Alan Garner Classic Collection. Alan Garner

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “See how the invincible perish! If such is the fate of the mara, how shall you endure our wrath? Let him who loves not life seek to follow further!”

      The mob slunk back. But now the morthbrood were at hand, and they were not to be so promptly awed. He knew he had won only a breathing space – just long enough to prevent their being overrun while Susan gathered her strength.

      And then Durathror saw what he had lost all hope of seeing: a lone man on the top of Shuttlingslow, two miles away. And as he looked he saw the fall figure leave the crest, and begin to descend.

      Durathror joined the others; they, too, had seen.

      “But I dunner think yon bunch have,” said Gowther. “Now, how are we going to hold out while he gets here?”

      “It is an hour’s journey over this ground,” said Fenodyree.

      The morthbrood were conferring with the svarts: there was much shouting, and waving of hands. The svarts were not keen to risk the mara’s end, while the morthbrood did not want to take the brunt of the dwarfs’ swordsmanship themselves. The Morrigan, in her black robes, was screaming furiously.

      “Cowards! Liars! They are but five! Take them! Take them now!”

      Fenodyree did not wait for more.

      “Come,” he said. “We cannot hold them if she is here. We must seek where we may make a stand against them.”

      A hundred yards was all they had, and as soon as they moved, the morthbrood surged after them. From the beginning there was little promise of escape, but when they crossed over the top of the hill, and came to a deeply sunk, walled lane, and saw warlocks streaming along it from both sides, they realised finally that this was the end of all pursuits, and, though it may seem strange, they were glad. The long struggle was nearly over, either way: a heavy load of responsibility was lifted from their hearts.

      “We shall run while we can!” cried Fenodyree; and he jumped down into the lane and pulled himself over the wall on the other side. “Look for a place for swords!”

      But they had no choice. Lyblacs, armed with staves, thronged the side of the valley below them.

      “A circle!” shouted Gowther. “Colin! Susan! Into th’ middle!”

      And so they took their stand: and all evil closed upon them.

      “They are not to die, yet!” cried the Morrigan. “Who takes a life shall answer with his own!”

      Back to back the dwarfs and Gowther fought, silently, and desperately. And in between crouched the children. The bestial shouts, the grunts and squeals of dying svarts, echoed from valley to valley. Fenodyree and Durathror wove a net of light with their swords as they slashed, and parried, and thrust. And when Gowther swung his stick skulls split and bones cracked. Their one hope was to survive until the wizard came, but where an enemy fell there was always another to take his place; and another, and another, and another, and another.

      They fought themselves to a standstill. Gowther’s stick was knocked from his hands, but he bent and took up a svart-hammer in either hand, and from that moment the slaughter increased. Following his example, the weaponless children snatched themselves weapons, and entered into the fight.

      And thus for a while the battle ran their way. But it was the last flare of a guttering candle before the night swamps all. The end came suddenly. A svart-hammer crashed home above Fenodyree’s elbow, and the bone snapped with the noise of a whiplash. His sword-arm hanging useless, Fenodyree was a broken wall, and soon the enemy would pour through the breach. Durathror acted. He pushed out his free hand behind him while keeping his eyes fixed on his work.

      “The stone! Give me the stone!”

      Without questioning, Susan ducked behind Gowther, took off the chain bracelet, and locked it about Durathror’s wrist. As she did so, a dozen pairs of hands clutched her, and dragged her backwards: but too late. Durathror sprang into the air. Valham enfolded him, and he turned towards Shuttlingslow in a last attempt to save the stone.

      And the birds fell upon him like black hail. He disappeared from sight as though into a thunder cloud. The lightning of his sword flashed through the smoke of birds, and the earth grew dark with their bodies; but there were also white eagle feathers, with blood upon them, and their number grew.

      The battle on the ground was done: all eyes were upon that in the air. Nothing of Durathror could be seen as the cloud moved slowly away, but few birds were dropping now.

      Lower down the hillside a round knoll stood out from the slope, topped by a thin beech wood; and on its crown a tall pillar of gritstone jutted to the sky like a pointing finger. Clulow was its name.

      Over this mound the last blow was struck. A white object fluttered out of the base of the mass, hovered for a moment, pitched forward, and crashed through the trees, and lay still.

      Down rushed the lyblacs and svarts, howling. At the noise, the figure stirred. Durathror raised his head. Then he hauled himself upright against a grey trunk, steadied himself, and began to walk up the hill. He lurched and stumbled from tree to tree. His mail shirt was ripped half from his back, and Valham hung in ribbons. Often he would stand, swaying on his feet, and it seemed that he must fall backwards, but always he would stagger on, bent almost double, more wound than dwarf, and, at the last, leaning his full weight upon his sword.

      So Durathror came to the pillar of stone. He put his back against it, and unclasped his belt. Loosening it, he threw it round the column, and buckled it tightly under his arms so that he should not fall. When this was done, he grasped Dyrnwyn in both hands, and waited.

      For ten yards around, the hilltop was bare of trees, and at the edge of the circle the svarts halted, none wanting to be the first to cross the open ground and meet that sword. But it was only for a moment.

      “There is the stone!” cried Shape-shifter from behind. “Take it!”

      “Gondemar!” thundered Durathror.

      Where he found the strength is a mystery and a great wonder. But such was his fury that none could withstand him, not even Arthog, lord of the svart-alfar, that was as big as a man. In the thick of the press he came against Durathror, and Durathror brought his sword round in an arc. The svart parried with his hammer, but Dyrnwyn clove through the stone, and Arthog’s head leaped from his shoulders. But no sword can shear through stone unpunished, and at the next stroke the blade snapped halfway to the hilt. Yet still Durathror fought, and none who faced him drew breath again; and the time came when the svarts and lyblacs fell back to the trees to regain their strength and to prepare a last assault.

      Durathror sagged in his harness, and the stump of Dyrnwyn hung by his side. His head dropped forward on to his chest, and a silence lay upon the hill.

       CHAPTER 21

       THE HEADLESS CROSS

      Grimnir ran. Fear, excitement, greed drove him.

      From the top of Shuttlingslow he had watched the chase right to the fall of the mara; and from that high vantage СКАЧАТЬ