Whitemantle (35 page)

The last thing he wanted was to approach the stone any closer. Still, he knew that neither cowardice nor appeasement would help against malice and he forced himself to step out all but the last few of those remaining twenty paces.

‘I must not try to drain it,’ Gwydion muttered, ‘but still I may be able to do something to make the coming battle less bloody.’

Will mouthed a soundless curse. ‘While trying to bias its outcome towards your own ends, of course.’

Gwydion was almost thrown by the sourness of the accusation, but he rode it. ‘I mean to interfere with the stone’s process if I can, as once I did at Ludford, but this time there is an awkward complication.’

Will looked out across the bleak winter landscape as full night came down. His will to plod on failed. This was as close as he dared come to the baleful emanations, at least until he could make a renewed effort to master himself.

‘You’ve been digging at the roots,’ Will said, seeing now that the excavation had been done with sticks and bare hands.

‘They are not roots. We cannot remove the battlestone from the ground because it is buried under what looks to be a tree, but which, if you look closer, you will see is not a tree at all.’

Will forced himself to move another step. It required all the courage he had, all the courage needed to plunge a knife into his own heart. When he reached out to touch the trunk he saw his fingers vanish, and as he looked down at himself he saw that his left side had become invisible.

He did not draw his hand away, seeing through the crudeness of the stone’s attack.

The tree was as cold and solid as an anvil.

‘An iron statue of a tree?’ Will breathed the words.

‘It cannot be hewn down by axes. If you disbelieve me ask that Fellow you call your friend to try his strength against it. This stone has hidden itself well in a cage of its own making. I wonder how long it took for its remorseless seepings to transform this noble oak into a fiendish protection.’

‘No longer than one of its brothers took to send Lord Clifton insane, I’ll warrant.’

Gwydion walked sunwise around the trunk, igniting blue flames of magelight at intervals, so the iron tree was lit up weirdly like an enchanter’s crown. ‘I have tried to melt it with blasts, but though the iron glows first red, then yellow, and at last white, such heat as I can direct upon it does not even scar it.’

Lotan caught them up. ‘Why don’t we blow it to pieces with sorcerer’s powder?’

The wizard scowled, but said nothing. Instead he took Will aside and said, ‘Come with me a little way, for I would speak with you alone.’ And when they had come down the hill and were out of Lotan’s earshot, ‘You must give me your word that you will not pass on what I tell you. Not to him.’

Will stiffened. ‘Do not offer me divisive secrets, Master Gwydion. We are one company and whatever you say to me I will tell to whomsoever I choose.’

‘Then at least promise me that you will choose with care when you do so, for this I
must
tell you: there is no sign of the battlestone having been tampered with, but you are right in your guess that Maskull may no longer have any need to work with the stones directly. He has used the harm he decanted at Delamprey to make not just a weapon, as we have been supposing, but I think now a
means
of making weapons.’

The implications of that idea chased one another rapidly through Will’s mind, and he narrowed his eyes. ‘You mean he has something that he can make as many weapons from as he wishes? Like a store of harm maybe? But that implies—’

‘Quietly!’ Gwydion looked vigilantly to where Lotan lingered alone. ‘Simply put, it is part of Maskull’s attempt to survive the collision of worlds with his personal power
intact. I believe he is now ready to use fae magic to pack up a quantity of harm and carry it across, so that after the collision he may more easily become sole master of whatever remains.’

‘Where did you learn all this?’

‘Shhh! As you know, loremasters have ways of keeping one another informed.’

‘The wreath of leaves back at the crossroads – that was your message.’

‘Not that, but another like it. Some time ago, Lord Morann, who has been about certain tasks on my behalf, warned that Maskull might have found a way to concentrate the harm which has already been released into the middle airs.’

Will gave a gasp of despair. ‘Oh, now
that
would be ironic.’

‘Indeed. As yet, Morann cannot be sure of the truth of it, but it appears that Maskull has not properly appreciated that if he sucks up the harm that has been dispersed from the battlestones, then he will begin to steer us away from the collision that he so eagerly anticipates.’

‘How refreshing to see him do something that works to our advantage for a change.’ Will allowed himself a smile until a sudden, vicious doubt speared him. ‘But surely he’s not ignorant of the consequences of what he’s attempting. He must know something that we don’t. Or maybe the rumour Morann heard was a calculated lie left for us to find.’

‘Well, in that case, our journey to this place will not have been in vain. We shall be here when the armies clash, so if Maskull does need to tap one more stone, then he will have to attend this place with rather more urgency than he attended Awakenfield, hmmm?’

‘Is there really so little time left?’

The wizard regarded him for a moment. ‘I see from your
eyes that you already know the answer to that. The days of this world are numbered. Days, I say. Not months or years. According to the Black Book our world is sitting on the very brink of the precipice.’

Will fought his despair. Despite Gort’s gritty elixir, and despite their having come a fair distance away from the stone, still a sense of doom was forcing its way through his defences. He made his response deliberately brave. ‘Then we’d better get on with the job!’

Gwydion’s eyes glittered with a weird light. ‘This time, I shall sit by the stone and close my trap on Maskull. And you, Willand – you must bear witness.’

That struck Will as an arch thing to say, a rejection. Fears for Willow’s safety burst in his breast. The wizard’s plan seemed all at once to be ill-considered and monstrously perilous, and the wizard himself to be wheedling and sly. He fought the feelings of revulsion, telling himself they were false and only the stone’s doing. But as he began to wander away, Gwydion seized his cloak and growled, ‘Do not speak of this to that Fellow, I warn you!’

‘You
warn
me?’ Will’s anger flared up, but somehow, he stifled it and nodded. ‘If you will agree to treat him with the respect he deserves while I’m away, I will say nothing.’

The wizard narrowed his gaze. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

Will felt more reluctance rumble through him. ‘I…have to. I must bring news of the duke’s fate to Edward.’

‘But you cannot leave us now!’

‘Watch me. By first light. By moonlight if there be any. I must.’

‘Tell Edward what has happened and you will make the killing here all the worse.’

‘He must know that his father and brother are dead. That is his right. And the news should come from me.’ He looked to the half-hidden stone and back, and said with
undue curtness, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t interfere with your plans.’

‘You do not even know where Edward is!’

‘I shall find him.’

Their stares met – fire on fire – but then the wizard accepted Will’s decision with a sigh. ‘I am sure you will. Edward is encamped a league and a half beyond Yatton Mystery. Go north up the Slaver road and his tents will come into view. Be careful that the archers he posts as pickets do not mistake you for a Cambrayman. And fair fortune go with you.’

A
lone man riding a horse in the misty dawn posed no threat to the great army of a Marcher lord, and Will was allowed to enter all the way into Edward’s camp before being halted.

There was an assembly of ten thousand men gathered in the crook of the Lugg valley. In addition, perhaps half as many again were moving down from Wyg Moor. Already, bands of archers were being deployed, going in all likelihood to the wooded slopes above Morte’s Crossing ready to ambush the Cambray army. The enemy were marching in the slender hope they could catch Edward in one of his lesser castles. There, holed-up and helpless, Jasper imagined, Edward might be brought to terms.

But it was a ludicrous hope, and one destined to be dashed. A general muster seemed to be in progress as Will sought permission to approach Edward’s tent enclosure. The wait was agonizing as he went over again what he would have to say. Edward had always idolized his father, and might now blame himself for having left the duke on bad terms. Whether that had been so or not, Edward had certainly believed an erroneous interpretation of Mother Brig’s prophecy that ‘Ebor shall o’erlook Ebor’. He had,
at the last, spoken ill of his brother. And it was wholly possible that Edward, on learning of the tragedy, might convince himself that the rift between son and father had been to blame for it.

Now that Will had put distance between himself and the Doomstone of the West his head was clearer. He tried thinking as Gwydion was accustomed to think. The wizard was an old hand at statecraft, hugely careful about what he said to whom and for what reason. He could put himself in another’s position with great accuracy and was adept at predicting what one so addressed would think when given a piece of news. But Will could only wonder what Edward would do when he heard the bitter truth. Would he storm and rage? Would he freeze? Would he break down? Or did he have enough spring steel in his spirit to lay aside the news until after the battle and so do his duty towards those whom he led? Will found it impossible to know the answer, but he knew with certainty that Edward should learn what had happened without delay, and the news would come better from him than from anyone else in the world.

He turned his mind to Willow. After he had taken himself aside and drawn power from the earth, they had hugged one another close in the darkness, but he had found her truly fearful about losing him. He had not told her about his revelation. It was not the right time. Premonitions were not for him alone, she had said. And though he had told her it was only the stone that was making her terrors rise up like that, he had not been wholly convincing. She had always been able to see right through him. She knew that the end-time was coming, and that he was not certain that he could survive it.

‘I wish you didn’t have to go,’ she had said as he prepared to mount up.

He hardened his gaze. ‘I must do this.’

‘Well…if I don’t see you before the battle begins,’ she
said, eyes filling, ‘know that I’ll stand by Master Gwydion and do just as he asks.’

‘That’s what worries me. I’d much rather you went to Ludford and banged on the door until they gave you shelter.’

She had hugged him tight. ‘That’s not for me, Will, and you know it.’

‘Come, come!’ Gort had said, handing Will the reins. ‘Dark the dawn when day is nigh! Hustle your horse and don’t say die, hey!’

Will looked up now at the milky pale sky. The dark of dawn had become a morning of low mists and high, spiritous clouds that spoke of turmoil in the upper airs. As the sun rose, its wan rays drove ice from the ground, turning wherever it struck into a cold and volatile dew. A sea of tents filled Luggvale, and threads of woodsmoke rose up from innumerable camp fires into the still air.

Numbers of horsemen were pouring down the valley now, thundering across the slopes and massing on the plain. Will saw his chance passing and insisted time and again to the stern-faced guards who kept the noblemen’s enclosure that he had brought vital news. News of a battle lately fought at a place in the north, and that Edward
must
receive him.

But he was kept waiting.

What excuse could there be? The vigil that all knights made on the eve of battle should have been done with long ago. The meeting with Edward’s lieutenants must be over too. Even the ritual donning of his steel suit could not be taking so long…

At last Will could bear it no longer. He knew that he must act. If the problem needed magic then so be it.

Of the three well-armed guards, the two younger were at the gate. An older guard of greater girth stood a dozen paces away. All of them were helmeted in sallets with visors raised across their brows. That would make it tricky.

Will drew power unobtrusively, muttered as if to himself, and tried not to seem strange as he wheeled and stepped out the points of a pentacle. After a while the two nearer guards began to sweat in the sunshine. Their faces turned red. They moved their weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Before Will could count to seventy-seven, the chief guard loosened his chin strap and walked towards the others, blowing.

‘It’s a warm one for this time of year.’

As soon as they saw their chief take off his helmet the others unbuckled theirs. Will gathered himself again, speedily danced out a jelly-knee spell, knocked off the guards’ caps and touched their foreheads – one, two, three! They fell among one another in a faint, poleaxes clattering.

Before they had hit the ground Will was halfway to the largest and richest of the tents. The inside was opulently equipped with folding chairs, rugs, a writing desk and two large chests. But no Edward.

Will cursed. He must move quickly if he was to escape. He turned back to the exit, looked about, then stepped outside. As soon as he was in the sunshine he began shouting for help and calling attention to the sleeping men. When the rest of the guard came he pointed to the tent. ‘There he goes! There, the villain!’

‘Hold him,’ said one with a taller crest on his helmet than the others.

Five of the seven newly-arrived guards made for their lord’s tent, fearing some theft was being attempted. Will played the indignant witness with the sixth man but was forced to take a chance by breaking away from the last. The guard tried to hold him, but Will stepped back, wrapped himself in his cloak and melted away.

He was furious with himself for bearing all the delays yet still having to resort to magic, but at least he had escaped arrest. As he went he heard the flare of trumpets, and he
halted, wondering what to do for the best. All around, men were breaking ranks and running towards the sound. Will resisted being swept along, but then he too broke into a run, knowing now that he was not the cause, and that only one man could have this effect on the army.

His suspicions were confirmed, for out of the woods galloped a line of huge battle chargers, flying all the standards loyal to the House of Ebor. Men in blued or mirror-bright steel glided through the cheering troops. Wherever Edward had been, he had returned.

Will knew he must fight his way to the front before the soldiers packed in too solidly. In moments they would make it impossible for him to get any closer without the spells he so wanted to avoid. The troops were gathering before Edward in expectation of a rousing speech. They wanted words from their lord, words to boil up their blood, words to put fire in their bellies. Edward, so avidly modelled on his father, would not disappoint them.

There was now no alternative for Will but to thrust himself forward immediately. He broke through into the open path of the cantering warriors, and began to writhe in a serpentine dance that made the lead horses shy. His mouse-brown cloak whirled and threw off a green light. As that light touched upon nearby trees it caused them to bud and burst into leaf. Those who saw it crouched in amazement, struck dumb now as skylarks took up their silence and ten thousand daffodils surged from sleep across the water meadow.

Will raised his arms and called out momentously, ‘Edward of Ebor, hearken unto me!’

And Edward did hearken. He tried to urge his horse forward, but it would not go. At a signal all but the earl’s squire fell back, but this man came and took off his lord’s long spurs so that Edward could dismount and move to within a sword’s length of the strange enchanter who had burst springtime from the lea.

Will felt a powerful bond with Edward, a bond that was more than an echo of old friendship. In that moment it seemed blood-powerful, almost like kinship. He bowed his head, and when he raised it there were tears in his eyes. ‘Friend Edward, I come with sad tidings concerning your father and brother.’

But Edward was ready for him. ‘It is the false messenger!’ he cried. ‘Let it speak, for that is the only way we shall have done with it.’

Edward’s voice was steel hard, his glance deadly, like a man making just so much time for an essential matter he has been neglecting but which now has to be cleared up. Will saw the dreadful darkness in that face and supposed that at any moment he might be seized and an order given that he be beheaded as a liar and a traitor.

Edward shouted to the sky, as if to some hidden magician, ‘Let it speak now, or I shall pass on!’

Will took his strange reception with incredulity, hardly understanding the manner that had come over Edward. ‘There has…there has been a bloody battle by the Castle of Sundials,’ he began. Then he went on to tell the story of the Awakenfield disaster as briefly and compassionately as he could, relaying all that had happened of which he had sure knowledge. He told of the death in battle of the duke, and the murder of Edmund, but as he came to speak of the way in which the queen had made her decoration for the city’s gate, Edward’s strange pent-up expression exploded into impatience.

He addressed the air a second time. ‘Hear me, sorcerer! I have heard enough from this
thing
! Whatever it may be, let it speak no more on the matter of my family, or I will cleave it in two parts!’

Will was staggered by the madness that seemed to have overcome the warrior. ‘Please listen to me, Edward, your father is dead—’

‘Begone, I say, meddlesome spirit! Trouble my days no more!’ He tilted his face again to the sky. ‘I will have no more of this. Do you hear me, sorcerer?’

And with that he cast over Will a black powder poured out from the heel of his gauntlet, a powder that blinded and choked and threw Will to his knees. And while Will groaned and staggered, the new Duke of Ebor mounted up and led his people onward at the trot.

Will’s face burned as if it had been smitten with hot ashes. He rolled and gasped, then found his feet and ran like a madman. And perhaps it was only that insane dash that saved him from being trampled into the grass by Edward’s haughty escort, for they were used to despising that which their master despised. And perhaps it was only the presence of the escort that saved Will, for they screened him from the malice of the common soldiers.

He ran like a lunatic across the boggy ground, making for the river. He threw himself into the icy water to thrash like so much dirty laundry against the river stones in hopes of washing that acrid powder away.

‘You’re no King Arthur!’ he cried, cursing himself. ‘You’re no Master Gwydion! Just a half-man set to flight by a handful of sorcerer’s powder! What hope is there now?’

His impotence turned to rage and his rage to violence as he struggled to the banks of the Lugg and tore up fistfuls of cool grass and slammed his toes into the muddy earth. There he lay, caring little for the world, until the cheers and shouts in the distance prickled him more than the slowly subsiding pain in his eyes. He walked across the green, seeing now the withered yellow blooms as they sagged and browned on their stalks. They had been ripped from their bulbs by ill-devised magic and drooped, dying in their thousands. Humbled and hurt, slimed with mud, a pauper in his weeds, he went to sit in the branches of a tree, to see what wonders might come next.

But if there was magic in the air now it was none of Will’s making, for the young duke was giving an oration to his army, and Will saw that seated on a horse to Edward’s left was his youngest brother, Richard, and to his right his other brother, George. They were boys still. Young boys. Too young for battle. Yet they were armoured, and being shown off to the army as encouragement.

Will dripped and shivered, defeated. He fumed blackly, thinking out what had just come to pass. The battlestone was working hard on Edward now, but this matter had the whiff of another kind of sorcery about it. Even now it was hard to say if Edward truly understood what had been told to him. Had a spell been cast upon his comprehension? He behaved like a man who had already been told some twisted version of the truth, a man who had already made up his mind what to believe…

And then there was the powder. What knight rode to his destiny with a glove full of sorcerer’s powder? It was as if Edward had been forewarned to expect a magical intervention. As if he had been counselled about what to do, and given the counter-measure.

Will squeezed the sourness from his eyes. There had been weak magic in the powder, a slapdash formulation that had largely run to ground by the time it had been hurled in his face. A spell of blinding and burning, but incompetently made. He took a crumb of comfort from the fact that, by comparison, his own efforts had not been so crude. But still he had failed, for here he was up a tree and catching cold, while the man of the moment was bewitching the crowd.

Will’s teeth chattered as he tried to tune his ear to Edward’s words. When he looked skyward, it was in amazement, for where there had been one sun, shining low down in the south, now there were three!

Three suns blazing? How could that be? It was a trick
of the moist air, nothing more, a phenomenon of sunlight penetrating the mists. It could not be otherwise for there was no feel of glamour about it, though the men who gawped at it were ready to believe too quickly in omens.

Will tilted his head, shaded his eyes, and almost fell from his perch. Great consternation spread among the soldiers below. Many knelt and clasped their hands together or stared at one another in vast dismay. But when the hubbub died down, Edward’s voice carried clearer and he told the assembled thousands that this was indeed a sign that had been foretold. A sign from Almighty God, a wonder carried down from Heaven, a sign of the glorious afterlife now being enjoyed by the previous Duke of Ebor.