The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

tales of Arondiel, the steed of Epona?’

      When the villagers overheard Gwydion’s remark they began to grin and clap their hands as if the wizard had conferred some deep and secret honour upon them. Will had never been told who Arondiel was, nor Epona, though for some reason he had the unshakable idea in his mind that the latter was a great lady who had lived hereabouts long ago. He did not know why, but her name made him think of white horses and a queen of old who delighted to feed her favourite mount apples…

      He started. ‘Hey! Master Gwydion! What’s that about a “Dragon’s Mound”? You can’t trick me like that!’

      But the wizard was too busy appreciating horseflesh to pay him much heed. ‘There is no cause to worry, Willand,’ he said lightly. ‘It’s just the name of a little hill near here. You will like the place, I think.’

      When Gwydion finally took his leave and called Will onward, he said, ‘They are faithful folk hereabouts who know their horses. There is a bond between us that I would not deny for they have kept to the Old Ways more than most.’

      They pressed on southward through what remained of the day, and soon came to the foot of a ridge that rose up green and round out of the haze. It took longer than Will expected to reach, so that just as the sun was beginning to sink into the west they came to a halt under a great swell of sheep-cropped land.

      Gwydion was delighted. ‘This is a very special place,’ he said.

      ‘But are we going to be safe here?’

      ‘We can do no better than to camp here tonight.’

      He led Will up a curious little conical hill and showed him how the flattened top gave a fine view to the north of the plain across which they had walked. The hill stood below a fold of the ridge which blotted out the prospect to the south. Directly below them an arm of flat land swept interestingly halfway around the hill and into a dead-end, while on the other side a well-worn path meandered up into a fold of the scarp as if it was taking the easiest way up to higher ground. It seemed a most ancient place.

      Will breathed deep and decided that anyone with both a heart and a head would know that this place was very special, but as he looked up to the south-east he saw a shape cut high on the ridge which put its uniqueness beyond all doubt. Above the path was a strange set of curves, shapes cut out of the turf so that the white chalk underneath showed through. The slope of the land foreshortened the figure somewhat, but the white lines flowed around one another in the unmistakable shape of a horse.

      ‘Behold, Arondiel!’ Gwydion exclaimed. ‘Is she not most beautiful to your eye?’

      Will was awed by the figure. ‘She’s wonderful!’

      ‘Look upon her with respect, for she is the oldest form made by the hand of man that you have yet seen in the land. On yonder plains there once grew great orchards where a powerful queen once reigned. She rode yearly to this place upon a white mare. Men have been coming up from the village of Uff every second year for thousands of years to keep Arondiel alive. This is the Scouring of which I spoke. Were it not for that effort of care, Arondiel would have vanished under the encroaching grass long ago, and we would all be the worse for that.’

      ‘But what is she?’ he asked, staring at the figure like one who finds himself suddenly unable to remember something important.

      ‘She is both a sign to read and a spirit guardian. Some see in her form the idea “horse”. What do you see?’

      ‘She looks like a horse to me too,’Will agreed. ‘But maybe…’ He shaded his eyes and studied the figure a moment longer. ‘I think that if she’s a word she isn’t “horse”, but rather “gallop”, or maybe “speed”.’

      Gwydion beamed. ‘Ah, Willand! How easily you prove yourself again!’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean you are more in tune with the spirit of this sacred place than I had dared to hope. You will be very safe here tonight. Speed! Her name means speed! And such a form as hers cannot be cut in these latter times, for though this is a land of many horses, there are no longer men who know how to draw lines like this upon the land.’

      The gift that Gwydion had taken when they left the village was a loaf of new-baked bread. For this was Lammastide, also called in the Vale ‘the festival of loaves’, the day when the first ripe grain was cut and threshed, ground and baked into bread, all in the space of a day. This was ritual bread-making, a solemn and sacred duty, and done to mark the bounty of the earth. A time to give thanks to the land, and for folk to count their blessings.

      They climbed the flat-topped hill and munched their bread, and it seemed to Will that the taste of it was as good as any food he had ever eaten. Festive bonfires burned red across the plains of the old Kingdom of Wesset to the north. As darkness deepened, folk would be attending each of those fires, toasting bread on long forks. There would be butter and honey for the children, and much ale drunk and many songs sung. They sat together and talked far into the night and Will felt himself to be closer to Gwydion than ever before. Tonight the wizard seemed joyous and wonderfully wise and very pleased to be here. He spoke much about history, showing Will to the very the spot where, almost a thousand years before, Great Arthur had stood to address his assembled troops.

      The wizard said quietly. ‘Shall I tell you the name of this hill in the true tongue? It is “Dumhacan Nadir”.’

      Will repeated the words as if he half recognized them. ‘“Dumhacan Nadir” – the Dragon’s Mound.’

      ‘You have not slept upon a dragon’s mound before, I think. Nor shall you again for a very long time.’

      Will patted the ground under him in wonder – there was something too regular about this mound for it to be a natural hill, and nearby was an odd bare patch of chalk, a part where the grass would not grow.

      ‘Flenir was the greatest of the great dragons of old, the most famous in the land. Huge and fierce was he, the “winged beast with breath of flame” of which many tales were told and many songs sung in a time long before the establishment of the Realm. For long years did Flenir misuse this land, preying upon sheep and cattle across the domain of Angnor. Any man unwary enough to be caught in the open at his approach would be torn to pieces like a mouse caught in the talons of an eagle. Flenir would breakfast in a place near here – it is still called Wormhill Bottom – and when he had rent enough flesh from bone he would return to his lair to lie. The top of his mound is flat because Flenir was accustomed to rest here, rubbing his great red belly free of the lice that clung to it. All dragons had lice, Willand, and dragon lice were as big as a man’s hand. In daylight you can see the groove where Flenir wrapped his tail around the mound, and if you look carefully down there you might discover the entrance he used, though it has long since been sealed. It is said that one day, while flying over Angnor, Flenir saw the figure of Arondiel and became enamoured of it. That is why he made his mound here. Though other tales say the site was chosen only out of jealousy.’

      Will looked down into the darkness below. ‘I think a dragon would have found this a perfect place to launch himself into the air.’

      ‘That much is certain.’

      Will scuffed at the turf with his toes. ‘So was there once a great treasure buried under here?’

      ‘There was, for as you know the great dragons were like magpies. They would collect any trinket that glittered. They coveted bright metal for its own sake and would always try to make a hoard of it. But in the end Flenir did not much like the bright bronze blade that was forged up on yonder ridge, for that was his bane.’

      Will thought of those brilliant, ancient days, all long gone now and impossibly heroic. But what kind of heroes did the world have now? Men who wore the heads of pigs, and lords whose own increasing greed showed in the Hogshead. A shiver passed through him as he sat there, and thoughts of home began to crowd in on him. His fingers went to the greenstone talisman that hung at his neck, and he remembered the song that Valesmen used to sing every year called the Wyrm Charm. Last year it had been Eldmar’s