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.
For Adam, Ellen & Katherine
CONTENTS