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Chapter Three
WEAPON AND COUNSEL
‘That’s her place,’ says the King: ‘Tol Gulwen.’
The dark island rises from the middle of a drizzly, misty lake. A causeway runs from the island to the shore, towards the place where Swin and Athelstan are now sitting on their horses, at the eaves of the wood. The causeway supports a road made of young tree-trunks, trimmed and split lengthwise.
‘It looks very unpleasant,’ says Swin.
‘That’s part of the awe of the place.’
‘Well, what happens?’
There has been no sign of life on the island, no movement at all; but presently, as the two sit gazing over the water, Swin waiting for Athelstan to speak, a long-horned animal, a wild cow covered with long dark hair, emerges from the trees at the island’s nearer end. Moving at a leisurely pace, it is followed by others, one after another. The herd lower their heads to the water and drink.
‘The kine of Berma,’ says Athelstan at last. ‘There’s a wagon-house hidden in there somewhere. When Berma comes, she takes out the wagon, or hitches them up to it and drives it out – we wouldn’t know. Then she drives over the causeway.’
‘...And then, uncle?’
‘And then, sister-son, depending on which season it is, we either load the sacrifices into the wagon, or else they mount up by themselves. Midwinter isn’t too bad. It’s solemn, and terrible, but it’s light – midday – and the victims have an exalted feeling. But the midsummer rite is hard to think about. Midnight, smoking torches, clashing cymbals, drums going like crazy, men and women cutting themselves... I’ve seen the moon herself, when she’s been at the full, dripping blood.’
‘But why do you do it?’
Athelstan gives a deep sigh, and for a moment his expression is that of a man haunted by some terrible dread. Then he turns his horse round and rides up the muddy track. Swin follows and comes beside him. Among the dripping trees, which are covered in grey lichen and gnarled, thick-haired ivy, the light is greenish and dull. The birds, if there are any birds in this wood, are silent.
‘The Lady gives ’em a blessing,’ says Athelstan sombrely. ‘If a farmer sheds his blood into the waters of Ael-en-Aderthad at midsummer, and then sprinkles his fields with the water, then his crops are blessed. Some folk use other rites, like back home –’ ‘Building wicker images? Weaving straw dollies?’ ‘Yes... beast-plays, mummery, dancing round bonfires and leaping the flames, making love in the ploughed ground – you know. But the blood-rite is reckoned the most powerful of all.’
‘It must work, then,’ comments Swin. ‘Everyone here seems very happy.’
‘They are happy.’
‘But you, kinsman, are not.’
Athelstan turns in his saddle and gives Swin a long, intense look, his eyes narrowed, his mouth smiling. Swin returns his gaze. He can feel the sword Lydagnir, swinging gently and pressing against his hip as he rides along: Lydagnir the sword of his father and true Elvish blade, Lydagnir the original of Heathogrim. When he first drew it from the scabbard it seemed light. His arm had its own moment of desire for a heavier weapon. But he felt at once that Lydagnir was strong and well-balanced, besides being a thing of exquisite workmanship. Nobody carries a weapon in this kingdom, but Swin has felt undressed without a sword. As the foreigner, the mighty warrior who has come to help the country in its hour of peril, he needs some distinguishing ornament.
Athelstan replies: ‘I’d say that it’s been very rich, this life, full of rewards, since I left Garholt. Berma takes care of things at her end and I deal out judgement from the High Seat of the Burg; the people like me well enough, but the main thing is that they look after themselves. So there’s plenty of time for hunting, hawking, music, storytelling...’
‘“Abundance of gold and silver and jewels, of honey and wine, of swords and robes, of swift steeds and keen-scented hounds”?’
Athelstan laughs. ‘Oh yes, all of that! But there are other sacrifices, ones that may be required even of the King himself, if the peace and unity of his kingdom are to be maintained. The frithgild, we call it: that means Men and Dwarves and Elves sharing the land with amity. There is a kind of obligation looming up in front of me – a task that I won’t exactly be obliged to do, or perform, but – well, never mind. I desire not to speak of it to you. But if you ever notice me looking a little pensive, it’s because of something that hasn’t happened yet. And may not happen at all.’
Swin ponders this. Then he says, ‘Let’s go back, then. These fellows are human sacrifices to the Goddess.’
‘Even so. Berma-Fuindis kills them with a knife. Two willing ones in the wintertime, two unwilling ones in the summer. The unwilling ones are usually murderers or bandits.’
‘And yet you have willing victims too? People who come forward to offer themselves?’
‘Why should that surprise you who have seen Berma as Fuindis? Few visit Caras Gulwen, and no man has ever come out alive after so long a stay as you made... Tell me, are you willing to offer yourself? To fight for us? To risk your head?’
It is the first time that the question has been put to Swin directly. ‘Yes,’ he answers.
‘To encounter Fëaruk?’
‘Yes,’ says Swin heavily, ‘I’ve got a score to settle with that bloody worm! But how?’
‘You shall have help, and we will do our share.’
‘When? What are we waiting for?’
‘For the Dwarves to come from the Eastern Mountains. A bird-messenger arrived this morning. They’re coming slowly, for they have a very heavy load to bring, but they will be with us in a day or two.’
The Dwarves come sooner than expected, as they have a way of doing: they arrive that same evening. A porter comes in with the news, and the King orders dinner to be delayed for an hour; he then sets off with courteous haste to greet these extremely important visitors. Swin and Dulinir go with him. The Dwarves, short stumpy figures in coloured hoods and heavy boots, have come to the foot of the hill and stopped by the stone doorway, set in the hillside, that leads to the chambers of the Dwarves of Athelstan’s own household. Rain is now falling more heavily. The load is a long heavy thing, bigger at one end than the other, wrapped in hides and tightly bound with many cords that glisten in the light of the flaring, smoking torches. It is carried on a train of four separate carts loosely coupled together, the whole thing being drawn by a team of twenty-four oxen, large silent beasts that tower over their bustling drivers. The chief Dwarf gives a terse command, then stands and watches while a foreman shouts more orders. Dwarves come hurrying out of the cavern doors, carrying ropes and tackle, wooden ramps, blocks and poles. The long shallow ramps are set up, the burden’s lashings are carefully loosened and its chocks are struck out of the way. Then a dozen Dwarves lever it sideways, off the edge of the carts and onto the tops of the ramps, where more sturdy pole-wielders are waiting to receive it. Very deliberately, with a slow dancelike interplay of levers, the long heavy thing is allowed to roll down the ramps and onto the twelve bands of tough cloth that will form its hammock. The ramps are taken away, and then many more Dwarves, ranged along both sides of the load, take hold of the ends of the bands. At another word of command they lift it up. Walking together, bowed and staggering as they go, they carry their burden through the doorway.
More large cases and bags follow, some of these also extremely heavy.
The chief of the Dwarves of Ost-en-Aderthad is a venerable Dwarf named Vali. With him are his sons, Nali and Nabbi and Nar; and Nar has his own two sons present, young Dwarves named Hanar and Har. Nabbi and Nar and the Sons of Nar are bald Dwarves, beardless and red-eyed; they come to dinner with the others, accepting Athelstan’s invitation, but they keep their hoods on throughout the meal.
Vali says little, being old and dignified; it is Nabbi who has learned the ways of Men and who now converses with Athelstan and Swin as they all sit at the high table in the King’s hall. This Nabbi is almost certainly to be identified as that Nabbi Goldenbeard who travelled with the Surveyors to Ninniachlo and briefly befriended Erum. The slight uncertainty stems from the fact that he now has no beard at all.
Dinner is brought in, accompanied by trumpets and kettledrums: a roast venison surrounded by ducks and pheasants. But no sooner have the company fallen to, than the porter comes in again. He bends and speaks in the King’s ear. ‘Very good,’ says Athelstan: ‘Let him enter.’
In comes Dreng, he whom Swin and Dulinir left behind at Caras Gulwen. He stands and faces the King. Swin, sitting on the other side of the table, pushes back his chair and turns to get a good look at him. In the light of the candles Dreng is seen as a dark stocky figure with a short grizzled beard and hair and clothes wet with rain. He salutes Athelstan unsmilingly.
‘Speak,’ says the King.
‘My lord,’ says the Man, in a full harsh voice with the accent of the Foro: ‘I bring you greetings from Mistress Berma. You, with Lord Eofor, and with whom you would invite, are bidden to a council and a noon-time meal with her tomorrow.’
‘...Very good,’ replies Athelstan after one of his mysterious pauses. ‘But where is Barammath now?’
‘In her wood, Your Majesty, in one of her accustomed places. Tomorrow you will be guided thither.’
‘Do you know the way? I thought not. Very well, friend, thanks for the message. Sit down with us now. Tomorrow you shall return to her in our company.’
A chair is brought for Dreng, and a trencher placed. Free talk is resumed. Swin asks Dulinir, who is sitting next to him, the King’s right-hand and left-hand seats being occupied by Vali and Nabbi: ‘Is Barammath her cottage? Also called Wiccot?’
‘Yes, it’s the Elves’ name for her house when it’s not at home. It comes here sometimes.’
‘And should not the King your father have sent back his acceptance of the invitation?’
‘That’s needless, for she knows that the invitation will be accepted.’
The dishes and the wreckage of the meat are taken away; the wine comes round again, followed by bowls of strawberries, cherries, figs and cream sweetened with honey. The mirth of the meal rises to its height. But then the porter makes a third appearance. Before he has finished announcing the latest arrivals they have entered the hall, forestalling permission: two young Men, well dressed and similar in looks. The taller has a close-cropped head and beard of dark brown hair, while the other’s shoulders are hung about with locks of palest gold, almost white. They stand in their wet and travel-stained garments, restraining their breath, having run across the courtyard and up the stairs.
‘Boys, you’re in haste,’ says Athelstan: ‘What’s the news?’
Prince Thoronhir, the dark son, also the taller and elder, answers: ‘Father, the enemy has come through Anglad Morwen. The dragon is with them. They’re marching south-east.’
‘How far are they from the Lantros?’ asks the King. (The reader may recollect the adventure the Punchkins had on the banks of this stream, and the mighty Wave; and that the Lantros is the Western border of Athelstan’s kingdom.)
‘They must have reached it today.’
‘Well well: so it comes,’ says Athelstan, half to himself, as it seems, and with a slightly eerie composure. ‘Three strands woven together; and the cord begins to tighten.’
That night Swin sleeps soundly in his cool, thick-walled room, lulled by the singing of many distant nightingales.
‘Today,’ says Athelstan, ‘we may hope to find good counsel. In the forenoon we will go to Berma. That leaves us the morning, which can very usefully be spent in visiting the Dwarves, and seeing what they have brought us.’
‘Excuse me, uncle,’ says Swin: ‘What can Berma tell us that we don’t know already?’
‘Nothing at all,’ answers Athelstan. ‘Nonetheless she may render us great help. Now let’s go downstairs.’
There are very, very many stairs. Twice the stairway emerges from the hewn-out tunnels to crawl across the face of the crags. In another place the passage runs on a level, past a row of gloomy caves with thick-barred entrances and tiny pierced windows. A few men are in these cells. All of them get up and come forward at the approach of the torches. Their calls and appeals fall silent, abruptly, as King Athelstan stands before them. ‘Prisoners, good morning,’ he says with his formidable mildness.
To Swin’s surprise, the low response is quite respectful. There are a few muttered ‘lords’ and ‘majestys’ to be heard. Then silence. The King waits, allowing his captives the opportunity to speak, if they wish; and at last one says:
‘How long, sire, how long?’
‘Not long, perhaps,’ he answers. ‘Your folk have begun to invade my country, and there will soon be war. Whatever its outcome, I think that one of the results will be your freedom.’
‘And Ardebor and Gilfas, Your Majesty?’ asks the other. He is a tall, broad-shouldered Man; he grips the prison-bars fiercely, his knuckles gleaming in the torchlight. His face is full of despair. ‘What’s become of them? Where are they?’
‘Cease to trouble yourself about them,’ answers King Athelstan. ‘Their heads are on the Witch’s necklace, and you may count yourself very fortunate. Come on, lads.’
He leads his party on. The anxious prisoner tugs at the bars and bellows furious curses down the passage: ‘Dru sees you, King of iniquity! Dru will punish you for your murders! Hell lies in wait for you!’
‘I like that chap,’ says the King.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ says Swin thoughtfully. ‘In the Temple – on my first visit, not my second. Isn’t he a priest?’
‘Yes, one of the dangerous kind,’ says Dulinir. ‘He came over the mountains as a missionary. Slipped through our defence and made quite a nuisance of himself among the farmers before we caught him.’
‘And the two names he mentioned?’
‘They were his servants who travelled with him.’
‘What did happen to them?’
Dulinir makes no answer.
‘They were the ones sent to the Island at midsummer,’ says the King, his face unreadable in the flickering darkness.
In the Dwarf-vaults the lanterns are fed with a special pure rock-oil that burns with a cold white radiance. The Bald Dwarves have their hoods off now, and their heads gleam like carved and polished balls. Their eyes are red, and they often blink, and none of them looks happy or well. They gather round the King’s party in a wide circle. In the midst of this circle, in the middle of the high-vaulted, smooth-floored chamber, stands the new weapon. Four great lamps, hanging on long chains from the bosses of the arched ceiling, cast a strong, shadowless light all around it.
‘This is Naurang,’ says Nabbi.
The Dwarves mutter in their throats and shuffle inward a little, their iron shoes scraping on the stone.
Swin feels that the question is a stupid one: everyone else seems to know all about it, even though he knows, having asked them, that they don’t know. ‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘It is an aharuklir,’ rumbles old Vali. ‘There is no name for it in the common tongue. Think of it as a powerful engine of destruction. It will aid you, sword-bearer, if you are to contend with the worm.’
‘It looks itself like a dragon,’ observes Swin.
‘Yes,’ says Nabbi. ‘Thus do we mock our foes.’
Naurang looks like a statue of a long-necked dragon, cast in a smooth dark metal. Where the white light glances off the flawlessly rendered spines or scales, the darkness has an oily, bluish-grey sheen. The dragon’s body is much shorter and thicker, in proportion to the neck, than (say) Fëaruk’s is, in real life; and there is no tail. The four splayed-out legs with their clawed feet seem to fasten the dragon to the ground. Its neck, perfectly straight and very long, shoots out at an angle from the slotted chest. The bearing of the neck is hidden inside the deep black slot: the whole head and neck, gliding up and down within the slot, can be raised and lowered with little effort. The head, though animated with a ferocious expression and some brilliant touches of detail, is essentially a hollow knob fixed on to the end of the long, slightly tapering neck-tube; the jaws are wide open, revealing – when the neck is lowered into the horizontal – a grim maw, black and empty, round and perfectly forged.
‘How will it aid me?’ Swin asks, after a long, reverent pause.
‘It vomits forth a fierce fire,’ explains Nabbi, ‘surpassingly hot and bright: hot enough to burn Fëaruk himself, if not to kill him. Once he has been crippled you should get a chance to use your sword, if you are strong and agile. But there will be danger for you: not only from the fire of Fëaruk, but also from the blast of Naurang itself. It will be better, therefore, to project the fire at Fëaruk while he is in flight.’
‘Can it be moved?’ asks Athelstan.
‘Not without great difficulty. You and your young kinsman must now consider means: how the dragon is to be brought within the range of Naurang.’
‘Very good,’ says Swin. ‘What is the range?’
‘Two miles.’
‘Really? So far? Can it be shown to us, the working of this powerful engine?’
Vali, standing within the great circle with both hands on top of his gnarled walking-stick, now lifts this stick and strikes the ferrule on the floor. ‘No,’ he says.
‘No,’ repeats Nabbi. ‘The aharuklir has been proved by our own engineers and it will perform its task. But it was made for this one task only. We have put strong spells on it: they too will work only once. It is necessary for you to cast aside all doubt and to put your trust in this work.’
‘Well,’ Swin persists, ‘how does it work?’
The King covers his mouth with his hand, enjoying this contest of stubbornness, but no-one else is amused.
‘Do not ask so many questions!’ says Nabbi with a flash of his dark, inflamed eyes. ‘There is more than one mystery here, known only to a few of our race! I came late to the work, to the casting of the body: even I, therefore, am deemed unworthy of the innermost secrets. Not even to our next of kin have we revealed them. Young Hanar and Har, there, are still unripe for the knowledge – and you yourself, scarce thirty years old, are but a child in the reckoning of our people. As a child, then, I bid you hold your tongue and trust your elders!’
Swin flushes angrily, but Athelstan intervenes at once. ‘We will not quarrel,’ says he, ‘for here there is indeed trust. Eofor, it’s idle to question the judgement of these friends. There is more that I must tell you of them. They honour you, and they have wrought gifts for you to take with you before you leave this place. But for now, good Nabbi, and you, Lord Vali, before we depart with thanks, I myself have another question. May I, who have never seen this worm, enquire of you, Nabbi, who have worked at Lhygost, and of you, Eofor, who have twice come face to face with the creature: say that success attends our enterprise: say that the worm is slain and dead: what then? How shall we deal with his carcass?’
Startled, Swin and Nabbi glance at one another.
‘That’s a good question, uncle,’ says Swin.
‘A very good question,’ agrees Nabbi, stroking his non-existent beard. Vali, observing them keenly, makes a sign with his hand; the assembled Dwarves disperse and return to their labours.
‘He’ll rot,’ says Swin.
‘He’s far too big to shift. I can hardly begin to imagine sawing him up,’ says Nabbi.
‘Please don’t! He’s full of poisonous filth!’
‘So I’ve heard,’ says Nabbi, still absently. ‘Wasn’t there some tale about a young barbarian who had to shovel it all up, not long ago?’
‘The tale’s true, but that – you’ve no idea – that was only one damned bowel-movement!’ exclaims Swin, aghast at the thought. ‘He’ll pollute this whole kingdom! He’ll be worse dead than alive!’
Athelstan makes another tactful intervention: ‘We are holding a council this afternoon. I think it would be very helpful if you were to join us, son of Vali,’ he says. ‘Will you come?’
Nabbi turns to his father. ‘By your leave, sire? All this is true.’
Vali slowly considers, hunched over his stick like an old farmer looking at a patch of ground. His lower lip juts out. Then he looks up and gives a short nod. ‘You may go,’ he says.
‘Come now,’ says Nabbi, turning back to Swin, ‘if we are to be friends, as King Athelstan says, I must show you the things we have made.’
They all take their leave of Lord Vali, and then Nabbi leads Athelstan, Swin, Dulinir and Thoronhir to one side of the great chamber. Their footsteps are loud on the wide floor. The light of the four lamps dies down, leaving the aharuklir as an ugly shape of darkness. Seven archways, larger alternating with smaller, lead out into further chambers and passageways. Passing through one of the large entrances and then through a great armoury, with racks of swords standing erect and spears arranged in sheaves, the party arrives at a small end-chamber, a much smaller and dimmer room, lit by a single lamp with a glowing golden mantle. The only other thing within this space is a suit of armour, set up on a stand.
Hanar, the young Dwarf, has followed their party. ‘Receive these offerings, Lord,’ says Nabbi, as Hanar comes forward with the shining helm.
It is not unlike Boarcrest, the helmet Swin wore when first setting out on his travels. He guesses that the Dwarves must have noticed him on some occasion during his first visit to Ruminas. The boar-image is beautifully cast in gold, or some other, harder metal of the same colour, and immovably welded to the ribbed dome, which is wrought of complete steel, rather than horn or hide; and the boar’s eyes, small red gems, twinkle bravely. Larger rubies are studded all the way round, at the junctures of ribs and rim; at the front the rib projects forward, and at the sides, downwards, to give protection for nose and ears. Swin takes it from Hanar, looks at it with surprise and delight, holds it up near the lamp, then puts it on. The inside is padded with soft leather. It fits his head so snugly that the chin-strap is hardly needed. The Dwarves, as it should seem, have a way of estimating the size of the warriors for whom their handiwork is intended. Yet in the next case it becomes apparent that they have miscalculated badly. Swin struggles with the breastplate and brassards, Hanar and Dulinir helping him, but they are too small. He stands stiffly and takes a step or two about the room; he then flexes his right arm, which act causes the two pieces to burst off. One hits the wall with a clatter.
‘How strange,’ says Nabbi. ‘You must have the chest and arms of a giant. Have you grown?’
‘I’m truly sorry,’ says Swin.
‘Don’t you be ashamed,’ says Athelstan kindly. ‘The Dwarves love what they make, but they are never offended if fault is found, or if something has to be returned for any reason. Is that not so, Nabbi?’
‘Say rather,’ says Nabbi, ‘that for us the virtue resides in the well-wrought thing in itself, rather than the intentions of bestowing or buying, or the attendant moods and thoughts of our hearts. This armour certainly won’t do. We must make amends. Hanar, have you got a tape-measure on you? No? Then run to Thekk the Tailor.’
A rather awkward interval elapses. Nabbi and Athelstan talk apart from the others, while Swin examines and fingers the other parts of the armour. ‘Ah! Now this is what I call a good fit,’ he says after a while.
‘Yes,’ says Nabbi. ‘Those would go on last of all, of course. They please you?’
Swin holds out his glittering, gauntleted hands. He pounds a mailed fist against a mailed palm. The crunch of the blow has an almost ringing clearness. ‘They feel wonderful! So supple! And all the little rings, so tiny!’
‘Take them, take them,’ says Nabbi, waving his hand.
Swin bows low before him. ‘I thank you indeed, son of Vali,’ he says. ‘Never have I received a princelier gift.’
‘That I can believe,’ says Nabbi drily. ‘But you should be aware that it isn’t from us. It was King Athelstan here who ordered the suit, and who must pay us for what you are to receive.’
The Dwarves promise to have serviceable armour ready in three days. Swin leaves the helm and the gauntlets to be collected at the same time. Nabbi and Hanar then escort the visitors through crowded halls and fetid passageways, and at last out through the doorway at the foot of the hill. Dreng and Alfir are waiting there. Farewells are said, and then the Dwarves go back inside the doors, which are promptly closed from inside. As they come together, the two halves of a single dwarf-rune, formed of iron and fixed at the inward edges of the doors, are united. ‘What does that mean?’ Swin asks. ‘Or is it a secret?’
‘Oh no,’ says Athelstan. ‘That’s a well-known one. It’s “rock”, here standing alone to signify trust.’
It’s a lovely day for a walk. The fresh air and the morning sun are very welcome after the oppressive magnificence of the Dwarves’ streets. The path leads through bright meadows, butterfly-haunted groves and bee-thronged glades.
‘The King your father,’ Swin remarks, ‘appears to dislike guards and attendants.’
‘No need for ’em,’ replies Dulinir. ‘You need that sword only for show.’
‘Even against your beasts of the forest? Your monsters?’
‘They also are encompassed by the frithgild.’
‘But your father has no use even for show. No heralds, no banners, no retinue – no horses, even?’
‘And if so?’
‘That is very unusual in a king.’
‘Yes,’ says Dulinir. ‘What’s the matter with you? What are you worrying about?’
‘Oh,’ says Swin, and pauses in speech while he strides along. ‘I guess I’m afraid of seeing Berma again. My last meeting with her – you know, as herself, as Calendis – ended very badly. In fact I can’t see why we’re going to meet her at all.’
‘That, in another way, is the answer to the question you seem to be asking. Berma mustn’t be approached with any kind of pomp. Surely you know that! My father keeps his retinue of thirty earls – you’ve met most of ’em – and a stable of good horses, of course he does, and ensigns and drummers and trumpeters. They’re pleasant in themselves, and they’re a courtesy that is due to our folk. But the idea of sending a trumpet and guards ahead of us to announce to Lady Berma that we’re coming – well, forget it.’
‘Did you ever hear the story of what she did at the Princess’s wedding?’
‘No?’
Swin tells the tale of Melohtar’s and Gauriel’s first disaster, bring out the comical parts. He tells it well; the Princes and Nabbi gather round him as they walk on, and Nabbi smiles, and the young men laugh merrily. But Athelstan and Dreng walk on in the lead, side by side, presenting their backs to the others.
And there, at the end of the longest and richest glade of all, where the trunks and lower boughs of two great trees form an opening into green darkness – there she is: not Berma, but Bryd.
‘Welcome to Barammath, my lords.’
She is dressed all in white now, with a full skirt, a long-sleeved bodice buttoned up to the chin, and an elegant parasol. Her dark eyes, proud and steady, survey the men as they approach. She pays no particular attention to Swin. Dreng comes up to her and clasps her hands: she bends forward, offering her lips; he kisses her and then stands apart. And for a moment, even as the King comes forward with unaffected humility to be presented to the Witch’s servant, Swin has a clear vision of these two, Dreng and Bryd. He seems to understand them. They have the same look of sorrow and experience and hope. Has it been possible for a husband and wife, separated for so long, subject to so many vicissitudes, to wildness of despairing passion, unfaithful on both sides – has it been possible for them, in the house of Fuindis, to discover their original love for one another? Yet why not? Swin tries to make his own bow as neutral and unnoticeable as a bow can possibly be. He wonders if Bryd has said anything of him to her husband.
She leads them into the wood. Soon they find Berma, shaking out a large tablecloth and laying it down for a picnic. There are mossy logs to sit on, and a bubbling stream; and a little farther off, tucked into a dell, there is her cottage, with its washing-line and strip of lawn, and the stream running past.
As always, the food she offers is plain but incomparably good. It is an unforgettable meal-time, tinged with elvish magic, the talk effortless and courteous, witty and pithy. Many things are talked of; Swin tells more of his adventures; and without loss of enchantment, while the sun declines from its height, the conversation is transmuted into a serious council of war. By eventide the company has worked out a plan to deal with Fëaruk and Swin has sketched out the opening of his own campaign. The upshot of that plan and the finished work of that sketch will soon be shown to the reader. To give a full account of what is now said would spoil the tale that is to come. A few short extracts will nonetheless be helpful in elucidating what might otherwise not be clear, as to how certain decisions were reached.
‘Here, then,’ says Athelstan firmly. ‘Within a few miles of Ost-en-Aderthad. We must accept that the engine cannot be carried very far, and there is the second, weighty reason: that here we are near to the high cliffs of the sea. Only the sea is large enough to cleanse away the poison of the worm.’
‘So we all push his body to the edge of the cliffs,’ says Dulinir, ‘and then heave it over?’
‘Quite right.’
‘What a splash there’ll be!’
‘I have heard folk say,’ says Swin, slowly tilting and swirling his wine-cup, ‘that his mind is the mind of a baby that can conceive of nothing beyond its own desire. Yet to me he seems less like a brutish child than a simpleton. Are you acquainted with that kind of fool who is able to discourse very learnedly, and at great length, on some dull subject that happens to be dear to his heart? Even so would Fëaruk, did you but question him once, tell you an endless wearisome tale of swords and shields, cups and plates, gems and ornaments and all the rest of the things that are in his hoard. And he must see living beings, men and animals, as self-moving things, objects which are less interesting than treasures because they happen not to have been made by craft. It is the craft and the skill of Men and Dwarves that fascinates him... Yet more. Imagining further, I guess that what attract him within the skill and the science, at the depths of his being, are riddles and signs: empty solvable questions. I remember...’
Berma, who is sitting next to him, refills his cup.
‘Thanks, Lady: I pledge you... While I journeyed with Melohtar on the false trail of the wolf, we were met by a troop of Dwarves. They carried red lanterns: and it was explained to us that the host always carried red lanterns in a formation, as a sign to him, if flying overhead he should see them, that the host was on his side and was not to be attacked. And again, when we came back to the borders of the Demesne after he had burnt a track through it, I saw how closely, how scrupulously, his burnt swathe respected the red flags we had set up to mark the boundaries of the new road. Such signs, one may guess, give him a feeling of safety...’
He halts a second time in his speech, and all raptly wait for him to go on.
‘Then, riddles. All dragons care about riddles, of course. Perhaps, to their minds, they promise that same kind of ultimate safety. It was the riddling prophecy of the eagle-statue that led him to conspire, as I believe, with the Priests and the Aulendili, that I might be lured to him. He must have hoped that I would unlock that riddle for him in some reassuring way. He was certainly disappointed when I had nothing much to say about it, and when my sword turned out not to be Elvish after all. Yet now, of course, I have become in myself a living embodied riddle, the most puzzling that has ever been put to him; and I am convinced that he still very much desires to know the answer. He craves the oil of the rocks, yet more and more, but when that lust has been satisfied for a while his desire to find out the answer to the Riddle of Eofor is stronger than his desire for treasure. I am sure that he would be willing to go a long way in search of that answer.
‘And so a quaint picture comes into my mind. I imagine a long line of flags, or giant fingerposts, or big red arrows painted on rooftops, or other large striking waymarks set out, at spaces of a league or so, say, for him to follow across the land: to lead him here. Within sight of me and within range of Naurang.’
A short, intense silence is broken by a whoop of joy from Berma. She flings an arm round Swin’s shoulders and pulls him to her, and ruffles his hair vigorously with her other hand. ‘What a lad! What a clever boy then! There’s brains in this head! Didn’t I just tell you all?’
‘Lord Lefnui,’ says Nabbi, ‘is a decent fellow, and a loyal baron; but he’s not over-fond of the Queen. He used to enjoy hunting, for one thing, and I reckon that by this time he’s had a lot worse to endure than that ban of hers. If you can win him over to your side, that would be a great step forward.’
In the evening, as the summer stars begins to twinkle through the boughs, the company all stroll back together. Berma has consented to be a guest at the castle for one night. Bryd and Dreng hold hands as they walk.
After retiring to bed, Swin lies awake for some time, for longer than usual, thinking over the events of the day. Eventually, just as he is drifting off to sleep, a soft knock falls on his door. He raises himself on an elbow and calls out. The door creaks open to reveal Berma, holding a lighted candle in a dish, wearing her grey night-dress and having her long white hair all unbound. The single light, illuminating her lined face from below, makes her look more witchlike than ever.
Swin – what a lad, indeed! – is not overly surprised.
He turns back the bedclothes in invitation. No words are said. She sets down the candle without blowing it out; she pulls her gown clumsily over her head, drops it on the floor and joins him. The first cuddles are pleasant. Her body is very ample, very soft and warm. But the lovemaking is difficult, for the cleft of her loins is tight, hard, unyielding. Swin suffers pain. It is like trying to force himself between the edge and the jamb of a wooden door. She whimpers and shudders and clenches her teeth, willing him to continue. Swin begins to lose his erection, but perseveres and wins through at last.
Withdrawing from her, he sees the blood of her virginity.
He blows out the candle. The morning stars leap into the sky. He puts an arm round her; she buries her face in his neck, and bursts into tears, and weeps, and weeps, and weeps. Patiently and kindly he holds her in his turn, never saying a word, stroking her back and waiting until her tears have ceased.
She says one word:
‘Dimorn.’
Swin has heard the name before, long ago, in some ancient legend. He busily searches through his memory. Her arms tighten round him and her grief expends itself in a last bout of sobbing.
The room starts to get light.
She gives him a last kiss and climbs out of bed. He watches her – naked, heavy and huge-breasted, but still graceful – as she fishes in the pocket of her gown, finds a comb and a handkerchief, blows her nose, wipes her crotch, pulls the gown on again, dabs at her face, combs her hair and ties it back, with a bit of string, in a pony-tail. Then she turns back to him. ‘Thanks, lad,’ she says. ‘Come up to the ramparts with me.’
‘Why?’
She offers no explanation but holds out her hand to him. Swin hurriedly pulls on a few clothes, then leaves the room with her. Hand in hand they go along the matted passage. From behind one of the closed doors certain sounds are audible, a regular creaking and the low gasping of a woman’s voice. Swin whispers:
‘Bryd and Dreng?’
And Berma nods several times, with a broad smile.
The turret-roof and the various levels of the ramparts are accessible, on this side of the castle, from a winding staircase. The window-lights of the staircase tower are all open, as are the doorways, so the stairway is very chilly and breezy. The cracked wedge-shaped steps are thickly spattered with grey and white droppings. ‘We want a door facing east,’ says Berma. They find one at last, and step out of the turret on to a platform of bird-stained flagstones between which moss, grass and tall weeds are growing. Thirty feet away, dark battlements rise up against the clear blue that is brightening to white at the horizon.
Between their platform and this rampart lies a very uncertain terrain. There is the beginning of another descent of steps, overgrown with brambles, but the fourth step down is cracked and all the rest are missing. Amid the green weeds and sprouting shrubs, their leaves now stirring in the freshening breeze, Swin can make out a black roof-beam or two, and he has a sense of space below. Beyond, a wall with two arched windows supports nothing but a thick fringe of flowerless lilac; and beyond that the top branches of a stubby, mistletoe-clustered oak-tree grope outwards. This tree, also partly visible through one of the windows, has rooted itself and grown up from much further down. All around is tangled growth, ruinous masonry, uncertainty and floorless height. Splendid living-quarters for the birds, no doubt, but Swin would not like to have to cross it in a hurry. Nevertheless, someone has crossed it: someone is seated on the ramparts, exactly east of the turret and on a level with Swin and Berma. He has heard them. He raises his hand in greeting, then turns back to the dawn. He is King Athelstan. He has a look of absorption, of rapt contemplation, of having sat there all night, oblivious of the cold and the danger, and wearing nothing more than what he now has on: a loose-sleeved, low-necked smock, and shaggy brown breeches. The wind blows back his sleeves and his dark hair.
The birds have all gone, or so Swin thinks at first, so the only sound is the sound of the wind and the faint rustling of the leaves; but as the light grows he begins to find them with his eyes, here and there amid the undergrowth, all sitting, but round-eyed and wakeful; and all facing east.
Slowly the horizon turns golden.
A speck has appeared in the bright sky.
Athelstan lifts a knee onto the parapet, raises himself to stand upright, and stands. His feet are bare. He raises and spreads his arms. As if irrelevantly, Swin thinks of Dreng and Bryd; the thought is not irrelevant, for immediately there is a noise from below, a sound of hurrying, clambering feet. Before long these two have appeared: holding hands, still flushed and tousle-haired and sticky, but in time for the sunrise. And now there are four watchers on the stone platform.
The sun rises. The speck grows and descends; wings are seen, a white tail, and then the gull has swept overhead and past, carried on a strong gust of the still-rising wind. A dim reddish-gold radiance falls on the old stone of the turret and the faces of the watchers. Athelstan turns round in his place, his arms still outstretched in welcome and adoration. Maewiel cries aloud, wheels and turns in the new light, returns and descends to her lord, slowly flapping her wings as she sinks down against the wind. Now her wings seem longer, the feathers falling and lengthening downwards like long sleeves, the wingtips waving like fingers. As a bride in a long-skirted dress she sinks into his arms. Briefly Swin beholds her face. Then, like a sudden cloud or veil, every single bird arises from its perch, chirping, whistling and crying, filling all the air with their exultation.
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