Diana Jones - Power of Three

There was every kind of trouble. Ceri made every possible mistake and contrived to get left behind whenever he could. He hated every minute, and said so. By dawn on the second day, Gair was thinking that it was rather to his credit that he had only hit Ceri nine times in all: six times when he richly deserved it, and three times to stop him complaining in Gest’s hearing. They trailed through a rushy meadow hung with mist. The coming dawn made the grass as white as the mist and the chill struck through to their bones. They were behind as usual. Ceri was wailing that he needed a rest or he would die, and Gair, knowing everyone else was in the next meadow already, took Ceri’s arm and dragged him along.

There was a pool of water in their way, edged with stiff rushes. Because of the whiteness of everything, Gair did not see it until he was in it. They splashed round one end of it and Ceri complained bitterly that his feet were wet now.

A dark shape about the size of Gair loomed at them through the mist. Ceri’s whine stopped in a squeak. Gair jumped. But the shape was only a red stag, about to make off across the meadow.

“Quick !” Gair shouted to Ceri. In great excitement, he levelled his spear and ran through the whiteness to head the stag off. “Quick! Or I’ll hit you again.”

“That’ll be ten times. And I’m cold,” Ceri said sullenly. But, when Gair glanced back to see, he found Ceri had stopped using his spear as a walking stick and was pointing it in the general direction of the stag. If Ceri stood firm – a thing not altogether to be relied on – they could pin the stag between them.

Gair circled quickly beside the pool, trying to drive the stag towards Ceri. But the beast circled with him, keeping its horns lowered. It seemed they had found a crafty one. Gair could not see it very well in the swirling whiteness, but it looked larger than he had thought. Some trick of the mist and the dawn light made its head look higher than his own. The antlers looked wicked. Gair advanced behind his spear, wondering why he felt so cold. And the stag grew again, until it towered over him.

“Gair!” said Ceri, in a squeaky voice of real terror. “Gair, that’s standing water!”

So it was, Gair realised. He had made poor work of looking after Ceri. He thrust at the stag with all his strength, but the spearhead met nothing. The huge antlered shape wavered and swirled into mist, darker and greyer than the white mist around. There was a blast of cold air. Gair backed hurriedly round the pool towards Ceri, water squirting in sheets from under his feet, until they stood shoulder to shoulder. There they watched in fascinated horror the grey mist harden into a tall, tall shape covered in dim silvery scales like armour, a pointed head solidify, a pale face with queer yellow eyes, a round shield and a sharp, bent scimitar. Gair could have kicked himself. He had been told often enough that Dorig were shape-shifters. But he had had no idea they looked so dangerous. He hoped it would not notice how both their spearpoints were juddering.

It came towards them in a wafting, gliding way that had both of them sick with terror. “Keep back!” Gair said to it. It took no notice. Gair wondered if it spoke some other language.

Before he could speak again, Gest’s voice barked, “Stop that, you!”

The Dorig jumped. Gair, feeling weak and bewildered, found that the entire hunt was back and surrounding the pond in the mist. As soon as Gest spoke, the dogs began to paw and snarl to get at the Dorig. Those who were not holding dogs had their spears aimed at it. Slowly and haughtily, the Dorig looked round the hostile ring. It was a good head taller even than Gest. But it still said nothing.

“You’re outnumbered,” said Gest. “There’s nothing you can do. Get out of here.”

The Dorig did not say a word to this, either, but it plainly understood. It simply turned and dived into the pool. It made barely a splash. Smokily, it slid under the surface of the water and was gone, with not much more disturbance than if someone had thrown a small pebble into the pond. Indeed, Gair had the impression that the Dorig did become smaller – almost half the size – before it had quite reached the water.

Gest looked at the rippling white pool for a moment, as if something puzzled him. “Lucky for you two that we missed you,” he said to Gair and Ceri. “Keep up with the rest in future.” He had been pleased to find the two boys standing their ground against a full-grown Dorig warrior, but it never occurred to him to say so.

They felt they were in disgrace. As they moved on again, Ceri burst into tears. He swore to Gair that he was crying out of annoyance. It had never occurred to him to put a Thought on the Dorig. Gair said sourly that it made a good story. He was quite as shaken as Ceri, but he hoped no one had noticed.

“You had a narrow escape,” Brad said, coming up alongside Gair. “Why didn’t you keep clear of the water? Didn’t you notice the cold?”

“Yes. But I thought that was the mist,” Gair admitted. He liked Brad best of all the boys in Garholt, or he would not have admitted it. “Why do they make it cold? Do you know?”

“Fishiness, I expect,” said Brad. “They’re cold-blooded, aren’t they? Ask my father.”

Gair left Ceri with Brad and trotted up beside Banot. Banot grinned. “You’ve got your mother’s knack of asking the difficult questions, Gair. I don’t think they are cold-blooded, but I couldn’t say for sure. As for making it cold, they say the shape-shifting does it. It takes a good deal of heat to shift shapes, and they get it from the air. It’s like – well, you may find it grows cold when Ceri puts a Thought on someone.”

“Thanks,” said Gair. Banot had given him a great deal to think about, but it did nothing to stop his growing feeling of shame. He had been so stupid! He had walked into standing water with Ceri and it had taken the whole hunt to rescue them. No wonder Gest was disappointed in him. He longed to prove – to himself at least – that he was not quite that stupid and ordinary. He trotted back and asked Ceri to put a Thought on something.

Ceri, to Brad’s keen amazement, obligingly broke his spear in two and joined it again. But, either this was only a very small Thought, or the dawn mists were still too chilly. Gair could not tell if the air round Ceri had gone any colder. Neither could Brad.

“I’ll do something else when we get home,” Ceri offered. Gair agreed that would be best. They turned for home soon after and Gair thought about their narrow escape most of the way. He had been terrified, he had to admit that. The noisy, heavy Giants beating the bank of the dyke for him had been nothing to the silent silver Dorig. It was the queerness of the Dorig that made it so frightening. Even Banot did not claim to understand or explain them; and Banot, Miri had told Gair, had made quite a study of the Dorig. Gair thought Banot must be a very brave man. He wished he was more like him. He was so ashamed of himself that he began to think he would like to find out more about Dorig too, in spite of his horror at the mere idea. No one thought Banot stupid.

Gair never had a chance to find out if Ceri’s Thoughts made the air cold. They arrived in Garholt that evening with a fair catch, ravenous for the good supper that was waiting. Gair and Ceri both tried not to fall asleep while they ate and told Ayna and Adara about the Dorig.

“It was tall,” Ceri said, yawning, with his mouth full. “I couldn’t believe even Dorig—”

There was a violent hammering at the main gate. A woman’s voice screamed, “Dorig! ”

All the chatter at the eating-squares stopped. Before anyone could move, the words had been spoken and the gate rumbled open.