Robert Carter - The Giants’ Dance

Some of the Valesmen swore it was Tilwin who had thought up the game of cards, and as if to prove them right he always carried a faded card stuck in the band of his hat. He usually put wayside flowers there too, to lift the spirits of those he met. Today, as Dimmet had said, there were primroses but, like Tilwin, they seemed a little worse for wear.

‘Tell us why you’ve stopped coming to the Vale,’ Will said. ‘We’ve all missed you, you know.’

Tilwin glanced at Gwydion, and some more of his smile faded. ‘I’ve had a deal to do lately, and little time to do it.’ Then his smile came bravely again, and he poked Will’s shoulder. ‘Besides, there’s less need for me to come to the Vale these days. Now the tithe has stopped and Nether Norton can afford its own grinding wheel. That was hero’s work you did for your folk, Willand. I hope they appreciate you.’

Will reddened, embarrassed.

‘I sent word for…Tilwin…to meet us here,’ Gwydion said. ‘But a word of warning to you: do you recall my saying that Tilwin the Tinker is not necessarily what he seems?’

Will looked uncertainly from the wizard to Tilwin and back. ‘I’ve long known there was something rare about him, but I never knew quite what.’

‘My name is not Tilwin – it is Morann.’

Gwydion smiled. ‘He is, among other things, a lord of the Blessed Isle.’

‘I can see that now you mention it,’ Will said. And it was true, there had always been an assured manner about the man. Will jumped up and took his tankard in both hands. ‘Allow me to greet you properly in your own name: here’s to you, Morann, Lord Knife-grinder, as keen a blade as ever there was!’

‘And here’s to the meadows and mists of the Blessed Isle, where strange tales begin!’ said Gwydion, rising and lifting his tankard also.

Then up got Morann. ‘And here’s to you, Willand of the Vale. And to you, Master Gwydion Pathfinder. You’re both of you no better than you should be!’

They clashed tankards and supped, then all laughed together and sat down again as one.

‘You’re a loremaster like Wortmaster Gort,’ Will said. ‘Isn’t that it?’

Morann made a modest gesture. ‘Where old Gort’s learning concerns all the forests and all the herbs of the field, mine only touches bits of pebbles and such like.’

Gwydion laughed. ‘He gives himself no credit. He’s a “magical lapidary” – the greatest jewelmaster of latter days.’

Like Wortmaster Gort, Morann was another of the ageless druida who had wandered abroad, collecting magical knowledge for a hundred generations and more. They had no homes, but attached themselves here and there as circumstances arose. They were not quite wizards, but their magical skills were great, and they had lived long.

Will thought immediately of the strange red fish he had found at Little Slaughter. How could it be that a thing so exactly like his own talisman had been there for the finding down in the dust? Surely a jewelmaster as knowledgeable as Morann would be able to cast light upon its origin.

But as Will put a hand down towards his pouch a powerful feeling came over him that he should not tell Morann about the talisman any more than he had told Gwydion, which was nothing at all. He examined the feeling suspiciously, and had almost decided to put his doubts aside and draw out the red fish, when Duffred arrived with cheese and bread and apple jam.

Then Morann unsheathed his favourite long, thin knife and in deference to Gwydion laid it handle inwards on the table before him. He said to Will, ‘Be it hidden or carried openly, in former days it was thought a deadly crime to wear a blade in the presence of a druid, much less a person of Master Gwydion’s standing.’

‘I’m thinking you’ll be cutting no flesh, nor even bread with that knife, Morann,’ Gwydion said, his eyes twinkling.

‘Indeed not, Master Gwydion. However I like to respect the Old Ways when I can.’

Will saw that a wonderful pattern like knotted cord was worked into the old steel. He wondered what was so special about the knife, but he could not ask after it for the two old friends were already busy with one another’s memories.

They munched and drank as they talked about former times. Will listened more than he spoke and the three wore away most of the golden light of evening in remaking their friendship and gilding old memories. Morann told of recent travels, and of his adventures in the land of his fathers. Gwydion spoke of his wanderings in the wilds of Albanay, and of voyages he had made in frail coracles far out into the Western Deeps. Then they asked Will to tell of his wedding, and to speak of his life with Willow and the joy he had felt at his daughter’s birth.

He told them as well as he could, but when a pause came in their talk the fears that had been banished for a while began to crowd in on him. Again he began to reach for the red fish, but then he told himself that he did not want to be the first to speak of troubles, and so once more he chose to lay the matter aside.

Instead, his eye caught the ring on Morann’s finger. A ring of gold, it was, and the stone in it one of emerald green. Will had seen it many times before, but now its colour seemed to capture his attention and he felt prompted to ask about it.

‘It’s the ring of Turloch of Connat,’ Morann said. ‘It bears the great smaragd emerald of my ancestors. The tale says that Turloch used to wear it when trying suspected traitors. He would strike in the face any follower who was accused of treachery against him. If the man got up and kissed the ring then he was innocent. But if he could not bring himself to kiss the ring then he was guilty.’

Will wanted to hear more, but Gwydion cleared his throat and said, ‘We could listen all night with great pleasure to the deeds of your forebears, Morann, but I fear that darkness is pressing. Let us not forget that we are met for a more solemn purpose.’

They pushed their empty trenchers away and sat back. Then Gwydion laid out matters concerning the battlestones, and as the sun set he began to make a summary of what was presently known.

‘According to ancient writings, there were nine channels of earth power made by the fae long ago. These channels are called “ligns” – and collectively “the lorc”. The battlestones are planted on the lorc. There are two kinds of battlestone – the greater and the lesser. The greater sort come to life one at a time. Each of them has the power to raise bloodlust in the hearts of men and draw them to battle. We have tracked down five battlestones so far—’ Gwydion raised a stark finger, ‘—the first was the Dragon Stone, which we found just a few leagues to the east of here.’

‘Gwydion put it into Castle Foderingham for safekeeping,’ Will added. ‘It’s one of the greater sort.’

‘And you hope it’s still entombed there,’ Morann added dubiously. ‘Hope, but do not know? Is that it?’

‘Quite so.’ Gwydion unfolded his thumb. ‘The second of the stones was the Plaguestone, which was left by us in the cave of Anstin the Hermit.’

A cloud passed fleetingly across Morann’s face. ‘Surely stones such as these will not be safe in castles and hermits’ caves.’

Gwydion said, ‘Indeed. But I judged they would do better when placed in fresh lodgings than when left to rot in the ground. Foderingham’s walls are thick and I counted its master to be a stalwart friend. As for Anstin’s cave, no man dares go there for fear of leprosy. It is hardly spoken of locally, and not at all elsewhere, therefore it is one of the most secret places in the Realm.’

Morann shook his head. ‘Would the Plaguestone not have been better mortared into Foderingham’s foundations alongside the Dragon Stone?’