The Chalk Giants (30 page)

Elgro bowed his head. ‘Lord,’ he said humbly, ‘it will be as you wish.’

The Horsemen circled, grinning. He stepped into the ring made for him, and began to dance. He danced such a dance as had surely never been seen. He howled and roared, twisting his supple body into knot after knot. He bent till his forehead touched the ground between his heels; he leaped and capered and spun cartwheels. Dust rose round him; and the smiles of the Horsemen turned to laughter. ‘Do your magic quickly, Sealander,’ shouted the leader. ‘This leaping is for children.’

Elgro climaxed his performance with a dozen gigantic standing somersaults. The last brought him alongside the Horseman’s mount. By his knee hung a dagger in a decorated sheath.

The Dancing Man snatched it, quick as a snake, and threw. A thud; and Dendril stared down appalled. His face turned grey, and then a blazing white. His legs gave way; he sat in the dust, hands gripped to his stomach, and began to shriek.

Elgro straightened, snarling. ‘There is your pain,’ he said. ‘Is it enough, for one small Dance?’

A frozen moment; then the ring of Horsemen closed in.

The column trotted slowly, in the gathering dusk. Rand stared up, swaying with weariness. Ahead, the hills swept down to a pass carved through the chalk. In the pass rose a great steep-sided mound, its summit crowned with nubs and spikes of stone. High on the crest stood a fantastic Hall. Its windows blazed with light; on its ridge pole, dim against the night, monstrous shapes of rushes clambered and loomed. Round it torches burned, and many fires; the terraces thronged with figures that were cloaked and horned.

There was a gatehouse, built of crumbling stone. The horse to which he was tied clattered through. Inside were more soldiers. Challenges were shouted, and answered. The bridle was seized, the lashings cut from his ankles. Beside him the girl was dragged from the saddle; he saw the Dancing Man dumped on the ground like a sack of grain. Hands gripped him; he swung his legs clumsily, and the grass rose to meet his knees. He rolled sideways, felt the hill sway. The hands came again and faces, mouthing red-lit. He closed his eyes, and sank away from them.

The crash and rumble of wheels shook the ground. The tip of the great ram swayed and lurched; beyond, the face of the Tower was brightly lit. Flames rose, above the rampart walk; he saw arrows fly blazing, strike the wooden walls. A man plunged, screaming. Water cascaded; the twinkling spots of light were extinguished.

The wheels pounded. He pressed his chest to the axle, driving his feet at the packed earth of the compound. A roar from the Crablanders; and the pace increased. Something rang on his shield, bounded into the dark. In front of him a man shrieked and fell, hands to his face. He stumbled and ran on.

Another shout; and the engine brought up against the Tower door, with a jerk that fetched him to his knees. Missiles rained on the roof of stout stitched hides; beneath it the Sealanders, stripped to the waist, frantically cast the lashings from the great shaft. He stared, through the slits of his battle helmet. Arrows hissed overhead once more. Frantic activity, on Engor’s battements; and a leather mattress began to jerk and sway down the Tower front.

Men scrambled to lay hands on the ram. Something smashed and patterned on the hides. Fire ran, streaming; and the chanting began.
‘Way... and ho... Way... and ho...’
He leaned his weight with the rest; and the ram swung. The head, wedge-shaped and shod with iron, struck the door with a noise of thunder; and again. Creaks and snappings sounded; the mattress danced and leaped.

Flamelight showed through cracks that broadened. He let go the shaft and ran, sword in hand, shield held slanting above his head.

‘Way... and ho… Way ... and ho...’

Light poured from the Tower. The door crashed inward, torn bodily from its hinges. The ram swung free; he ducked beneath it, leaped. A spear glanced from his shoulder armour; he gripped the shaft, drove with the blade, wrenched it free, struck again. His voice roared in the mask; behind him the Crablanders burst into the Hall like a flood.

There were steps, of sounding wood. He bounded at them, swung his sword again. A man shrieked, toppled past him. There was a remembered door. He drove at it, shoulder and shield; and. the latch-thongs parted. Beyond were crying women. He flung them aside, strode to the bedchamber. The couch was tousled, and the room empty.

There was a further door. He wrenched at it, reeled back? Night air moved against his skin; below was the flame-lit compound.

It seemed the nightmare was continued. The masks pressed closer, jostling; and the hands were on him again, gripping shoulders and arms. The hill-top was a great confused mass of building, roofs and chambers clustering round the high central Hall. He was dragged through room after room, orange-lit by torches, full of a pungent, sweetish scent that made his brain spin. The masks whirled and bobbed; masks of stone and wood, masks of metal and bone, masks of feathers glimmering on girls who wore nothing else at all. The torches swayed; somewhere drums pounded, mixed with the pounding in his ears.

In the Hall a great fire burned. He saw, in darts and flashes, the trestles laid for a feast, the rush-strewn floor, walls hung with trophies of the God; his lances and spears and swords, his axes and chariot wheels and bolts of silk. He was hustled to a place, the girl banged down beside him. Weals showed on her face and neck. The bandage had been pulled from her arm; the cuts had bled again, spattering her clothes.

His wrists had been bound with a rawhide strip. He placed his hands on the trestle, palms together; and a cup was jammed against his teeth. He drank perforce, feeling the stuff flood across his chest. The wine woke new and burning images; the long room spun once more.

Horns sounded, close and harsh. The doors were flung back; and a procession debouched into the Hall. First came dancers and Hornmen, girls with cymbals and bells; next creatures in rustling costumes of straw; and finally a covered, gaily-decked chair, borne on the shoulders of four burly priests. Above it rose nodding heads of maize and wheat; and the Sign of the God, a phallus of bound green rushes. The horns blared; the chair was set down and silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the flames.

A voice spoke querulously from behind the drapes. ‘Bring me closer,’ it said. ‘How can I see them, from here?’

The bearers hurried, deferentially. The chair was raised again, the curtains parted; and Rand stared, trying to stop the spinning in his head. He saw what at first seemed nothing more than a mound of brilliant feathers; then the cape moved, rusting. Black eyes glittered through the mask slits; and the voice spoke again. ‘Why did you come to my land, and to my House?’ it asked. ‘Do you bring the Touch that Heals? For this, I saved you from my Horsemen.’

He swallowed, shaping his lips round words. ‘Where is my Dancing Man?’ he said. ‘Is he alive, or dead?’

The mask quivered. ‘What is life?’ it said. ‘What is death? I, who died on the hill, knew both.’ The voice wavered, seeming to lose the thread of its thoughts. ‘What has happened?’ it asked plaintively. ‘Where is the God? For seven times seven years, I was his Bride. Never did he fail me ... Sealander, where are the years? Can you answer?’

He lowered his eyes. He said, ‘I came seeking wisdom, not to give it.’

The mask bobbed again. The crone said abruptly, ‘Is this your woman?’

He shook his head, in pain. ‘Do not harm her,’ he said. ‘Her father is a King in the west. He will give the God rich gifts.’

It seemed he went unheard. ‘How red her blood runs,’ said the priestess. ‘The blood of the young... Show me, child, there is no shame. Show me and I will tell you how the God went with me, seven times seven years ...’ The voice sank to a mutter, rose again. ‘Where is the God?’ it asked. ‘What has happened to me?’ Then in a thin shout, ‘I burn...’

Rand groaned, bringing his fists down on the table. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘this is age...’

She shrieked, ‘The Favoured cannot age ...’ She snatched at the mask, with a thin brown hand; and he turned away. The face had withered, falling in round the smashed nose, the cicatrice of a great scar. ‘We have searched,’ said the creature. ‘First we sought the touch that heals all ills; but no man brought it to my Hall. Now, we search again. For the soul lives in the flesh, like a silver worm. Who finds that worm, and swallows, will be young; but it is quick, and shy.’ She called, rattling the feathered cape; and a great wooden wheel was carried into the Hall, set down.

The King rose slowly, arms extended, face like a man suddenly blind. He swayed; then the thing before him spoke. Little enough remained, to show that it was Elgro; but the voice was the Dancing Man’s.
‘My Lord,’
it whispered slowly,
‘I think now, your penance is done’

In Engor’s Tower, the noise had died away. He ran, feet pounding, back the way he had come. He took a woman by the throat, shouting for the Queen; but she could only wail. He hurled her from him, ran again.

In the Great Hall, the dead lay sprawled and heaped. Blood mapped the flags with brilliant traceries. A man sat on the door edge, patiently, holding up the remnant of a hand; beyond, in a silent semicircle, stood the Crablanders. In their midst the leather mattress swung, still cradled in its web of ropes. Bulging it was, and sodden; and its corner as it moved traced a thin pattern on the sill.

He was unaware that he slashed and screamed; but the leather parted, before his face. He turned away, hands to his skull; but not before he had seen, above the red and white, the coils of ash-pale hair.

The cry that came from him was the noise of a wolf. He raised his arms, the fingers crooked; and the bonds that held him snapped. The trestle barred his way; he laid a great hand to it, flung it aside. Screams sounded; the masks swirled and fell. He seized the wheel and raised it, ran staggering to jam it at the flames. Logs spilled and rolled, blazing; and Elgro’s ghost fled from him, with a shriek.

A sword was in his hands. Foam flecked his mouth; he struck, not knowing that he swung the blade. He struck for Egril and Cultrinn, Calbritt and Ensor and Matt. He struck for Cedda, and Engor, and Deandi the Fay; and each blow was a life. The fight swayed round him, surging; the noise doubled and redoubled, till the rafters rang. Then it seemed there were none to oppose him; so he struck the trestles and chairs, the drapes on the walls, the rushes, the jars of wine. Lastly, he struck the litter of the priestess. The gilded grasses flew, and tatters of drenched silk. He stamped and trampled, screaming; and a thin wail rose. Then the thing inside was young again.

The redness faded. He ran to where the girl was crouched, seized her arm. He raised her; and the doors of the Hall burst inward. Faces poured forward, shouting; and the bronze strapped shields of Sealand, swords, the tips of spears.

He ran again, crouching. Behind him the Hall was hazed with smoke. The flames spread swiftly, licking at the drapes, leaping to the roof. Thatch fell, blazing; the smoke swirled, thicker than before.

There was a low door, iron-barred. He smashed his foot against it. Night air blew round him; he stumbled, dragging the girl behind him across a slope of grass.

The blazing thatch of the God House lit the hill-top with an orange glare. He ran swerving, between tall pillars of stone. A roof section caved in; the flames roared up, brightening. Yells sounded from where the raiding party engaged fresh troops of Horsemen. There was a crumbling wall; he tumbled the girl over it, heard her land with a crackling of branches. A man was close behind him. He turned, parried the mace-swing, drove upward. The blade passed below the God-mask, burst out through the skull. The body convulsed; he tore the weapon free, vaulted to the wall-top and dropped into the dark.

The side of the mound was thickly overgrown with bushes and young trees. He half-ran, half-skidded down a cliff of grass, still towing the girl. The slope steepened. He tripped, rolled. The girl yelped; he landed in a smother of bushes, lay staring up. High above, over the great shoulder of the mound, the Hall roared like a furnace.

There was a stream, running cool and swift between tall fern-hung banks. He stepped into it, pulling her after him. Trees arched overhead, velvet-black in the night; he waded groaning, hands to his temples, and heard her cry.

He turned back, floundering. She was crouched below the bank, head down, arm gripped across her chest. He glared, face working; then he stooped. He raised her carefully, feeling her shake and sob; and waded on again, into the dark.

The two figures moved slowly, down the long rough slope of grass. Beyond was the sea. The dawn was in the sky, washing the land with pale grey light.

Bushes fringed the edge of a low cliff. Rand crouched, parted the branches carefully. Below, greatships were drawn up on the beach. Fires burned at intervals; closer, tall standards were thrust into the grass. He stared, narrowing his eyes; and let his held breath escape. ‘Ulm of the Fishguard,’ he said. ‘Crenlec, from Long Fen. Friends of the Crab.’

She sat staring dully at the water, still gripping her arm. He turned her wrist gently, pulled her fingers away. ‘They are all gone,’ he said. ‘Matt, and Egrith, and Egril and his sons. If she is in Hell, she knows I tried to follow. I sent my best before, to tell her so.’

He scooped his arms beneath the girl, raised her once more. She laid her head on his shoulder wearily, eyes closed. ‘We are all dead,’ he said. ‘The Rat is dead. Child, how are you called?’

The lips moved, in the drawn face, ‘Mavri,’ she said. ‘Of the White Rock.’

He frowned. ‘There is a Tower, in my country,’ he said. ‘If I sit there again, I will try to be a King.’

She made no answer; and he stepped forward heavily, climbing the zigzag path down to the ships.

The greatships crash back into silence; and Potts is well content. He’s been through a bit of a patch, certainly; but the crisis has passed. He feels convalescent; you can always tell. Like after a bad go of asthma. He used to enjoy his convalescences; walking to the park in the thin spring sunshine, and school a week away.