The Giants’ Dance. Robert Goldthwaite Carter
elfin and fey. But it was a light that he knew well, though very bright for lign-light, brighter than he had ever seen it. It passed close by the circle of standing stones.
‘That shimmering path is called Eburos,’ Gwydion told him. ‘It is the lign of the yew tree. Look upon it, Willand, and remember what you see, for according to the Black Book this is the greatest of the nine ligns that make up the lorc. Its brightness surprises you, I see. But perhaps it should not, for tonight is Lughnasad, and very close after the new moon. All crossquarter days are magical but now is the start of Iucer, the time when the edges of this world blur with those of the Realm Below – Lughnasad upon a new moon is a time when even lowland swine rooting in the forest floor may see the lign glowing strongly in the earth. “Trea lathan iucer sean vailan…” Three days of magic in the earth, as the old saying goes. Even I can see it tonight.’
Will nodded. ‘The lorc is once more growing in power.’
Gwydion met his eye. ‘I feared you would say that.’
Frustration erupted sourly inside Will. ‘But how can that be? I destroyed the Doomstone at Verlamion. The heart of the lorc was broken!’
‘But was the Doomstone destroyed?’
‘Do you doubt that I told you the truth?’
There was silence.
‘The battle stopped, didn’t it?’ Will said.
The wizard inclined his head a fraction. ‘The battle did not continue.’
‘I only know what I saw, Gwydion. The Doomstone was cracked clean across. It must have been destroyed, for it fell silent and all the Sightless Ones in the chapter house lost their minds.’
To that the wizard made no reply other than to give a doubtful grunt. Then he raised his staff towards the livid glow. They walked the lign together across the crest of the Tops. Earth power tingled in Will’s fingers and toes as he walked. They soon came to what looked from a distance like a ring of silent, unmoving figures. He looked at the perfect circle of eighty or so stones, the ring that was forty paces across. The shadows cast by each stone groped out across the uneven land. He felt as if he was intruding and said so.
‘You know,’ Gwydion said in a distant voice, ‘the druida used to come here unfailingly at the spring equinox – and then again in the autumn of each year. Ah, what processions we had when the world was young! They brought their white horses, all marked red upon the forehead like so many unhorned unicorns. Here they made their signs two days before the new moon and sat down to drink milk and mead and witness the waxing of the power of the lorc. They were great days, Willand. Great days…’
They entered the Ring respectfully, going in by the proper entrance, bowing to the four directions before approaching the centre and sitting down. The stones of the Ring were small, no taller than children, hunched, misshapen, brooding. The greatest of them stood to the north. When Will had come here four years ago he had made no obeisance, asked no formal permission, but when he had touched the chief stone there had been a welcome all the same. He had been privileged to feel the rich and undiminished power that lay dormant here. Before Maskull’s sorcery had ambushed him he had felt an enormous store of power, something as vast as a mountain buried deep in the earth, and its summit was the Ring. That sense was still here, a muted but deeply comfortable emanation, a power that spilled endlessly from the Navel of the World. Will understood very well why the stone-wise druida had come here twice a year without fail.
He waited for Gwydion to decide what to do, and meanwhile he watched the distant glow in the west until it guttered low and they were bathed in darkness. Breaths of wind ruffled the lush grass. Overhead high veils of cloud were sweeping in. They were not thick enough to hide the stars, but they made them twinkle violently, and that seemed to Will a sign of ill omen.
He pulled his cloak tighter about him and was about to speak when he felt a presence lurking nearby. As he turned, a wild-haired figure broke from cover. Then a blood-freezing scream split the silence. The figure dashed towards them, and came to within a pace of Gwydion’s back. An arm jerked upward, and Will saw a blade flash against the sky.
‘Gwydion!’ he cried.
But the wizard did not move.
Will was aware only of soft words being uttered as he dived low at the figure and carried it to the ground, pinning it. Will’s strength slowly forced the blade from the fist that had wielded it. He was hit, then hit again, in the face, but the blows lacked power and he held his grip long enough to apply an immobilizing spell, which put the attacker’s limbs in struggle against one another.
‘Take care not to hurt her, Will. She cannot help herself.’
He shook the pain from his head and staggered to his feet. The furiously writhing body repulsed him. Strangled gasps came from the assailant as he picked up the blade.
‘Who is she?’ He wiped his mouth where one of the woman’s blows had drawn a little blood. ‘It’s lucky you heard her coming. I had no idea.’
‘I did not hear her so much as feel the approach of her magic.’
‘That’s a trick I wish you’d teach me.’
Gwydion grunted. ‘It was never easy to kill an Ogdoad wizard. And quite hard to take one by surprise.’
Will shook his head again and brushed back his braids. Then he turned the blade over in his fingers. It was broad and double-edged and had a heavy, black handle. ‘This knife is an evil weapon,’ he said, passing the blade to Gwydion.
The wizard would not take it. ‘It is not evil.’
‘No?’
‘Nor is it a weapon. Or even a knife. Did I teach you to think that way?’
‘It looks like a dagger to me,’ he muttered. ‘And it would’ve made a mess of you.’
‘Look again. It is made of obsidian, the same black glass which the Sightless Ones use in the windows of their chapter houses. It is a sacred object, one used in ritual and not to be lightly profaned with blood.’
‘Well, the blood it was intended to spill was yours.’
‘It has more in common with this.’ Gwydion drew the blade of star-iron from the sheath that always hung on a cord about his neck. He held it up. ‘An “iscian”, called by some “athame”, though strictly speaking athamen may be used only by women. It is not a dagger but a compass used to scribe the circle that becomes the border between two worlds. It is the season of Iucer, and tonight this Sister has travelled here by magic. I do not know why she has chosen to meddle far above her knowledge, but look what it has done to her.’
Will turned to where the woman still kicked and struggled as arm fought arm and leg fought leg.
‘Release her, now. But be mindful of the powers that flow here.’
Will rebuckled his belt over his shirt and straightened his pouch. He felt his heart hammering as he danced out the counterspell. At length the woman’s body collapsed into the grass, as if her bones had been turned to blood. Though slender, she was of middle age, with long hair, silvered in streaks now. Twenty years ago it would have been dark and she would have been a handsome woman.
‘Speak to me now!’ Gwydion commanded, and made a sign above her head.
The Sister shrieked and writhed, but then her voice became one of malice.
‘Slaughter great,
Slaughter small!
All slaughter now,
No Slaughter at all!’
‘Peace!’ Gwydion said, and made a second sign over her.
Instantly she fell quiet, and seemed to sleep comfortably.
‘Who is she?’ Will asked.
‘She comes from one of the hamlets near…that.’ Gwydion gestured towards the last glimmerings