoops around a barrel.

  Will danced again, splashing through meltwater. Time dragged, then rushed on, then dragged again. When next he looked up, the sun was sinking fast towards the treetops, casting long shadows. Clouds raced overhead, spattering the land with brightness and shadow. At last, he sat down hard – the containing of the battlestone had been accomplished.

  Willow touched him, almost waking him, or so it seemed. ‘We must get off the ice,’ she said.

  ‘No. I must drain the stone,’ he told her, stirring, unsure how long might have passed.

  ‘But look at you. And look at the ice.’ She hauled him up as the surface groaned under them. The snow had melted into pools. He slid and staggered to his knees. She supported him, led him back to the clump of reeds that marked the edge of the pond and he saw the snow banked there had collapsed into slush. Feeling no cold, he lay down in the mud and felt his body feed hungrily on the earth.

  He knew what he must do. Willow was wrong – it must be done right away. But how? He felt spent, worn down on every edge, ready to rest, and ultimately to draw a reviving draught of power from the earth. But that would take time – he would need to recover a measure of strength in order to draw strength. By the time he had rebuilt his powers, the ice would have melted. He must go out to the stone now and engage it, ready or not. He must!

  ‘There’ll be a boat,’ he said, looking around.

  ‘Will…please.’

  ‘There must be!’ He heard the strain breaking in his own voice.

  ‘I’ll look. You stay here.’ Willow ran towards the scutching shacks. Their roofs dripped under a melting burden.

  Will opened his hand and studied the leaping salmon talisman. Its thong was still wrapped tight about his wrist. For a moment he could not take his eyes away from it. It seemed to be warning him to renew his fight before it was too late. He forced himself to his feet and began to walk back across the treacherous ice. The stone gleamed, brilliant as a diamond, proud and yet unbroken. The blue haloes of light encompassed it, but they had not humbled it.

  He felt the ice begin to move beneath his feet.

  ‘Will!’

  Willow was waving madly, frantic to warn him.

  ‘Leave me be,’ he hissed, under his breath.

  ‘Will! Will!’

  ‘I must do it now!’

  The ice was shaking underfoot, shaking and thundering. He looked up and saw that the noise was made by hooves. A horse was galloping towards him. The beats of its hooves sent up sprays of water, and on its back there sat a black-swathed figure. It leaned over and swept a flashing blade down towards him.

  He caught a glint of green, threw himself down, then gritted his teeth at the pain. The strike slid him along the ice, pushing him to within a few paces of the stone. The horseman overshot his mark. He hauled back on his reins and threw his frightened mount into too sharp a turn. The horse skidded and fell in a flurry of water.

  Will felt the wet ice crack and heave under the impact of the fall, but the masked figure rose up, long knife in hand. Chlu was moving like his old self again, all trace of Maskull’s restraint had gone from him and he seemed strong and determined and ready to finish the job that he had begun.

  Will’s mind shrieked warnings. He backed towards the battlestone, his eyes fast on his faceless adversary’s green blade. Unarmed and out here on a surface of wet ice, it was impossible to run or to hide.

  ‘Who are you?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Tell me! You owe me that at least!’

  The other made a lunge and swept the knife at Will again. It barely missed. Talking was useless – and it was impossible to read a man whose face was hidden. Dismay flooded him, while overhead the stone seemed to gloat.

  ‘I know you’re called the Dark Child,’ he said, truly shaken by the other’s purpose. He was still backing towards the stone. ‘I know you lived in Little Slaughter. I know that Maskull took you from your home and then destroyed it. But why do you want to kill me when we could help each other?’

  Another sweep of the long knife. Another miss. Will saw how the blade was patterned. Its green gleam stirred an insistent memory. Next time, if he could catch Chlu off balance, a push might bring him down. But Chlu seemed equally sharp-minded, and too aware of the dangers of the ice to overreach himself.

  ‘I know what Maskull’s done to you. Don’t hide yourself away from me. Join with me, and I’ll help you to be free again. Don’t you see? I’ll release you like I released the ked.’

  ‘Aggggh!’ This time, when Chlu ran at him, the hacks and slashes came in a frenzy. Dull blows rained on his upflung arms and back until he scrambled away. He was amazed he had avoided the attack unscathed. The horse whinnied piteously. He glanced to his right. It was still on its side, kicking and struggling to rise. Soon its vain attempts to lift itself must punch a hole in the ice and it would fall through.

  Chlu was coming at him again. The next slash was too quick and though Will drew back the blade flashed across his head and the force of the blow was like a punch. Now he was backed almost against the stone. He feinted left, dodged right, twisted back to put the stone between them, but he had been slashed again and again.

  Why aren’t I bleeding? he thought. What’s happening?

  ‘If I’m to die I should know the reason!’ he shouted.

  Then Chlu spoke. ‘It’s you,’ he said, his voice strangled. ‘It’s you – or me.’

  ‘But you don’t need to fight me!’

  ‘Oh, but I do. For, if I am to live, then you must die…’

  Chlu stabbed again. This time the knife rang off Will’s breastbone as if he had been miraculously armoured. The force of it pushed him to the left-hand side of the stone. Though he recalled what Gwydion had said about never going widdershins about any ancient stone, he was forced to step that way. But before he could complete the turn, Chlu stumbled, made another lunge and started to circle back again.

  ‘Why are you the Dark Child?’ Will demanded. ‘Tell me what it means!’

  But this time there was no reply. Will kept his distance, drawing his assailant
on, hoping he could give Willow time enough to save herself. Whatever happened, she would escape, she would find Bethe.

  Chlu made a feint, then chopped at him again. Will saw the stroke coming and thrust out a hand. He grabbed the blade blindly, but then felt it wrenched from his hand. A frenzy of stabs followed in a strength-sapping struggle. For a moment it seemed that he must be done for. But where was the blood? His water-sodden shirt shone grey-white under the stone’s radiance. It was unslit, unruddied, untouched. His hand had not been sliced open at all.

  His feet sloshed through the meltwater. For an unreal moment he and Chlu breathed heavily, watching one another. A tinge of green still glowed where the lign ran across the lakebed. Will wondered what spell of protection could have been put upon him, and who had done it. Whoever it was had cast the spell so perfectly that it left no trace. Surely such a thing was hardly possible…

  He tried to gauge how thick the ice was now, how deep the water beneath. He put his hand out to steady himself against the stone. His wet palm burned. He tried to pull away, but found he could not. Then he saw for the first time the reason the stone was white. Its surface was covered in hoar frost. It was colder than anything Will had ever known, and his hand was stuck there.

  He pulled again, but he had been trapped. The battlestone was taking its revenge. He grabbed his wrist and wrenched, Chlu was looking at the knife, studying it suspiciously. Will struggled. He gasped, pulling hard enough to rip the flesh from his hand. But it was no good. It was stuck fast.

  Chlu cast the knife away, went to where the exhausted horse was sitting lamely on the ice. He drew a heavy mace from the saddle and advanced. The head of the mace was set with flanges; thongs hung from its shaft like a hawk’s jesses. It was a deadly crushing weapon, designed to beat in a knight’s sallet-helm, to crush the skull beneath.

  ‘Now I have you,’ the strained voice said exultantly. ‘Now you’ll die and I’ll live forever!’

  Chlu laughed, and he readied his killing blow, then time went awry again.

  Strange connections formed in Will’s mind: he thought of the diamond that Morann had once given as a gift to Breona, how the jewelmaster had cleaved a glittering gem from a smooth, round stone, how the stone had parted when struck a clever blow. He thought of the blow he himself had struck with a faulted sword to snap the blade. Cold meant brittle! Brittle! And a single blow could…

  He ducked as the mace slewed at his head. Its full force rang against the edge of the battlestone. A crack appeared just above Will’s hand. The top half tottered, then slid away, crashing down and through the ice near where Chlu stood. The ice under him fractured, tilted, so that he was thrown off balance. The haft of the mace slipped from his fingers. It fell as he fell, then disappeared into the green-lit water.

  There was an eruption. Overhead a great, dark cloud of harm formed and surged out into the air, bursting the blue circles of light that had once contained its power. Will crouched down beside the stone while the air roared above. His hand still burned, was still locked to the frosted stone. But the talisman hung from his wrist. He clenched it now, tore it from the thong, gathered all his talent and punched as hard as he could into the stone.

  The reaction was instant. He struggled to stem the rush of harm, and a mighty grip closed, throttling the power of the stone. The flow slackened, was pinched off. Then the clouds above burst into countless motes that rained down all around. The roaring stopped. He dared to hope that the harm that had escaped into the air would not be able to coalesce and would disperse. As at Ludford and Verlamion, his attack seemed to have caused the bulk of the stone’s malice to bleed harmlessly into the ground where it could not come together as it could when released into the air.

  Willow did not falter. Regardless of the danger, she had dashed across the ice and now she flew at the Dark Child as he tried to regain his feet. She had not found a boat, but the scutching flail in her hand served her better. She hit the black-swathed head with the jointed rod and sent him sliding down onto the swilling water. Then, sliding to the edge of the hole that had been punched by the top half of the stone, she launched herself at Chlu and fought like a demon.

  Her fingers tore at his eyes. She ripped away the bindings, revealing the face that Maskull had promised would turn all who looked upon it to stone.

  And Willow was turned to stone.

  Chlu howled and scrambled away. He made off, splashing and sliding towards the scutching shacks.

  Will made one more effort to free himself, and tore his hand away. He ran to where Willow lay on her side. He seized her, swept her up.

  ‘Willow!’

  But he could see the ghastly look that was on her face. For the first time she seemed wholly fearful and for a moment Will supposed that the sight of Chlu’s unmasked face had indeed cast the dread spell over her.

  ‘Willow! Speak to me!’

  Her eyes rolled, and she told him in a bewildered, faraway voice what she had seen: ‘It was his face. His face!’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It was yours, Will.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Will…’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘His face was…yours.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A SURFEIT AT DELAMPREY

  They found Chlu’s horse swimming for its life among the maze of melting floes into which the ice had now broken. Willow found a boat in one of the sheds and they led the anxious beast to shallow water, then they rowed out to read the verse that had appeared on the edges of the cloven Harle Stone.

  The standing part of the stone was easy enough, but they had to wait until more of the ice had melted before Will could dive down to find the part that had fallen into the water. He read it with his fingers as the sun sank into a rosy western sky. Underwater, the green light of the lign still cast an eerie glow, fading too as night deepened, but it proved to be enough. Face by face, the message read:

  Indiugh antar e faithche nai tahm,

  Cionna na brogana eth samghail a siubalag.

  Ferte inad sa menscailimen farsaing,

  Blaeg an cela ne chim a reasanscach.

  And when cross-read:

  Indiugh cion ath afert blaeggan,

  Antar a brog e inad celanne.

  Faithchen samhaillen menscailim chimdhu,

  Enaiu san tahm siubal la fairsing reasan.

  Only when Will was sure of the words did he let Willow row him to shore. They went together into one of the weavers’ hovels and made a fire in the hearth to dry their clothes. Despite his aches Will felt the strength slowly seeping back into him. He gleaned what food he could, and began to prepare a sparse supper.

  ‘It seems the folk of Harleston made little profit from their labours,’ he said, looking at the poor fare he had gathered.

  ‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ Willow asked, glancing into the darkness.

  ‘Not until they’re sure we’ve gone. Perhaps never, now the battlestone’s hold over them is broken.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right eating their food, now we’ve destroyed their living.’ She looked around the bleak, dirty place. ‘What will they do if they can’t make linen any more?’

  ‘In the long run they’ll be the better for their freedom. No battle will be fought here now. And the stump of the Harle Stone will bring a boon of some kind.’

  ‘I wonder what will happen when the seamstresses of Rucke find there’s no more fine linen to be had.’

  ‘I guess we’ll soon find out whether their stitching keeps time’s wheel turning, or it’s the other way about. Maybe they’ll start to use linen of a coarser kind when the Harleston stuff runs out. And maybe that won’t be such a bad thing.’ He took out the long knife and turned it over in his hand. Its edge glinted green. ‘This is what saved me. Chlu was using Morann’s blade. It wouldn’t cut my flesh because it was sharpened on the Whetstone of Tudwal. Morann told me about that himself.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That a blade sharpened on it would
deal only a lethal blow, or no blow at all. No matter how hard Chlu tried to kill me, Morann’s blade would not allow it.’

  She turned it over in her hand. ‘How did Chlu come by it?’

  ‘He must have taken it from Morann.’

  Her eyes showed concern. ‘So do you think Morann’s been hurt?’

  ‘I can’t see him parting with so precious a thing as this willingly.’

  ‘It seems he never reached Duke Richard, if the rumour of invasion is true.’

  ‘Maybe. The lorc has been confounded in a small way once more, but it’s surely not finished. Judging by what I read in the verse, the lorc’s already redirecting its power towards the next strike. Listen to the plain reading.

  ‘Soon, in a field of death,

  Barefoot statues shall walk.

  The graves shall yawn wide,

  And the plague-dead shall talk.’

  ‘Are you sure it says that?’

  ‘I’m not as expert as Gwydion would have me be, but I think that’s the gist of it.’

  ‘Is it close enough?’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know. But it’s the best I can do.’

  For a while they puzzled through the reading together, aware that their time spent in disguise had left a ghost of ancient language with them, a ghost that helped them appreciate the true tongue a little more easily.

  ‘What’s the word for shoes? – Broggh – Goes like giullogh – But it’s singular and placed after a negative signifier – A what? – That’s the word here. It comes from cione – So then it would be brogana – But samghan – Statue? – Yes, it’s more than one and when it owns something – so eth samghail – And in this place a shows intention so it’s statues that have no shoes that are going to do something – What are they going to do? – Well, that verb is siubo – Sheppa? – But it’s spelt s-i-u-b-o. It means to walk, and the gerund is shown by this ending here, – alag – or is that the present subjunctive? By the moon and stars! You know, I think it might be the future tense, but only when it means not walking in any particular direction…’