The Giants' Dance (32 page)

‘He must have had a reason not to blast us all where we stood – though I really can't see it!'

Gwydion's brow knotted. ‘He is at pains to remain hidden because he believes I am, as yet, unaware of his return. He does not know I was called by you to witness the destruction of Little Slaughter. He does not know that I found the door through which he emerged from the Realm Below.'

‘You did
that
?' Will asked, astonished.

‘We both did, for you were there, Willand. You watched me examine the broken door.'

‘I don't remember any broken door…'

‘Come, now! The gold vault under the ruined chapter house. The one we visited near Nadderstone.'

‘That?' Will recalled the twisted iron that had barred the way into the dark chasm beyond, and the dank airs that had risen up from the hole. The smell had been redolent of a whole dark world down below.

Gwydion put his face in his hands momentarily. ‘Those bars were torn apart by Maskull's magic. The Fellows must have been surprised, though far from pleased I imagine, to find one such as he appearing in the bowels of their house.'

‘Maybe that's the real reason Isnar decided to pull the chapter house down.'

‘We shall never know.'

Will's mind was spinning. ‘You say Maskull didn't begin a fight in the tent because he didn't want to show himself to you. But what would that matter if a surprise attack had killed everyone who stood in his way?'

Gwydion's eyes were half-lidded. ‘A surprise attack such as you describe could not have succeeded.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it would not have killed me. I possess many charms against Maskull's array of magical weapons.'

‘They didn't save you when you duelled with him at the Giant's Ring.'

‘A well-prepared attack was made against me at the Giant's Ring, but even that would not have killed me, only denied me form and therefore delayed me. Also—' The wizard motioned Will to sit down. ‘Also, Maskull knows that a violent stroke such as you suggest would not have the desired effect in the long run.'

Will rested his weight on the table's edge. ‘You'd better explain.'

‘Maskull believes he has found a way to live forever. He was once like me, one of the Ogdoad. You know that, well enough, but you still do not fully understand what it means. We are not immortal, Will. We live only so long as there is enough magic remaining in the world to sustain us. That is why our numbers have declined as the Ages have declined.'

‘You make it sound as if there's a great hole in the world through which all the magic is escaping.'

‘You are not so far from the truth in your guess. However, the task of the Ogdoad has always been to act as pathfinders for men. It is our job to bring about the best of all possible futures as magic inevitably leaves the world unprotected. In these latter days Maskull turned against the Old Ways. By the time Semias made his choice, it had become clear to Maskull that he would have to take the long road to the Far North himself and leave me to become the last phantarch. He cast about for another way until he had found the means to switch the fate of the world onto a new path. This, he hopes, will bring it to the destination he desires. He intends to guide the world along that path, though it will bring the Old Ways to final ruin. He cares
not that there will in consequence be war lasting five hundred years. He cares not that every man who lives in the world will be forced to suffer for his sake. Such is the blinding power of his one great idea that he cares only to reach the end that he has set his heart upon.'

Gwydion stood up and tugged his robe higher across his shoulders, signalling that there was no more time to talk. ‘It is almost the hour of noon. You must open your mind as you have never opened it before, Willand. You must find the Ludford battlestone, and I must deal with it before it can unleash the attack that Maskull so desires.'

‘I'm doing my best,' Will said, more frustrated than ever. ‘But what's to be done about Maskull?'

Gwydion looked sideways, his glance deadly dark. ‘Do not spend any part of your mind on him. Do not be tempted to game with him either. Leave him for me to deal with. In the same way that he has sought to keep me in the dark about his return, so we must keep secret our own knowledge about him. Fear not! He does not know who you are. You are under my protection and he cannot recognize you.'

‘And what about the faceless one who tried to kill me? The one you said was called Chlu, the Dark Child. You said he was Maskull's agent.'

‘Chlu is Maskull's
instrument
, not his agent. The difference is important. Maskull has, by some as-yet-unknown means, discovered Chlu and set him at large in the knowledge that he will try to find you. Chlu, he believes, has reasons of his own to want to do that. He is under no compulsion.'

Will shuddered and stood up. ‘I don't know why this Chlu should want to murder me. I've done him no harm. I don't even know who he is.'

‘And yet, though you have looked upon his face, you still cannot remember it.'

Will shook his head. It was true. Try as he might, he could not call the Dark Child's face to mind.

‘You say you have done Chlu no harm, but perhaps the harm he fears from you will be done in the future.'

Will snorted. ‘Well that's a fine thing, if a man may be attacked because of what he
might
do one day!'

But Gwydion chose to steer the discussion another way. ‘Whatever the case, there is a strong compulsion at work. But I think that Chlu is not a willing sorcerer's slave. Indeed, he is quite unsuited to the task that has been set for him. If I know Maskull, he will have bound Chlu upon a magical chain before letting him out into the world. One day soon, I think, he will try to reel him in and begin to wring the truth from him about you. Fortunately, that day has not yet come – or you would not be standing here.'

Will numbly followed the wizard into the innermost ward. But as Gwydion marched away to the Round House, Will lingered, and as soon as he was alone he put his hands to his temples, opening his mind recklessly wide and with no regard for the moon's phase.

It felt like stepping off the battlements of the keep with only a hope that thin air would support him. A terrible fear flashed through him and began to wrestle with his spirit for possession of his mind. It was a wave of such sudden despair that it took him by surprise. It punished him for his stupidity, and revealed nothing in return. Once again, there was no direction in what he saw, only a perplexing maze, a thousand impressions, glancing, shattering, splintering, lost like drops in a fountain…

‘It's the stone! It's the stone! It's the stone!' He shouted at the sky, feeling exultation and fear in equal measure. ‘It's here!'

He closed his mind sharply. Reality coalesced like figures emerging from a fog. Understanding resolved itself into five senses again. He spat thickly, his eyes filled. He felt
close to vomiting as he listened to his own yells still echoing off the high walls. Cooks and bakers and serving folk gathered in a knot by the kitchen door, looking at him anxiously, driven to silence by his raving.

‘What are you looking at?' he demanded.

‘Sir?' said one of the brewhouse boys, seeing the lordly style in which Will's hair was now cut and the clothes that had been borrowed for him from Edward. ‘Sir…please…'

When Will looked closely at them he realized their faces were white and ghastly. Then one of them, a young woman, had the courage to say, ‘Sir, we would have our Wortmaster come to us. Do you know where he is?'

‘Gort? He's gone to – auuugh!' And the filthy smell hit him, and he drew away for fear he would retch. ‘By the moon and stars…
what's that?
'

He saw their fear. They were going against the direct order of their lord in making the complaint, but they had to tell someone of the horror they had found.

‘Sir, it's the well. It's happened again, and we can't bear it no more. Look!'

The head cook lifted a pail and poured blood out of it. It splashed crimson across the cobbles.

‘Bring ropes and lifting tackle!' he told them. ‘Take me to the well! And fetch the wizard too!'

T
here's sometimes poisoned air down deep wells,' Gort said. ‘Why, at Castle Beaston up by the city of Caster, there's the deepest well in all the Realm—'

‘Thank you, Wortmaster,' Will said, ‘but I'd rather not hear about Castle Beaston just now, if you don't mind.' He watched the smith hammering on the rail that ran round the well. A section of it had already been pulled away and part of the winding mechanism taken down.

As Will prepared to climb into the stinking hole, he tested the loop of rope on which he would have to make the journey. It was thick, the same rope that had been unwound from the portcullis drum under Gwydion's supervision a few days before. Strong spells had been laid on each of the strands in turn, and a loop big enough to hang a man had been expertly whipped into its end. A second rope, almost identical to the first, had also been prepared. Now a dozen of Jackhald's steadiest men were gathered in the innermost ward. They had been told to act closely on the wizard's instructions.

Gwydion questioned Gort about the depth of water that usually stood in the well.

‘Weeds and worts! Why, it goes up and down with the
seasons. Knee-deep in a dry summer, then up to a fathom. Or more at times. With the weather we've had? Oh, no further than Will's handsome new haircut, I'd say. Enough to drown him in at any rate, hey?'

‘Thank you for that kind thought, Wortmaster,' Will said.

Jackhald urged the wizard, ‘Let me send one of my lads down. It's our job when all's said and done. Last time—'

‘This time's different,' Will said shortly.

When Jackhald shook his head and asked why, Gwydion muttered over his shoulder, ‘Because this time we are not looking for a dead sheep. It would not matter who you sent down, they would not come up again.'

That was enough for Jackhald. He cast a glance at Will and fell silent. Will was already taking off his belt and pouch. He handed them to Gort, then stripped off his borrowed finery and pulled his shirt over his head.

Gwydion attached a second rope to the first and made it fast, then Will climbed over the stone lip of the well, fitted his left foot into the loop, and the lowering began.

He took with him no lantern, but descended the twenty or more fathoms in a blaze of blue magelight sent down from above. He was naked except for the greenstone talisman that hung at his neck. He put a linen pad to his nose and mouth that had been treated with some aromatic drops of Gort's devising, meant to combat the stench. It worked after a fashion, but it could not fully disguise the foulness of the air that wafted up from the butcher's sewer below.

For the first fathom or so, the inner part of the well-head was round and smooth. It was made of dressed stones neatly fitted by masons. Then, for another couple of fathoms, the walls were of rough stones laid upon one another without mortar like a country wall. Below that, the well was hewn from the red sandstone ridge on which the castle stood.

Will felt the air on his bare skin growing cooler. To take his mind off the steadily worsening stench, he fixed his thoughts on a strong memory of bumble bees flying between the long stalks of purple lavender that grew in his garden at home. It was a pleasantly distracting thought, but part of his mind remained watchful and aware that he must not let himself drift into a daydream. His eyes saw chisel marks slipping by, marks that were two or three hundred years old, marks from the well's first making, and among them magical sigils that had been carved here by some practitioner of old. One of the marks, he saw, was to ensure the purity of the water. Another was set to discourage water drakes from infesting the well. The first of them crumbled at his touch.

At least drakes are one danger I won't be facing, he thought wryly as he bounced a little lower, twisting slowly on the rope. A sudden, vivid image came to him – he imagined a gigantic spider letting itself down on a thread above him. Cautiously he forced his mind tight closed, countering the stone in case it was already probing his fears. He found his hand straying to check the talisman on its thong. As ever, it made him feel better to touch it with his fingers, but it seemed to be alive with warnings now.

As he saw the surface of the water below rising up to meet him, he took the pad from his mouth and shouted for the rope team to hold. His order was relayed too quickly and he stopped too soon. Echoes returned, and he hung for a silent moment in that unbearable reek, suspended a little way above the surface. He shaded his eyes briefly from the blinding brightness of blue light shining from above and reflected from below. There, almost beside him and lying at an angle against the side of the well, was the battlestone.

Its top stuck out of the bloody water. Magelight cast sharp shadows and its colour turned the oozing blood that
seeped from the stone's surface black. Will carefully untied the second rope and tugged on it until it began to pay out. Bracing his right foot against the wall, he bent forward ready to pass the rope behind the stone.

‘That's enough! Stop!'

There was a delay. Echoes filled the shaft. But then the rope jerked to a halt. The cloying stink seemed to intensify suddenly, driving him to want to get out of the narrow space. A sudden lightheadedness assailed him as he fought the impulse, and he thought he was going to faint. He straightened, felt his knees buckling. Now he was sure he was going to faint. He just had time to realize the danger he was in when his foot slid out of the loop. He plunged down into the cold slime below.

Every part of his skin crawled with horror as his head went under. He thrashed, then felt slippery stones under his feet, and when he pushed against them his head broke the surface again, and he gasped for breath.

The shaft was full of noise, anxious shouts folded back on themselves until they were meaningless.

Fetid air rushed into his lungs, but the cold splash had brought him out of the faint into which he had been falling. He wiped his face.

‘Nearly…but not quite!' he told the stone fiercely, then slammed his mind closed again.

He scooped more of the stinking blood from his eyes and looked up. The blue light glared back unwaveringly as the rope loop snaked and dangled like a noose a few feet above his head. He jumped for it, but it was beyond his grasp.

Gwydion shouted a question, but again its meaning was lost in echoes. He called back and heard his words lose themselves too. He was chin deep, his arms raised, fingers dripping blood. Then, slowly, something broke the surface next to him. It thrashed, twisted.

He cried out in fear. But the fear immediately dissolved when he realized what had come to the surface. It was not the snout of some fierce water drake, but the end of the second rope that had dropped into the water in the stone's shadow.

As relief broke inside him, he drew on his courage and began to convince himself that he could counter the stone's best efforts. He tied the second rope round it, tried his full strength against the bowstring knot that Gwydion had told him to put in it, then he shouted up the shaft again for them to ease the loop on which he would ride to the surface a little lower.

Once again his message was garbled by echoes.

Just a few feet more…

Still the loop hung too high for him to reach. There was nothing for it but to climb up the stone itself, but it was slick with blood. His fingers and toes found a purchase on the spiral figures that were carved on its sides, but as soon as he laid hands on them his mind filled with the coldness of dead flesh. He almost lost his grip, but his hand groped for the loop, touched. Once he had grabbed it he was able to steady himself. As the rope stretched under his weight, he wiped his hands on the dry, fibrous twists and set his mind as firmly as he could on imagining the journey back.

‘Pull!' he shouted.

As the echoes began to die away, the loop jerked under his foot and he began to rise up the shaft half a fathom at a time. It was a long, long ride. When he came near to the surface the magelight sputtered then burned out. He saw Gwydion looking down anxiously. The wizard dragged him bodily out over the lip of the well, where he slid onto the floor of the kitchens, looking like some strange newborn thing.

‘Are you hurt?' Gort cried.

The draught of good air made Will retch. He tried to
rise to his feet, but skidded in the blood he had puddled on the stone flags. Now that it was over the horror of it hit him.

‘What happened?' Gwydion demanded.

Gort splashed a bucket of water at him.

Will spat. He was shaking. ‘Never mind me. Pull the stone out, Gwydion. Do it quickly! But don't break the rope or drop it. Whatever happens, I can't go down there again!'

The men began to haul on the second rope. This time, the effort they made was much greater. When the stone appeared in the mouth of the well Gwydion would not let anyone approach it. The rope was tied off securely, and Jackhald's men were warned away. Then a stout wooden beam was lifted up and together Gwydion, Will and the Wortmaster levered the stone up and out of the well-head. It crashed heavily to the floor, scraping the flags as they hauled it like a sled into the brewhouse. Gwydion insisted they lift it upright as quickly as they could.

The wizard stood back, his gestures looping loose rings of magical influence over the stone. Will pressed another of Gort's kerchiefs perfumed with honeysuckle and woodruff to his nose as he ran his eyes over the moist stone. The vile stink in the brewhouse doubled and redoubled, though it seemed to Will to be as sweet as mountain air compared to the reek down below.

‘We're lucky it wasn't cracked in two by the fall!' Will gasped.

Gwydion said, ‘The question is: how did it get into the well? Was it always here? And if so, what effect must its malevolence have had on the castle and those who have dwelt here?'

‘It was thrown down,' Will told him. ‘And recently.'

Gwydion looked more closely at the stone. It was the colour of raw meat. Blood wept from it continuously and
soon began to pool on the floor. There was damage to its corners where it had rattled down the well and struck the bottom. The wounds oozed pus like half-healed flesh.

‘Where are my clothes?' Will asked. When he went to the door he saw serving folk loitering in the innermost ward. He stared back, drenched in blood and slime, and looking like a man who had been flayed alive. Cries went up at the sight of him.

He allowed Jackhald to lead him to a corner of the ward where he washed in water pouring from the cisterns. Will's clothes were brought, but as he put them on and began to towel his hair he felt fresh pangs begin to assail him.

The dislocated stone was awakening by degrees, slyly, just as the Blow Stone had awakened, and with the same inevitability. Maybe the lorc was learning to counter the attacks they were making on it. Maybe the stone had read their method and knew their minds, maybe it had read their minds and now knew their method. But how could that be so? For they had none.

He laughed humourlessly, then stopped, abrupt.

The moon was swinging higher and the Ludford madness was returning. He knew he could fight it for a while, but he would need help tonight. Now that the stone had been raised there would have to be a confrontation.

The nauseous wave passed. Lucid clarity settled on him. Sharp thoughts pricked his mind. He called Jackhald to him. ‘I want to speak with the man who went down the well before me, the one who pulled the dead sheep out.'

Jackhald's eyes narrowed. ‘Why?'

‘Gwydion needs to prove how the stone came into the well, and how long it's been there.'

A man was brought. He was dirty and his huge jaw was unshaven. He eyed Will suspiciously. ‘Pooh! Master, it stank worse than a dunny down there.'

‘This one's a waster and a whiner, and none too bright at that.'

‘Jackhald, please…' Will turned to the man. ‘What's your name?'

‘Edwold, Master. But let another man go down there this time, for I won't!'

‘Edwold, I don't want to send you down the well. Just tell me what you saw down there.'

Edwold stared blankly. ‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing at all?' Will rubbed his chin. ‘Was there no water?'

‘Ar. Water. 'Tis a well.'

‘Was there…was there by any chance a large stone? Like this?' He drew a shape in the air.

Edwold grinned toothily. ‘Ar! But ‘twas bigger by twice than what you're showing there.'

‘That's right.'

Jackhald growled. ‘You said nothing before about no stone.'

‘I said naught about it, for ‘twas but a stone!' Edwold looked from face to face, fearing he was about to be blamed for something he thought was no fault of his. He turned to Will. ‘Master, I thought it no great matter for a stone to be down a well. I was sent down to hook out a sheep, was I not?'

Jackhald growled. ‘What you mean is, you said naught about any stone because you was afeared of being sent down again to fish it out!'

‘Calmly, Jackhald.' Will spoke again to Edwold. ‘Just tell me all about the stone and how it got there.'

‘There's been a lot of peculiar goings on since the new people come here,' Edwold said darkly. ‘The accursed lord come here with a dozen men in his company to the outer gate a few nights back. He starts banging to be let in. We opens up to him and we sees who it is right well.'

‘Accursed lord? You mean Lord Strange?'

‘Ar! Says he's come to speak with his grace, so we lets him in. And why not? For we all knows the Hogshead for who he is, and ‘twern't none other, eh?'

Will smiled encouragingly at him. ‘Go on.'

‘Well, then, see, there's these dozen liverymen of his comes in carrying something big.' He spread his arms vaguely. ‘Three men goes before it. And three men goes behind it. And three goes upon either side, like it's a coffin maybe with a dead man inside. But ‘taint no dead man. I sees what it is – no more than a big, carven stone, and all muddy like.'