The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (24 page)

For above the clearing in the wood circled a carrion crow. It spiralled down, barely moving its wings, and came to rest on top of the standing-stone. A long time it perched there, watching, motionless. The silence was overpowering. And then the crow launched itself into the air, and resumed its
measured glide. Closer to the drooping warrior it came, closer … closer, and settled on his shoulder. But Durathror did not move. His trial was over.

A sigh rose through the trees, and the crow hopped from the dwarf's shoulder to the ground. Straight to his wrist it went: and from there back to the pillar, with Firefrost dangling at its beak. The bird threw up its head, neck feathers blown into a ruff, and, with wings outstretched, began to dance a clumsy jig. It rolled grotesquely from side to side, its head bobbing up and down, and a yell of triumph burst forth on every side.

Grimnir cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Yes, he must act at once. If the crow should drop its eyes and look above the throng it could not fail to notice … Swiftly he strode down the hill and pushed through the morthbrood. And as he went a new cry moved with him; for in turning to see who was coming so impetuously from behind, the crowd looked beyond him … and panicked.

Colin, Susan, Gowther, and Fenodyree had watched Durathror's battle in an agony of helplessness. Fury and despair had done their worst; their minds were numb with shock. So it was with little interest or emotion that they turned their heads when the note of fear ran through the morthbrood. Then Grimnir came upon them. He faltered, but only for a second. “Kill them,” he said to the guards.

Susan opened her mouth, but no sound would come. For the first time in memory or legend Grimnir had spoken. And the voice was the voice of Cadellin.

The morthbrood were scattering in all directions. The guards were more intent on saving their own lives than on taking life away from others. For this is what they saw. Racing out of the north was a cloud, lower than any that hid the sun, and black. Monstrous it was, and in shape a ravening wolf. Its loins fell below the horizon, and its lean body arched across the sky to pouncing shoulders, and a head with jaws agape that even now was over the far end of the valley. Eyes glowed yellow with lightning, and the first snarls of thunder were heard above the cries of the morthbrood. There seemed to be one thought in all their minds – escape. But when Managarm of Ragnarok is about his master's bidding, such thoughts are less than dreams.

The svarts and lyblacs were beginning to break when Grimnir entered the wood. He kicked and trampled through them towards the pillar. The crow was still there, squatting low, its head deep in its shoulders, glaring at the oncoming cloud. It saw Grimnir on the edge of the clearing, read his purpose in a flash, and sprang. But Grimnir was too agile. He jumped, snatched high, and his fingers closed about the bird's scaly shins, and swept it out of the air. The other thin, gloved hand wrenched Firefrost from its beak. Grimnir cast the heap
of feathers viciously against the pillar, and fled.

“Eh, up!” said Gowther. “Here he comes again!”

The children and Fenodyree were still groping at the implications of what had just happened and it was not until Gowther cried, “And he's getten thy bracelet!” that they came back to life.

They might not have been there for the notice the morthbrood and all the rest took of them. Even Grimnir ignored them as he sped up towards the lane.

“After him!” shouted Fenodyree. “He must not escape!”

The hillside was thick with pell-mell bodies, but Grimnir could not be easily lost, and they set off blindly, without thinking what they could do if they caught him. Grimnir leapt on to the wall and stood poised, as though staring at something in the lane. Then he turned, and ran back down the hill, moving faster than ever. But Grimnir had barely left the wall when he staggered, and a sharp cry broke from him, and he toppled on to his hands. A double-edged sword stood out from his back. Along the blade coiled two serpents of gold, and so bright were they that it pained the eyes to look at them.

Slowly Grimnir rose, until he was on his feet. The sword dropped to the ground. He took three steps, swayed, and fell backwards. The deep cowl slid from his face, and the madness was complete. It was the face of Cadellin, twisted with pain,
but nevertheless Cadellin; kind, noble, wise, his silver beard tucked inside the rank, green, marsh-smelling, monk-like habit of Grimnir the hooded one.

Susan thought she was out of her mind. Colin could not think or speak. Fenodyree wept. Then there was a crunching of rock above them, and they looked up: someone was climbing over the wall. It was Cadellin.

He came towards them over the snow, and his eyes, too, were full of tears. No words were spoken in greeting, for it was a moment beyond words. Cadellin dropped on one knee beside Grimnir, and the tears spilled on to his cheeks.

“Oh, Govannon!” he whispered. “Govannon!”

Grimnir opened his eyes.

“Oh, my brother! This is the peak of the sorrow of all my years. That it should come to this! And at my hand!”

Grimnir raised himself on one elbow, and, ignoring Cadellin, twisted his head towards the wood. An eager light gleamed in his eyes. Among all the haphazard scuttling, one figure moved with a set purpose, and that was Selina Place, who was running towards the little group as fast as she could, her robes streaming behind her.

Grimnir brought his head round, and stared at his brother, but he did not speak. Their eyes spoke through the barrier of years, and across the gulf of their lives.

Again Grimnir turned to Selina Place. She was close. He
looked up into the smoking jaws of Managarm, then at Cadellin. A bleak smile touched the corners of his mouth, and he lifted his fist, and dropped the stone into Cadellin's hand, and fell back, dead.

Cadellin took up the sword, and sheathed it. He strove to keep his voice level.

“I am sorry we could not meet at dawn,” he said. “I did not expect to come upon the mara.” He looked at Firefrost resting in his palm. “Nor did I expect this. There will be much to tell in Fundindelve. But first …”

He turned to the Morrigan. She stood a dozen yards away, glowering, uncertain. She was not sure what had happened. Then Cadellin held up Firefrost for her to see.

“
Get you to Ragnarok
!”

Selina Place, fury in every line of her, shrieked, and ran. And as she ran a change came over her. She seemed to bend low over the ground, and she grew smaller; her robes billowed out at her side; her thin legs were thinner, her squat body heavier; and then there was no Selina Place, only a carrion crow rising into a sky of jet.

“Make haste,” said Cadellin, “or we ourselves shall be lost. Gowther Mossock, will you stand here in front of me? I shall put my hand on your shoulder. Colin, Susan, stand on either side: take hold of my robe: do not let go. Fenodyree, sit by our feet: cling fast to my hem. Is Durathror not with you?”

“He is here,” said Fenodyree. “But he will not come again.”

“What is it you say?”

Fenodyree pointed.

“
Durathror
! Quick! We must guard him!”

“Stay!” cried Fenodyree as Cadellin made towards the wood. “There is not time, and it would be of no use. See! Managarm is on us!”

All the sky to the north and east was wolf head. The mouth yawned wider, till there was nothing to be seen but the black, cavernous maw, rushing down to swallow hill and valley whole. Witches, warlocks, svarts, lyblacs, stampeded southwards, crushing underfoot any that blocked the way. The birds outdistanced them all, but they were not swift enough.

One bird alone did not go south. It flew towards the advancing shadow, climbing ever higher, until it was a black dot against a blacker vault, and even a dwarf's eyes could not tell if it did clear the ragged fangs that sought to tear it from the sky.

As the hill slid down the boundless throat Cadellin lifted his right hand, and held Firefrost on high. Gowther stood firm. Colin and Susan clasped their arms about Cadellin's waist, and Fenodyree grappled to him with his one good arm as much of the wizard's robes as he could hold.

“Drochs, Muroch, Esenaroth!”

A cone of light poured down from the stone, enclosing them in a blue haze. A starving wind, howling like wolves, was about them, yet the air they breathed was still. Slanting yellow eyes were seen dimly through the veil; hungry eyes. And there were other noises and other shapes that were better left unknown.

The fury raged and beat against the subtle armour, but it was as nothing to the power of Cadellin Silverbrow with Firefrost in his hand.

And at last, at once, the darkness passed, and the blue light faded. Blinking in the sunlight of a brilliant sky, the survivors of the wrath of Nastrond looked out over fields of white; wind-smoothed, and as empty of life as a polar shore. No svart or lyblac stained the snow; no gaunt figure lay close by; the pillar of Clulow was bare. Away to the south a black cloud rolled. There was joy, and many tears.

And this tale is called the Weirdstone of Brisingamen. And here is an end of it.

“
The Weirdstone of Brisingamen
is one of the most important books in children's fantasy. It has been an enormous inspiration to me and countless other writers, and is as enjoyable and fascinating now as it was when I first read it, wide-eyed and mesmerised, at the age of ten.”
Garth Nix

“Alan Garner is indisputably the great originator, the most important British writer of fantasy since Tolkien. Any country except Britain would have long ago recognised his importance, and celebrated it with postage stamps and statues and street-names.”
Philip Pullman

“Alan Garner's fiction is something special. Garner's fantasies were smart and challenging, based in the here and the now, in which real English places emerged from the shadows of folklore, and in which people found themselves walking, living and battling their way through the dreams and patterns of myth.”
Neil Gaiman

“The wonderful debut by one of our greatest writers. Garner writes books that really matter, books driven by powerful forces within himself, our history, our language, our mythology, our world.”
David Almond

“I've forgotten most of the books I ever read, even the ones that felt unforgettable at the time. But a glimpse of
The Weirdstone of Brisingamen
puts me straight back into that underground tunnel with Colin and Susan. The book has been haunting me for forty years and seems determined to accompany me to the Afterlife.”
Michel Faber

The Moon of Gomrath
Elidor
The Owl Service
Red Shift
A Bag of Moonshine
The Lad of the Gad
The Stone Book Quartet

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First published in 1960 by William Collins Sons & Company Ltd

This edition published by HarperCollins
Children's Books
in 2010

Text copyright © Alan Garner 1960

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

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Source ISBN 9780007355211

Ebook edition © JULY 2013 ISBN 9780007539062

Version 2013-08-05

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