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.
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 point he had seen something else, something approaching rapidly, away to the north, and although he had been on his guard against danger from that quarter for months, the form it had taken, and the time it had chosen to appear, could not have disturbed him more.
He came unnoticed over the hill above Clulow soon after Arthog died, when every eye was upon Durathror as the svarts withdrew from that still figure with the splintered sword. His gaze rested on the prisoners, each held by two warlocks of the morthbrood, standing between the main body and the wood; and Grimnir checked his stride, hope and distrust conflicting within him.
For above the clearing in the wood circled a carrion crow. It spiralled down, barely moving its wings, and came to rest on top of the standing-stone. A long time it perched there, watching, motionless. The silence was overpowering. And then the crow launched itself into the air, and resumed its measured glide. Closer to the drooping warrior it came, closer … closer, and settled on his shoulder. But Durathror did not move. His trial was over.
A sigh rose through the trees, and the crow hopped from the dwarf’s shoulder to the ground. Straight to his wrist it went: and from there back to the pillar, with Firefrost dangling at its beak. The bird threw up its head, neck feathers blown into a ruff, and, with wings outstretched, began to dance a clumsy jig. It rolled grotesquely from side to side, its head bobbing up and down, and a yell of triumph burst forth on every side.
Grimnir cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Yes, he must act at once. If the crow should drop its eyes and look above the throng it could not fail to notice … Swiftly he strode down the hill and pushed through the morthbrood. And as he went a new cry moved with him; for in turning to see who was coming so impetuously from behind, the crowd looked beyond him … and panicked.
Colin, Susan, Gowther, and Fenodyree had watched Durathror’s battle in an agony of helplessness. Fury and despair had done their worst; their minds were numb with shock. So it was with little interest or emotion that they turned their heads when the note of fear ran through the morthbrood. Then Grimnir came upon them. He faltered, but only for a second. “Kill them,” he said to the guards.
Susan opened her mouth, but no sound would come. For the first time in memory or legend Grimnir had spoken. And the voice was the voice of Cadellin.
The morthbrood were scattering in all directions. The guards were more intent on saving their own lives than on taking life away from others. For this is what they saw. Racing out of the north was a cloud, lower than any that hid the sun, and black. Monstrous it was, and in shape a ravening wolf. Its loins fell below the horizon, and its lean body arched across the sky to pouncing shoulders, and a head with jaws agape that even now was over the far end of the valley. Eyes glowed yellow with lightning, and the first snarls of thunder were heard above the cries of the morthbrood. There seemed to be one thought in all their minds – escape. But when Managarm of Ragnarok is about his master’s bidding, such thoughts are less than dreams.
The svarts and lyblacs were beginning to break when Grimnir entered the wood. He kicked and trampled through them towards the pillar. The crow was still there, squatting low, its head deep in its shoulders, glaring at the oncoming cloud. It saw Grimnir on the edge of the clearing, read his purpose in a flash, and sprang. But Grimnir was too agile. He jumped, snatched high, and his fingers closed about the bird’s scaly shins, and swept it out of the air. The other thin, gloved hand wrenched Firefrost from its beak. Grimnir cast the heap of feathers viciously against the pillar, and fled.
“Eh, up!” said Gowther. “Here he comes again!”
The children and Fenodyree were still groping at the implications of what had just happened and it was not until Gowther cried, “And he’s getten thy bracelet!” that they came back to life.
They might not have been there for the notice the morthbrood and all the rest took of them. Even Grimnir ignored them as he sped up towards the lane.
“After him!” shouted Fenodyree. “He must not escape!”
The hillside was thick with pell-mell bodies, but Grimnir could not be easily lost, and they set off blindly, without thinking what they could do if they caught him. Grimnir leapt on to the wall and stood poised, as though staring at something in the lane. Then he turned, and ran back down the hill, moving faster than ever. But Grimnir had barely left the wall when he staggered, and a sharp cry broke from him, and he toppled on to his hands. A double-edged sword stood out from his back. Along the blade coiled two serpents of gold, and so bright were they that it pained the eyes