by Carol Browne
“I’m sick of your insulting remarks about my people,” Godwin said.
“I only insult, Brit, but you renounce.”
Godwin opened his mouth, but found himself strung between anger and shame and unable to answer this accusation. Elgiva relinquished his support and turned to face him with a look of concern.
“Godwin, what does she mean?” she asked.
“Why don’t you tell her, Aidan, lad?” suggested Grimalkin.
He didn’t know where to begin, so he showed Elgiva the dragon ring. “Morvyth gave me this. The symbol of my race. It belonged to Chief Gwion . . . ” He stopped, swallowing down a lump of emotion. “By Frigg, Elgiva, you’ve no idea. It’s unbelievable!”
“My friend, what is it?” she asked, placing her hand upon his arm. “In Faine’s name, tell me what’s happened.”
In Faine’s name, it had all happened. Taranuil. Faine’s Lynn. The Hill-Shrine. Orphan and Slave.
Oh, Grim. Oh, God.
“These are my people! And I’m Aidan, Gwion’s son, his long-lost son, his heir!”
Elgiva gasped with astonishment, and he proceeded to tell her the rest. His talk with Morvyth. The elf-blade. The elders. Eluned. Angwen.
But when he spoke of Angwen, there were things he hadn’t the courage to say, and he looked at Grimalkin with a silent plea: As I spared you, spare me likewise.
“Godwin, you refused to be chief?” asked Elgiva.
“I don’t want that,” he said. “I’m not trusted here, and there are things, more important things, I have to do.”
“More important than your inheritance?”
“It’s not what I want.”
“Am I the cause of this?”
He shook his head. “Elgiva,” he said, “it’s not as simple as that. I wish it were.”
Her eyes searched his, but she said nothing, and he was grateful for her silence.
She got to her feet, crossed to the door, and opened it.
“The storm has passed,” she said. “The night has been washed clean. It’s time for us to quit this place.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
For the next two days, the companions travelled on, the hills and the elf-bane behind them. Elgiva knew a quick route through the former, thanks to Eswen the goat, while the latter had been breached by the agency of magic and the united willpower of the quest. Elgiva set a brisk pace, and their rest stops were marred by a nagging feeling that they had no time to waste.
On the second day, as the four of them walked along together, Elgiva became increasingly aware of the low spirits of her companions, Godwin in particular. He was staring at the ground, deep in thought, and she felt bound to ask him what was amiss.
“I wonder what Angwen and her people thought of me when they found out I’d run off like a fugitive,” he said. “Without a word of thanks. Without saying farewell. I didn’t even ask to see my father’s grave.”
“Well, there wasn’t much time, was there?” said Elgiva. “If we succeed, Godwin, we can go back, you know. Make amends. You can visit your father’s grave and pay your respects.”
“I can’t do that until I feel worthy enough,” he said.
“But you are worthy.”
He shook his head. “I keep abandoning people.”
“You haven’t abandoned me,” she said.
“Give him time,” snorted Grimalkin.
“Shut up, Grimalkin. That was unkind,” said Elgiva. “Godwin, listen. Being at your village was a strange episode in our lives. We both learned things that are hard to accept. You’re bound to feel unsettled by it all.”
“Staying at that place wasn’t exactly fun and games for me, either,” snickered Grimalkin, “but you don’t see me being all sorry for myself.”
“And here’s me thinking you always have a long face,” said Godwin, giving the pony an arch look.
Grimalkin snorted, while Elgiva and Trystin laughed.
They carried on walking and soon, they were clambering up a ridge of land. Once at the top, it was clear they had reached their destination. Below them was a large grove of oaks. The plain on which these old trees grew was surrounded by ancient earthworks, so they seemed to be standing in a dish moulded out of the land.
Hidden within this ancient oak grove, the Nine Wise Men guarded their secret of power.
Elgiva led them on, and they scrambled down the man-made bank and hastened towards the oaks. At the edge of the grove, Elgiva halted and turned to face her friends.
“We must be careful,” she said. “I dare say Vieldrin has many spies.”
She surveyed their surroundings, but nothing could be seen or heard, only the innocent presence of birds.
“Lady Elgiva,” Trystin said, “you don’t think he’s still here, waiting for us?”
“Don’t smell him,” snorted Grimalkin.
Elgiva squinted through the trees. “I’m sure Vieldrin’s been here. He has the parchment and he’s lorewise, so he’ll know, or will have discovered, what the Nine Wise Men are.”
“And if he believes we have the stone, he knows we must come to this place,” said Godwin.
“This dithering is getting me down,” said Grimalkin. She lowered her ungainly head and snatched at a tuft of grass.
Godwin unsheathed his sword. “We’re getting nowhere standing here.”
He made his way slowly into the oaks, and after a nod from Elgiva, his companions followed his lead. Soon, they were within the centre, a glade where daisies grew in abundance, and towering above the tiny blooms, nine monoliths of sandstone were planted in the earth. But the largest stone had been ripped from its roots. It lay on its side, splintered and charred, the victim of wanton violence. The four friends grouped themselves around it, like mourners paying their last respects.
Elgiva looked down at the riven stone, as though it were a symbol of her broken hopes, and in the hole where the menhir had stood, she could see an oblong box made of marble. It gaped open to the air, blank and empty, its lid discarded on the grass. Whatever it had contained was gone.
For a time, they brooded over the shattered kingstone.
“Think we’re too late,” said Grimalkin at length.
Elgiva raked her hair with her fingers. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. She looked at Godwin, pleading for guidance.
“Well,” he said, “whatever happens, we can’t let Vieldrin get the stone. Not now. Now he can use it.”
A sigh escaped Elgiva’s lips, and she nodded. “We’re compelled to follow him, and he knows it. We have no choice. He must be stopped, and the Lorestone is the only way. If he releases the fetchen, then only Faine’s magic can stop him. We must find a way to use it.”
Godwin sheathed his sword. “But how do we sneak into Elindel without letting the stone fall into his hands?”
Elgiva shrugged. “I don’t know, Godwin. I must think. Let’s camp here tonight. I can’t . . . I need some kind of plan.”
He nodded and then turned on his heel and went to get wood for a fire.
***
When Elgiva woke Godwin later to take his turn on watch, he greeted it with a sense of relief. Strange dreams had beset him while he slept, dreams of barrows where dead men lay rotting among their treasures and spirits roamed in an earthbound stupor, envious of the living.
It was still several hours before the dawn, and a clammy brume rose about the circle and curled round the feet of the lofty stones. The spring night was sharp and cold, and Godwin added more wood to the fire and sat close to it, rubbing his hands. An owl hooted urgently from the trees, but Godwin paid it no heed.
But he became aware that something wasn’t right. An inexplicable feeling of apprehension rode the chill night breeze. He noticed the strange, coiling mist that rose from the ground like steam and watched as it crept towards him. It clung to his clothes with pulpy fingers, stroked at his skin. Scanning the darkness on either side, he couldn’t see anything to account for the dread that writhed in his guts. Elgiva and Trysti
n were fast asleep, and Grimalkin stood with her head lowered on the edge of the circle of stones. Above them all, the moon and stars winked between gaps in the clouds.
And yes, it was far too quiet.
He almost let out a yell of fear when a ghostly shape swooped past his eyes, scant inches from his face. It was only the owl, but it had been startled, and as it soared noiselessly over the circle, it hooted, “Beware!”
Just then, a twig snapped in the blackness somewhere behind him, and he stumbled to his feet in panic. There was stealthy movement, sly rustlings in the grove of oaks, and his body tensed with foreboding. The merest hint of a whisper reached his fear-sharpened hearing. Perhaps it was nothing more than the breeze in the leaves, yet the breeze had dropped and the stillness was stifling, like the build up of pressure before a storm.
His hand shook as he drew out his sword, and the noise it made was loud in the thick and clammy silence. The rustling in the bushes ceased. Whoever he had been listening to was also listening to him. Godwin hardly dared to move as he glanced towards Grimalkin. Her ears were twitching in all directions, and the firelight showed him the whites of her eyes.
The mist thickened and swelled and moved of its own volition, needing no wind to propel it. It gleamed with an inner glow. Godwin looked down, but couldn’t see his feet, for they were enveloped in fog. Likewise, the stones rose out of the clouds. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. The turgid vapour that hugged his legs gripped him as though it had muscle and bone. He wanted to call out a warning, a protest, but some coercion stopped his throat. Horror squeezed his heart as the fog seeped over the grass and rolled towards Grimalkin. It coalesced around her form, like a cloud of pulverised nacre.
And then the rustlings started again.
Grimalkin whinnied in terror, but then the compulsion of the mist forced her into silence.
Whispers hissed in the shadows, and vague shapes scuttled towards the circle. Godwin fought his helplessness and tried to master himself. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, and with every ounce of will he possessed, he struggled to gasp out a single word.
“Taranuil . . . ”
The name broke from him like a yelp of pain, and the sword responded at once. A shiver of clean power coursed down the blade, flashing retribution at the mist. It helped Godwin to fight his inertia. He slashed at the cloying fog and carved it into gaseous chunks. The fog recoiled like a living thing, and he was released from its narcotic power.
He hastened to where his friends lay sleeping, cocooned in a cloud of vapour; it drew aside before him. He shook them both, and they struggled to open their eyes.
“We’re being attacked!” he cried. “You must wake up. There are creatures beyond the circle!”
Elgiva scrambled to her feet, and her gaze flew straight to Grimalkin. By now, the fog was up to the animal’s withers.
“This fog is unnatural!” Godwin cried. “Elgiva, you must do something!”
“They’re after the stone,” she said.
Grimalkin let out a whinny of fear as the enveloping mist slid away from her, allowing dark shapes to take her captive.
The companions dashed towards Grimalkin, but long before they reached her, three elves sprang into the sarsen ring, moonlight glinting on their swords. Godwin ran to confront them, his sword pulling him behind it. He plied Taranuil to the purpose for which it had been forged and soon two of the elves lay dead at his feet, their blood pumping in runnels over the grass. The third elf drew back, a featureless shape against the background of glowing mist. Godwin prepared to attack him.
But the surrounding vegetation, and even the night itself, rose in a palpable mass and become a wall of darkness. It enclosed the circle of standing stones and boiled with malevolent power.
Weird cacklings and whisperings filled the night air. Trystin screamed with fear, and his distress made Godwin hesitate, allowing the third elf to make his escape. The dark wall opened to let him out before sealing itself again.
An elf with a staff mounted Grimalkin. She reared and bucked madly but she couldn’t dislodge her attacker. The elf hit her with his staff, and Grimalkin whinnied in pain. Godwin ran to her rescue, but he slipped and fell on the blood-soaked grass. The wall of darkness thickened, and Grimalkin was lost from view.
“Grimalkin!” he cried. “Grimalkin!”
All that answered him was the pounding of hooves as Grimalkin galloped away, and Godwin almost wept at the thought that everything was lost.
Darkness closed in around the companions. It became a flapping, shapeless mass that looked like a flock of large, deformed birds caught up in a whirlwind. Godwin was pulled towards them, and a visceral fear warned him that their touch would be lethal.
“Elgiva! Where are you?” he shouted. “Help me!”
A sudden burst of blue-white light scorched across the circle. The darkness flinched and drew back. Freed from its influence, Godwin spun round and raced to Elgiva’s side. She was standing before the campfire, which the poisonous air had almost put out, and Trystin was hunched at her feet, his body racked by whimpering cries.
Elgiva’s bolt of magic had banished the whirling shapes, and they flew to the edge of the sarsen ring, hissing with displeasure. But they drew inwards again, like a tide of black, polluted water.
Elgiva grabbed Godwin by the sleeve. “Vieldrin left a trap for us! He left some elves to steal the stone, but he also left this darkness! Godwin, these are the fetchen! They can recognise other powers. They isolated the Lorestone so the elves could take it from us.”
“And Grimalkin!”
“And their reward will be to kill us before they return to their lairs,” she said. “But I don’t intend to die just yet!”
Elgiva threw another bolt of magic at the hissing, fleshless creatures, and they recoiled, but those behind her seethed nearer than before. She spun to hurl her power at them, and the wall of darkness grew in size, rising higher round the circle. The air above the sarsen ring began to boil with whirling shapes, and their whisperings and moanings became like the roar of the sea.
The shapes danced above them; though black, they were transparent, like veils suspended in the air. And they flitted ever nearer. Godwin didn’t know how to protect himself, but he stabbed his sword at the cackling wisps, and the fetchen capered away from the blade, leaving it to ache with frustration.
The fetchen revolved within the circle of stones. Their extremities took on the shape of claws, and within the blackness of the horde, skeletal faces gibbered with glee. Their voices became an eerie howling that filled the sky with abomination.
A desperate beam of scarlet force shot from Elgiva’s hand towards the murky mass. It sizzled as it went past Godwin. Though it sounded full of power and fury, it splashed against the writhing shapes of the fetchen and dripped to the grass like wasted blood. The fetchen roared their hate at Elgiva, and she blasted them again. Again and again, she threw out power, but the fetchen stood their ground.
***
It was hopeless. Elgiva couldn’t hold back the loathsome ranks of the fetchen. She stopped to catch her breath, her head swimming with effort, and was forced to confront a grim fact. It was fear that restrained her, fear of the light as much as the dark.
Let go, she pleaded with herself. Let go.
But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to die. Her flesh was too frail to wield magic. The thought of unreined power appalled her. She was unskilled, untutored, weak.
Faine First-Father . . . help me!
She unleashed her magic once more at the fetchen, but it was the product of desperation, ill-timed and ill-directed, a widely diffused discharge of power that rebounded off the fetchens’ might. They hurled it back at Elgiva, and she and her friends were knocked flat by the blast. It burnt her skin like acid, and surely they must feel it, too. She cursed herself for allowing them to suffer this pain.
Regaining their feet, they clung to each other while the fetchen advanced.
Godwin raised his swo
rd, and Elgiva’s heart might have ached at this pointless attempt at self-defence had not her eyes been drawn to the blade. It was still awake and eager, angered by its master’s plight, and ready to strike at the enemy. She didn’t know the weapon’s name, but it was an elf-blade and had been forged in such a way that magic couldn’t warp its metal. And it had magic of its own.
She had used Godwin’s knife when they were attacked at the Hill-Shrine. And Bellic had given her advice. Channel your magic, he had said.
A rush of excitement quickened her pulse. “Godwin! Give me your sword!”
“What?” he asked, but she tore the weapon from his hand and closed both hands around the hilt. Power hummed down the blade. Forgive me for the Forest of Shades. You shamed me with your metallic integrity. I will not give you cause to do so again. Let us now work together as friends. “Godwin, Trystin, get down!”
They obeyed at once and knelt at her feet while the black shapes howled around them.
She held the sword out straight before her and summoned her powers. A beam of light pulsed from the elf-blade’s tip and cut through the fetchen, scattering them like old, dry leaves. Their shrieks of anger pierced the night. Elgiva turned, slicing through the whirling mass, but when the beam had passed them by, the fetchen regrouped and shared their strength.
Her limbs shook with effort and sweat ran down her face, but this time, she wasn’t prepared to give up. I have to focus. Body, mind, and spirit.
The magic shaft intensified, becoming a blade of azure. Godwin and Trystin shielded their eyes. The sword hummed and jerked at the force that scorched along it, but the elf-blade wasn’t surpassed. Adding its own might to Elgiva’s, it began to throb with mounting glee.
Let go, it told her. Let go. Let go.
Elgiva abandoned all her fears and gave herself to the magic. It filled her limbs like ecstasy, and nothing else existed. Her entire being revolved around it, and power monopolised all of her senses. She became a part of all the magic that ever was or ever would be.
Her power flooded into the night, and the sword accepted it, channelled it away from her, and threw it at the fetchen. A searing white beam of destruction, it lit up the whole of the sarsen ring, like an exploding star.
