The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  ‘Aillse, aillse nadir erchima archaste nie!’ he commanded in the true tongue, directing the full force of the drowsing spell into the beast’s beetle-black eye. ‘Musain! Nadir, codla samh agat! Deain ae!’

  But the beast’s scaly eyelid did not droop as he had hoped. The magic had no effect. In desperation, he jabbed his rusty bar at the gnashing teeth. The piece of vane rang against them, breaking two, three. Baron John was laughing madly. He wheeled the spiked ball of a morning star around his head and brought it down on his steed’s rump. The beast spat and shrieked. And then, just as it seemed that Will must be seized in that terrible, stinking maw, a thin, green shaft appeared in the beast’s left cheek.

  The creature shook its head in pain and broke off the attack. Will marvelled as it lowered its head and began to claw at the side of its face, snapping off the arrow that had pierced it just a hand-span below the left eye. But even as it plucked out the shaft, another arrow appeared, trembling, in the saddle bow, then a third sailed up past the rider tearing through the skin of the creature’s wing. With an enraged shout, Baron John spurred his steed upward. The beast bore down with its great crimson wings. Its powerful legs thrust upward, and with a leap the creature was airborne again, winging away towards the battle.

  Will flourished his iron rod at the creature and whooped in triumph. Then he leapt to the battlements and jumped up into one of the crannies to look for Willow.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  Disappointment stabbed at him, formed heavily like a stone in his heart. He looked down from the dizzy height and felt the terrible constriction that had seized him. He threw his doubts off angrily, turned back. His eyes were fixed on the departing creature. He had seen the fear that had overcome Edward’s cavalry. His horses had been thrown into wild confusion. If nothing was done the queen’s secret weapon – this great dragon – might yet singlehandedly turn the battle.

  ‘You must not attack it!’ Gwydion shouted.

  ‘You said there were no more great dragons!’ His angry accusation cut at the wizard.

  But Gwydion took no hurt from it. His haggard face was alight with wonder. ‘That was no dragon, great or otherwise! He has two legs, not four. And his eyes are black not golden.’

  ‘Then what is he?’

  ‘He is nathirfang! A Cambray red. And I had thought the last mountain wyvern long since departed from the world!’

  ‘A wyvern? Why didn’t you say? Look at the horses, they’re terrified of it!’

  ‘No horse would ever obey its rider in sight of a wyvern!’

  Will tore his way angrily through the shattered ironwork. The reason his magic had failed was because he had not applied the true name of the beast. He gathered himself up and danced amid the rubble, drawing together the full store of power that his words and gestures would direct. He cast the spell then, a spell more powerful than any he had cast before. A bolt of bright, green fire formed in his palms. It burned hard, rushed in the wake of the wyvern, catching it hard under the wing, flashing like the sun on water. The blast felled it like a hunter’s arrow loosed to bring down a fowl in flight. It gave a lurch, its wings crumpled, and it crashed to the ground on the far bank of the river, rolling over and over in a tumble of wings and tail.

  Will, amazed at what he had done, looked at his hands as if they were someone else’s. ‘Yaaaah!’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ Gwydion said. The golden fetterlocks jangled on his wrists.

  Will thrust the wizard away. ‘If not I, then who? Gwydion, do not lecture me when I have the power and you do not!’

  He returned his gaze to the wrecked beast, saw that it lay in a heap, unmoving. The rider had been thrown clear. Baron John was crawling in the grass. Will wondered coldly if he had killed the wyvern, and whether he ought to send another bolt to incinerate it. One more bolt would be a mercy if it finished the beast’s insane owner at the same time. But there was no chance to think further about Mad John, for Will’s green ray had been noted, and now a spinning ball of purple fire came roaring up from the Hardingstones in answer.

  ‘Look out!’ Gwydion shouted.

  Will turned towards the danger, but the wizard leapt up and hauled him down. Then the air boiled with violet fire as the bolt slammed into the south-west corner of the tower where he had been standing. It blasted another shower of masonry and dust over them, but the flame did not connect.

  Gwydion coughed and muttered, ‘What I meant to say was do not look out. What confusions the common parlance has in it these days!’

  Will spat the dust from his mouth. ‘I knew what you meant!’

  ‘You have angered Maskull,’ Gwydion warned as he crawled away. ‘I said you would.’

  ‘If I did, then I’m glad! Let him do his worst!’ He jumped to his feet and waved a fist at the enemy from the battlement’s edge.

  ‘Get away from there, you fool!’

  ‘Do you hear me, Maskull? Do your worst!’

  ‘You will not say that when his next thunderbolt hits!’

  ‘I don’t mean to be here!’ He grabbed the wizard by the golden chain that dangled from his cuff, and yanked. ‘Come on! Follow me down. I have some hard questions to ask you. Questions you’re not going to want to answer!’

  Will flung himself into the narrow stairwell, thrusting his left shoulder forward in the rightward-turning hole. In that steep, dark descent he was unable to see where his feet were going, or to find enough room for his heels on the narrow treads. His fingers felt along the rough stone of the wall and his forehead scraped and bumped on the crumbling mortar overhead. He feared the sudden thrust of iron up into his belly as armed men rushed up at them, but then he realized that the banging he could hear below meant that the Fellows were still trying to open the door.

  A sudden ripping of air made him flinch. There was a tremendous whoosh as all his breath seemed to be sucked from him. Everything shook. Dust and pebbles fell as the stairwell lit purple. But it was the last thunderbolt to come from Maskull’s hand. They had clattered down the tower one storey and had come to the tiny landing where an arrow-slit gave out onto the scene of battle. They paused, gasping for breath. Then Gwydion asked, ‘Is the harm from the stone now in full spate?’

  ‘It feels that way to me.’

  ‘Then we have one less worry for the moment. We should make the most of our chance while Maskull is fully occupied.’

  Will shoved his face into the arrow-slit, and what he saw made him gasp. He seized the wizard and pointed towards the Hardingstones. ‘Look, there!’

  ‘Alas! What terrors has Maskull awakened with his meddling? Those are the undead who once fled the plague! With all the magic whirling uncontrolled here, their transformation has been undone.’

  And Will saw that the Delamprey tombstones were indeed changing shape, twisting, moving, groping towards life. They were rising up after their long slumbers. Hundreds of ghastly human forms, shaking off the solitude of the grave to wander at the rear of the king’s lines.

  At first, they went unregarded by the king’s soldiers for there was deadlier work to the fore. Now that the wyvern had been downed, Edward’s cavalry was brought under control again. Dense squadrons of knights had formed up, line upon line, their harnesses glittering in the sun, banners of every colour flying above them. They advanced at the trot towards the king’s army, and Will knew this was the attack against the king’s left that he had advised Edward to make.

  Will was unable to do other than watch the fruits of his efforts ripen. He put a hand to his temple; his head had begun to ache unbearably again. His gaze passed along the king’s left and settled on Lord Dudlea’s colours. The shouts and thundering of hooves grew to a roar. And as the armies clashed he turned, blinking into the darkness of the stair and saw an ageless fire burning in Gwydion’s face.

  ‘I see you are returning to yourself at last. Do not turn away from the field,’ the wizard told him. ‘Watch, and discover what happens when two poorly promised lords face one an
other because a Child of Destiny has told them they must do so. Watch!’

  And Will did watch, as thousands of horsemen charged in upon the king’s left, as a desperate attack gathered like a gigantic wave bursting upon a rocky shore. Will could see that without Lord Dudlea’s help the attack would founder, just as Lord Warrewyk’s attack had foundered. The big guns would belch forth, the day would be carried in the king’s favour, and Edward would die upon the field.

  Yet to Will’s astonishment, and even as the foremost of Edward’s cavalry came to grips with their enemy, there was uproar to the rear of Lord Dudlea’s men. The soldiers who held the king’s left had seen an army of a different kind stealing upon them from behind. Men among the reserve swore that gravestones had come to life, and their fear had sent them fleeing in panic towards Dudlea’s lines.

  The movement soon came to the attention of their commander, who rode out with only his standard bearer as companion, to see for himself what was happening.

  Gwydion hissed in Will’s ear, ‘Do you see? Lord Dudlea has got the proof he craved. The proof that you so unwisely promised that those turned to stone might live again.’

  ‘But you told me those plaguestruck people would arise when three times three dozen and one years had passed – that’s a hundred and nine years since the pestilence. That was two years ago!’

  ‘But “three dozen and one” is thirty-seven. And three times that is one hundred and eleven,’ Gwydion said grimly. ‘You are the one who has in the end summoned the Hardingstones back to life.’

  Will cringed to think how he had made so simple an error, and what had been its ghoulish consequence. The dancing dead had spread chaos and confusion across the field, wholly altering the outcome of the battle. He watched Lord Dudlea order his archers to fall back. No arrows were loosed at the onrushing enemy. Edward’s horsemen mounted the earth bank unopposed. They wheeled. The centre of the king’s army was outflanked at a stroke and came under a double blow as Lord Warrewyk’s attack crashed into their wavering front.

  After that, the resolve of the king’s army broke. Thousands of terrified soldiers began to desert their lines. They threw down their weapons and ran for their lives. And, suddenly, the day that had seemed lost to Edward now belonged to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  IN THE AFTERMATH

  Down below, the beating on the tower door stopped. But there began in its place a wailing ghostly enough to chill Will’s heart.

  His face was pained as he turned away once more from the arrow-slit. The wizard pulled him into the light and slapped him hard across the face. ‘It is time you woke up!’

  He fell back on the stair, stunned by the unkind blow. Anger boiled up inside him. Things had turned out well, hadn’t they? Far better than anyone had any right to expect! Far better than when Gwydion’s efforts to carry a battlestone off into the north had caused the carnage on Blow Heath! Or when his foolish hesitations had led to the ruination of Ludford…

  But the slap had been meant to help return Will to a proper understanding, and it did. The hubris went out of him and he fell to his knees. Gwydion raised him up again. The stone’s grip was slackening now. Flashes of truth broke in on him, and he began to glimpse just how completely he had been taken over. He saw with dismay that he had not been the great prophet and hero of the hour, but a fool filled with false self-belief.

  ‘What have I done?’ he cried. ‘Oh, Master Gwydion!’

  ‘You let yourself be used,’ the wizard told him gravely. ‘In the end, things have gone as you said they would. What a pity you were not master of yourself and therefore able to force a more fortunate outcome.’ Gwydion’s grey eyes fixed once more on the field, where Edward’s knights were riding down their broken enemy. ‘As you should know by now, Willand, bloodlust is no more than left-over cowardice. In battles the rout is always the deadliest of times.’

  Will jammed his face once more into the arrow-slit. ‘But Edward promised he’d order common quarter once victory was won! I made him promise! Look!’ And there, on the field below shouts were going up. ‘You see? They are calling mercy!’ he said. Pride strutted briefly in him again. ‘Edward’s been true to his word. I was right after all!’

  ‘You could not have been wrong, for though you acted in ignorance, still you are the Child of Destiny, and your presence forces the wheel of history to repeat itself. Yet, whatever the outcome today, I fear that we may have lost our fight in the long run. I have seen enough to know that Maskull’s dread spark has fallen upon dry tinder here. Soon there will be a blaze hot enough to consume all that we know and love!’

  ‘It sounds to me as if some of the harm that poured from the broken link of your fetters has entered you and poisoned your thoughts, Gwydion. Can’t you see that we’ve achieved our aim? The day has seen less blood than any of us might have hoped when we awoke this morning!’

  ‘The day is not yet ended.’

  Gwydion leapt down the remaining turns of the stair. When he reached the bottom he wrenched the war-hammer away from the door and opened it. Outside, half a dozen Fellows were grovelling on the floor, their mouths open, their hands pressed to their bellies. They were wailing in agony. Then Will saw the redness on their gowns, and the dark, spreading pool under the nearest of them. A figure dressed in tall boots and a suit of black hide came forward and stood over the body, a bloodied poleaxe in his hand. It was Chlu.

  Gwydion threw the war-hammer to Will. ‘Beware, Willand! A deep urge to harm you drives him. Be ready to defend yourself.’

  Will nodded. Chlu’s murderously implacable nature was already clear to him. There was a foul desire in those too-familiar eyes, the more hideous for Will because it was like looking at himself in a weird’s mirror, being forced to recognize the beast that dwelt within.

  Chlu took stock warily. As ever, he moved deliberately on Will.

  ‘Begone, Dark Child!’ Gwydion commanded, stepping between them. ‘Eoist liomma – apprentice of a loathsome master! Deain huir!’

  But the fetters were still upon the wizard’s wrists and the power of magic no longer swelled the true tongue in his mouth. Chlu’s eyes, though, never wavered. He thrust Gwydion aside and snarled at Will. ‘You must die!’

  When Will hefted the war-hammer, the iron felt heavy and dead in his hand. He whirled it in figures of eight before him, preparing a counterstrike for the moment when Chlu lunged. But there were footsteps beyond the cloister yard, and through the broken windows there could be glimpsed soldiers, dozens of them. They were wearing blue-and-white quartered colours – Edward’s men! Will saw them running, weapons in hand, and he had no doubt what their mission was. They had been sent here under special orders, sent to hunt down men of rank. Two or three had come to the very threshold of sanctuary, but they quailed before it, suddenly assailed by superstitious terror, and afraid to cross.

  Still Chlu sought a way past the whirling war-hammer. He jabbed and jabbed again, but dared not step closer for fear the wizard would slip past him and attack his exposed back. But Gwydion had other ideas.

  ‘Bring the king here!’ he shouted, guilefully feigning an Elder’s voice. ‘The king’s enemies are nigh! Hide the king away! Hide him, I say! Give him sanctuary in our House!’

  The soldiers outside became suddenly like wolves scenting prey. Those who had entered the yard now approached the great oaken door. One began to jab at the brazen fist with a helm-axe. Their leader drew his dagger and kicked the never-locked door fully open.

  The sanctuary bell began to toll. At the sound of it, muffled screams issued from the chamber where the bequines had been hidden.

  Chlu lunged, lunged again, but as he swung a second time he clattered the blade of his poleaxe off the low wooden beam above his head. Will caught him off balance, forced him back.

  ‘Fly, Dark Child!’ Gwydion hissed. He held up his arms and the golden bands on his wrists flashed with a baleful light. ‘Go while you may!’

  Chlu hesitated. His garb was strange, un
like the plainweave of a common man’s clothing – enemy soldiers would see a ransom to be had from taking him. He thrust the poleaxe furiously at Will, enraged to have come so close to his prey once again only to be forced to quit the fight. He let out a shout of such grotesque torment that the cry went through Will like a knife, but then he threw down his weapon, backed away, and finally he ran.

  Will started after him, but Gwydion pulled him back. ‘Let him go, Willand! There will be time enough to fight with Chlu another day.’

  Will turned, an echo of the madness still boiling his blood, and took a rough hold on the wizard. ‘Who is he, Gwydion? You must tell me! I have to know!’

  ‘I shall tell you once the battle is over. That much I lay my word to!’

  He opened his fists, suddenly ashamed to have laid angry hands on so stalwart a friend, but his penance did not last long, for a peal of screams came from one of the inner chambers. Will spun, recognizing the voice.

  ‘Willow!’

  He broke away and ran down the cloister, leaping over the writhing bodies that lay scattered in his path. But which of the chambers had the scream come from?

  He stared around wildly. ‘Willow?’

  When the scream came again, it was muffled, more distant, but it seemed to come from the stair. He ran up it, burst in through the nearest door, and found that it opened onto a gallery that overlooked a lower room. Down below a bald-headed bequine was being held down in a chair by two others wearing iron masks. They were binding her wrists in leather thongs while her feet lashed out at anything that came near. Her struggles were weakening, and when she turned her head and screamed out again, Will knew who it was. Like the bequines, she had been forced to wear a grey sackcloth robe, torn and in disarray now, and Will knew that once a bequine’s robe had been accepted there was no return to the world.

  Will’s stunned eye took it all in in a moment. Blonde locks lay on the floor all around, freshly shorn from Willow’s head, and a third bequine was picking them up and stuffing them into a bag. His wife’s quiver of green-flighted arrows had also been scattered across the floor and her unstrung bow thrown into the corner. A large, robed Fellow stood guard nearby and a wizened Elder stood over the chair with the shears; then to Will’s horror he saw they were not shears but a far crueller instrument.