The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  Will resisted as Dudlea tried to pull him away. ‘If you love your wife and son, you’ll give me a moment more here. One moment. That’s all I ask.’

  Will peered down through the bars and heard Queen Mag’s men enter the dungeon. Locks were turned and bolts shot back. Beyond the open door there waited the queen’s guard and two grovelling turnkeys.

  The queen’s voice was crisp. ‘The last battle is almost upon us,’ she said. ‘There is little time remaining to you. Soon the war will be at an end, and you will have delivered my enemy to me. Ebor is yet a day or two away to the north. My spies tell me he has but a thousand men in his train.’

  Will exulted over a part of the news, at least. That the duke had landed so lightly could only have meant that Morann had escaped his meeting with Chlu and reached the Blessed Isle. But there was now an added edge to the queen’s words.

  ‘You really are a most meddlesome fellow, Old Crow.’

  ‘Lady, all is as I told you it would be,’ Gwydion said. ‘Friend Richard comes to you in good faith. Reach an agreement with him. This is the true path. Will you not receive him magnanimously?’

  ‘Receive him?’ She lifted a bloody rose to her nostrils and looked at her captive smilingly. ‘I would much rather destroy him.’

  ‘You said you would look for peace. You gave me your thrice-repeated word on it.’

  ‘You were a fool to trust words.’

  ‘They bind more than you know. I came to your summons. I knelt before you in open humility before all. I did everything that you asked of me. Why have you tricked me thus?’

  ‘Oh, don’t sicken me with your false humility.’ The golden key glinted at her breast as she turned about. ‘Your arts are laid threadbare. I simply tricked you before you were able to trick me. I saw that it was your habit to take the hands of those whom you greet, so I set a very simple trap for you. It was easy to let the fetters fall from my sleeves onto your wrists as you knelt.’

  ‘Have no pride in that, for it was an artless betrayal of good faith.’

  ‘Yes, well. Often the most artless plan is the best.’

  ‘Lady, what has happened to you? You were not always so rotten-hearted.’

  The amused smile fell from her lips so that her stare became unwavering and cold. ‘How dare you speak to a queen thus? If it was my desire to have you taken to Trinovant and publicly gutted under the walls of the White Tower that is what would happen to you!’

  Gwydion looked away. ‘I think you would do well to examine the deep reasons for the anger that presently chokes you. Let us repair the rift between you and Ebor. Let us make peace again as you have promised. I beg you to release me, while there is still time.’

  The queen watched him silently for a moment, peeling red rose petals now and letting them fall. Anger still seethed within her, but it was icily held in check. She slipped the secret she had been saving from its sheath. ‘Time for what, I wonder? Time for Lord Warrewyk to arrive perhaps?’

  ‘Lord Warrewyk?’ Gwydion asked, looking up suddenly like one who has been caught unawares.

  ‘Oh, do not pretend ignorance! Warrewyk is coming here to Delamprey with a great host, as well you know!’

  Gwydion shook his head vigorously. ‘If this is true, then we are both betrayed!’

  The queen’s laugh was dismissive. ‘Not I. Do you imagine we have no spies? We’ve known for almost a week. Now what do you dare say to me concerning the keeping of good faith?’

  ‘This was not planned by me. If it is true—’

  ‘Warrewyk’s army is real enough. And his design is clear. He brings with him his father and the Ebor whelp. They were to fall upon us, even as we supped with Ebor according to your formula.’

  Up above in the yard, Will pulled away from the bars, shaken by what he had heard. He looked to Lord Dudlea who crouched beside him.

  ‘Warrewyk?’ he whispered, incredulous. ‘Is it true?’

  Dudlea stared at him. ‘I was told of his landing yesterday.’

  ‘And Edward? No! Never! He would not defy his father for anything.’

  Dudlea’s grimace was fierce. ‘It’s not defiance, but Ebor’s own order! The Callas army came across the Narrow Seas a week ago. Ten thousand strong, voracious and swelling like a leaf-maggot during its march through Kennet and the City. Between twenty and thirty thousand troops left Trinovant two days ago to march north. What now of your wizard’s integrity?’

  Will was staggered. Once again the sly malice of the battlestones was turning events upside down. He called to mind the huge royal army of sixty thousand that had once camped outside Ludford. That kind of strength might have deterred the fearsome Lord Warrewyk, but now the king’s forces did not equal a third of that number. The fight would be far more equal, and so savagely hard-fought. Many men would die.

  ‘You’re coming with me!’ Dudlea hissed, putting his dagger to Will’s throat. ‘I will have the proof you promised me, or I’ll let a liar’s blood flow.’

  He gripped Dudlea’s wrist, crushing it, turning the weapon aside and making it fall. ‘I’ll give you a hundred proofs! A thousand! But first you will let me listen to what passes down below!’

  Dudlea’s eyes widened, first with pain, then with fear. Will let him go, approached the bars, and did not turn even when Dudlea picked up his dagger. Down in the gloom Gwydion’s pleas were pitiful. As the last petal fell from the queen’s blood-red rose, she made to leave. ‘Let Warrewyk come. Let Ebor come. Let them all set their arms against me. They will not prevail. For I possess a secret weapon which none can withstand!’

  ‘What weapon?’ Gwydion called after her. ‘Lady, what weapon?’

  The queen turned on the stair. ‘Oh, no, Old Crow. Not this time. Not this time!’

  And then she was gone. The door slammed, echoing behind her, and the wizard fell to his knees, and sat alone in the silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE SECRET WEAPON

  Will allowed Lord Dudlea to hurry him from the foul cloister yard. He steeled himself for the coming fight and tried to ignore the ache that was growing across the crest of his head.

  Once inside the tent, Lord Dudlea’s manner changed. His anger fell away and he began to beg. ‘Please help me! I am upon a bed of fire!’

  ‘Gwydion will help you. I promise.’

  ‘But you saw the wizard. He’s a broken man. His powers are gone, and he’ll soon be dead.’

  The power rose up in Will and he said, ‘Feed your hope and all will be well. Gwydion is not some banquet conjuror, he is an Ogdoad wizard. Do you know what that means?’

  Dudlea pulled away, stabbed his dagger deep into the elmwood table. ‘The queen will kill him whatever he is.’

  ‘She cannot. Nor can Maskull. Don’t you think they would have done so already if it were that simple?’ He tried again to calm Dudlea’s raging spirit. ‘I tell you for the last time, if you would restore the flesh of your wife and son, then you must do exactly as I say.’

  Dudlea was blowing hot and cold as the power in the lorc rose and fell. His strength seeped away again very suddenly. ‘I will do anything.’

  Will watched the man sink into his chair. He resisted the temptation to draw off by magic a measure of the pain that racked him. ‘Do you not remember how the tide was turned at Ludford?’

  ‘That was Lord Strange’s doing,’ Dudlea said, mastering himself with an effort. ‘He betrayed Ebor. His treachery decided the day.’

  ‘You see how he played a vital part in shaping the future that day? In the coming fight, you must do the same.’

  Dudlea was aghast. ‘That is too much!’

  ‘Listen to me. You must, by your actions, bring about a future in which your wife and son live.’

  ‘But – how?’

  Will put a finger to his lips. ‘Quietly, my lord. The moment draws nigh when you must marshal your troops. Do this – when the forces of the enemy charge at you, give way to them. Command your men-at-arms to admit the enemy over the ditch an
d barricade. Let the cavalry of the Earl of the Marches move freely to outflank the king’s centre. This is the measure that will most speedily put an end to the fight.’

  Dudlea’s face was filled with fear. This was beyond anything he knew. ‘Edward of Ebor will attack against our left? How do you know this?’

  To meet the other’s eye steadfastly Will closed his mind tightly shut. The stone’s stifling emanations had made the pain in his head grow, oppressing him mightily. He said, ‘It will happen as I predict. You may rest assured.’

  ‘But you’re asking me to betray my king in battle.’ Lord Dudlea’s voice grew hollow as the consequences of his task began to sink in.

  ‘The king presently sits under guard in a tent by the river. He has been sent there by his wife. And you speak as if he is in full command of his—’

  ‘Even so, I cannot do it!’ Dudlea launched suddenly into the attack. ‘Where’s the proof you promised?’

  ‘If proof you still crave then hear this!’ Will thrust Dudlea back. ‘You, who scruples now over fealty to a mad king, tried bare days ago to arrange a secret deal that would have sent the Maceugh, Lord of Eochaidhan, to murder Ebor in his bed – this much I do know of you.’

  Lord Dudlea’s eyes hardened. ‘Such talk as that you might have had from any servant of mine for fivepence and a jug of ale!’

  ‘Fivepence, aye, for that is all the loyalty you inspire, but could I have had it for this?’ Will slammed a clipped silver farthing onto the table. ‘You once said this was worth more than a man’s life! It is the price of your own if you will not heed me.’

  Dudlea stared at the coin, and knew it to be the one he had tossed disdainfully at the Maceugh. He was shaken, but still unmoved. ‘You’re quick with accusations, but you still have not offered me any proof.’

  Will straightened. ‘What would you have me do?’

  Dudlea’s eyes sweated in their sockets. ‘Show me that you’re a magician equal in power to Maskull. Show me the true strength of your art. Bring the dead to life!’

  ‘You ask a very great deal.’

  ‘Can you do it, or not? It is the only proof I will admit.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Will’s head ached. Pain laced his temples. He knew he must not reveal himself to Chlu yet, but what other way was there, except by the exercise of magic? He said wearily, ‘You must have faith, my lord – belief is important. The spells that must be employed are driven by the faith of a loved one. This is their main ingredient. You must not take in vain the power that sustains hope, or they will fail.’

  Dudlea grabbed him like a bitter enemy. ‘If this is trickery—’

  ‘Love is real! I have seen how well you love your wife and child. Have faith that you’ll know them in the flesh again. Do it! Absolute faith, my lord. That is the key to the undoing of the dread spell that presently lies upon their stony hearts.’

  Dudlea’s fear-inspired fury rose again. He pulled his dagger from the table. ‘These are lies! Stones cannot be brought to life! You are no magician! If you are, then save yourself from this!’

  Will felt himself borne down. The knife bit into his flesh. He felt the sharp sting as it cut into his neck. Blood came. The blade trembled. And through it all, Lord Dudlea’s face was a mask of torment. But then Dudlea’s resolve slackened. He let the knife fall, and staggered from the tent, leaving the one he had meant to kill without a word.

  Will lay there alone. He drew a ragged breath, clamped a hand on his neck. Relief flooded him, for when he pulled his hand away there was just a smear of red on his fingers. A shaving cut, little more.

  When Dudlea’s guards entered, they eyed him with gross fear. They seemed unable to decide whether they should detain him, but they stood back when he picked up his hazel switch from the table and made a sign over them.

  Had he done enough to release the knot of mistrust in Dudlea’s breast? he wondered. Perhaps he had done too much.

  As he gathered his wits, a great misgiving assailed him. He had lied. He had promised Dudlea more than he had the power to give. And that, he knew, took matters to an entirely new brink of uncertainty. He saw it all so clearly now. In magic, form mattered. A break in trust disrupted the deep mechanisms that turned future into past. Lies interfered with the processes of fate and event, confounded the kindness that obliged things to turn out the way they should. Broken promises drew the world ever further away from the best of all possible worlds that Gwydion called the true path. Will had sold Dudlea onto the horns of a dilemma. To betray his king on the slenderest of promises, or to abandon his family.

  ‘By the moon and stars, what have I done?’ he asked himself. But then the pain in his head rose again and he gritted his teeth against it. ‘It doesn’t matter! None of it matters, so long as Dudlea does what he must!’

  But he felt suddenly weak, unsure of the way forward. He needed help, but what help could there be?

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ he asked. He found himself stumbling along the lign, shading his eyes, squinting. Overhead, the sky was a faultless blue that seemed close enough to reach up and touch. Noon was approaching. The emanations of the battlestone were hammering in his head. The meadow began to slide beneath him as he walked. He stumbled and almost fell to his knees. His sight danced with motes, small lights that twinkled and died. And it seemed that the stones standing in the field of death rippled and shimmered like the air rising above a fire.

  All along the lign labouring men were digging in the heat of the day, logging what trees remained, using hatchets to sharpen stakes, unloading a long procession of carts, filling baskets with earth, carrying sacks. Their mouths were mute and their eyes seemed to Will to be wholly blind, like those of men already fixed on death.

  Squadrons of cavalry were marshalling here. And there, in the lanes formed by the tombstones, among the rows of lordly tents, were hard faces and muttered words; armour glinting as it was buckled on; the bright splash of battle colours as embroidered silk was unfurled to the breeze. Little time now remained.

  He came to the ash copse where his horse was tethered. He delved deep into the undergrowth, into a darkness that smelled of summer, where flies buzzed and small white moths flitted in shafts of sunlight. Dry twigs cracked under him, small spiders fled. There, by a badger’s set, he planted his feet and rested his forehead for a moment on the grey trunk of the tallest tree. He let his mind search out the ancient power that filled all the trees of the world. Then, he invited the power to come into him, and soon he felt the telltale tingle surging in his toes, the irresistible power that served his hopes. As his eyes closed and his mind opened fully, a thrill rushed through him, lighting his mind’s eye with a brilliant pale glow. His ribs felt suddenly as if they would burst, as if the bear hug of the Green Man was upon him. He raised his arms, lifted them so that his whole body became like the five-armed Star of the Hallows of old. Its heart was his heart. His feet and hands and head were star-points, and all his body was wreathed in fiery glory.

  There, borne up as if upon the air, came the vision of one shining in light, a stranger. Solemn. Undeniable. Glowing as the elfin host had once glowed, and strangely fearsome.

  ‘Arthur,’ she said.

  ‘I am not he,’ he replied, unsure, still haunted by the way he had lied and manipulated a man who was in torment.

  ‘Are you not ready?’

  ‘I am not fit to be a wizard!’ he cried.

  ‘Wizard? That is not your fate.’

  ‘Then what am I?’

  ‘You are Arthur. You are the true king.’

  The figure approached closer and closer. He almost recognized her, but she was too bright for mortal eye to light upon. He threw up a hand in front of his face so that slowly she blurred and melted away.

  Noon flashed by in sudden pain. He felt sick, as if something vile needed to be flushed from him. Joy and peace should be burning inside, pure and clean and timeless, yet something else was there now, something unwholesome. A nightmare stain.
/>   When his eyes opened, he was lying in the sun-dappled glade, his horse’s muzzle stretched close to his face, sniffing curiously at him. He stroked the animal’s head, wondering for a moment where he was, but then he came back to himself, suddenly refreshed, it seemed, and blade sharp. It was done. He felt whole and ready for the fight. He had broken the battlestone’s subtle attack, and all his doubts had crumbled. He was strong again. Filled with limitless power. Untouchable. A hero who had come into his own at last, except there was still a roaring pain in his head.

  He knew he must ignore it, ride like the west wind to do what had to be done. He mounted up and galloped out of the clearing, going first by the hamlet of Hardingstones, through Cotton and Far Wooton, looking all the time for signs of Edward’s approaching army. Edward was marching north. He must be coming along the line of the Warding, the old Slaver road that ran from Trinovant into the Middle Shires.

  He made for the village of Roade. It was close to the ancient highway, and a little beyond it he saw banners flying. He kicked the horse on towards the huge shimmering column of men, seeking out its head, knowing with certainty that his best chance lay in engaging the Earl of the Marches with well-chosen words.

  But Edward greeted him with a roar.

  ‘Keep that wizardling away from me at all costs!’ he told his bodyguard as they closed off Will’s approach.

  But the order had been given with wry humour. Edward was pleased to be riding at the head of a powerful army, and the battlestone’s emanations had stroked him into a blissful state. He seemed almost drunk at the prospect of a fight. Lords Warrewyk and Sarum flanked him, each as proud as a peacock. All three were fully armoured.

  ‘Keep him off me, I say!’ Edward cried, roistering, laughing at Will’s efforts to reach him. ‘The fellow believes I owe him money. He wishes to exact payment before I go to my grave! Ha ha ha!’

  The joke made everyone laugh, all except Sarum and Warrewyk and the unsmiling guard whose weapon was menacingly drawn. He was not about to let anyone come within a sword’s length of Edward without a direct order.