Robert Carter - The Giants’ Dance

In the silence that followed, Will heard the muted sound of merry revels coming from the rest of the inn. Voices were raised in laughter, a round of song and the scraping of a long-handled fiddle. Perhaps Gwydion’s spell of defence against eavesdroppers had spent itself. Duffred came in to collect the trenchers and to flap the crumbs from the table. He brought a measure of brisk good cheer with him that dispelled their thoughtfulness, and when he asked if they needed their tankards refilling, they agreed that that was a very good idea.

They spoke more lightly for a while, reminiscing about this and that until at last Morann rose up. ‘I think it’s time I was away to my bed.’

‘In that case, may you remember to forget only what you forget to remember,’ Will told him in parting toast.

Gwydion drained his tankard. ‘Black swan, white crow, take good care, wheresoever you go!’

Morann picked up his knife and sheathed it. ‘And I have a parting toast for the both of you: may misfortune follow you all the days of your life…’ he smiled a warm smile, ‘…but never catch up with you.’

And with that Morann was walking with uneven steps towards the passageway, and soon the stairs were creaking under his heels. When Gwydion also took his leave, Will sat alone in the snug for a few moments, his thoughts darkening as he wondered about Willow and their baby daughter and the peril that still seemed to him to hang over the Vale like a dark cloud.

Will was surprised to find the sun high in the sky by the time he awoke. Bright shafts of sunlight pierced the shutters, and he sprang up from the mattress and got dressed as quickly as he could, fearing that Gwydion and Morann might have left without him.

But he soon found them outside in the yard, talking with the inn’s people.

‘Morning, Gwydion. Morning, Morann.’

‘And a fine morning it is,’ Morann said.

‘Ah, Willand,’ Gwydion said. ‘I hope you are feeling able today. There may be tough work ahead.’

Dimmet sniffed at a side of beef that was hanging in his out-house. ‘Not too high for the pie, nor yet too low for the crow,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Now, Master Gwydion, shall I expect you back by noon?’

‘You may expect us, Dimmet, when next you see us.’

‘Right you are,’ Dimmet said affably. ‘I’ll take that to mean I should mind my own business.’

He went off to take delivery of the milk jugs, but soon Duffred had hitched Bessie, the bay cob, to the tithe wagon. Will got up onto the cart to sit alongside Morann and Gwydion, and then they were off, heading east along a road that Will had travelled before.

A rolling land of good, brown clay met them as they drove steadily onward. The going was easy past Hemmel and Hencoop. The wagon ruts that had been made in the road during a wet spring had been baked into hard ridges by the summer sun and worn to dust. Hills to their left threw out low green rises that sloped across their path, and the sun shone on the part-harvested wheatfields to their right. But soon, tended fields gave way to wilder country.

Gwydion told of the times he had visited Caer Lugdunum, an ancient fortress that had once stood on a hill a little way to the north, and how graciously he had been received in poem and song by the druida who had lived there. Then Morann sang ‘The Lay of the Lady’ in a rich, clear voice that knew the true tongue well. His song was about the brave Queen of the East and the stand she had made long ago against the armies of the Slaver empire. It was so sad a song that Will felt shivers pass through him, and it was a long while before he returned to himself and felt the hot sun on his face again. When he did, he found that Bessie had already covered half the road to Nadderstone.

Hereabouts the land was scrubby and unkempt, and Will looked to a cluster of bushes on his left that he knew hid a pond. Gwydion had once said there was probably star-iron in the bottom of it, and now Will realized how the pond had been made, by a shooting star landing hard on the earth, though one much smaller than the one that had smashed Little Slaughter. The thought made him shiver.

‘There’s power flowing here,’ Morann said, his blue eyes on the far horizon. ‘We may expect miracles, or worse, I’m thinking, before the day is done.’

‘Remember, the road follows the path of a lign,’ Gwydion said, ‘whether we can see it or not. Willand, do you feel anything yet?’

‘Not yet, Master Gwydion. You can be sure I’ll speak up soon enough when I do.’

A short shower of rain came to refresh the land and went away again as soon as it had come. They continued across the valley and soon Will noticed a tall tower of mottled brown stone. It was the same one he had seen before, standing sentinel on a ridge, above lands that had once been tilled by the Sightless Ones, or those who laboured for them. But those fields were now neglected and overgrown, and that caused Will to wonder, for the Fellowship was notorious for never allowing its lands to lie fallow if gold could be mined in them.

As they drew near Will was shocked to realize that the tower was now in ruins, as was the cloister and chapter house it had served.

‘What happened to the Fellows?’ he asked in amazement.

‘Gone,’ Gwydion said.

They passed by two large fishponds. Once this place had made Will feel very uneasy. And now, as their road climbed up past the tall, iron-brown walls and vacant windows of the chapter house, Will suppressed a shudder. He turned to Gwydion and saw the wizard’s keen, grey eyes examining the battlements. The wizard called Bessie to a halt.

‘What are we stopping for?’ Will asked.

Gwydion handed him the reins. ‘We must look into what has happened.’

Will shielded his eyes against the sun and studied the tower, but he saw nothing more noteworthy than a lone gargoyle that stuck out from the corner of the parapet high above them. Morann jumped down from the cart and they both followed Gwydion through a yard of tumbled graves beside the chapter house.

The garden that had once held neat rows of green plants was now overgrown and its bee skeps smashed. The iron weather vane that had once shown the sign of a white heart and had stretched its four arms out above the roofs, had been cast into a corner of the yard. The roofs themselves were broken and pulled down too. Ahead the great gates were unhinged, and where, to Will’s recollection, the arch of the doorway had been incised with the curious motto:

Now the stonework was defaced so that only the letters R, A, N, S and I remained. Gwydion stood before the doors, deep in thought.

‘Strange,’ Will said, looking at the damage. ‘Do you think it means something?’

‘Everything means something.’ Gwydion made no further answer but continued to stare at the arch and then to run his fingers over the letters.

Morann spoke in a low voice. ‘Isnar is the name of the late Grand High Warden of the Sightless Ones. It seems the letters of his name were spared from the Fellowship’s motto when the rest were stricken out.’

Gwydion stirred. ‘This has meaning, for it surely was Isnar who ordered the roof of this chapter house to be broken in.’

‘How do you know that?’ Will asked.

‘Because no one else has the power to order it.’

Will heard the scurry and squeak of rats as they moved inside. Black glass had been shattered from windows. It crunched underfoot in the dampness. Two or three winters had ruined the fabric of the building, yet a greasy odour still clung to the place. They came back out into the open, entered the walled tithe yards and saw hurdles of woven willow sticks scattered about the cobbles. They were all that remained of stock pens and stalls. There was rotting gear here, tools for hauling animal carcasses: blocks, hooks, red rusted chains…