by Paul Glennon
Norman watched their sluggish march toward the barracks and heard the clink of the chains that held their feet. They looked utterly defeated. His heart sank. These poor creatures were supposed to form the heart of Duncan’s avenging army? Duncan was a great leader, but the fox overseers of Scalded Rock had worked their slaves to the brink of death. The thought stiffened Norman’s resolve. All the more reason to rescue them, all the more reason to do what he had promised to do. Any minute now he would be called into action.
“Do you see them?” he whispered.
Malcolm, perched quietly on Norman’s shoulder, took the tiny spyglass from his eye and shook his head. “If I could see them, then they wouldn’t be doing their job. But they’re in there, all right.”
Norman felt a nervous churning in his stomach. It would all begin soon. For the umpteenth time he checked around him for his “weapons”: the sheet of tin they had stolen from one of the mine’s abandoned outbuildings and the wooden stick were both where they had been sixty seconds earlier, lying secure against the tree.
“I should be down there,” Malcolm muttered between his teeth. “Not one of ’em is stealthier than me. I could be in that prison in a flash. Before they blinked, those guards’d feel my dagger at their throats.” This didn’t sound like empty bravado. Malcolm was aching to be down there with the marauding party.
“Your father wanted you here with me. I tried the spyglass. It’s too small for my eyes. He said you were the best lookout he had.”
Malcolm did not reply but growled an angry, frustrated growl that exposed his long fangs. Perhaps he too suspected that his father had an ulterior motive for keeping him out of the fight.
Down below at the mine, the night shift had crossed the dusty square from the mouth of the mine to the compound that housed the barracks. The guards halted the column outside it. The long whistle sounded again, summoning the day shift to its drudgery. The animals that crawled from the barracks looked hardly more rested than the returning night shift. Norman wondered if they gave their returning friends any sign of what was going on inside the barracks. It was impossible for him to tell from this distance, but surely if Duncan’s men had infiltrated the barracks there would be some sign of it. Surely the miners would walk taller knowing that today they would fight for their freedom. Their slow tramp across the square gave away nothing. Even over at the quay everything seemed quiet. The merchant ships floated calmly at anchor. There was no sign of the river pirates there either.
“What do you see?” he asked Malcolm anxiously.
Malcolm responded with his usual sarcasm. “I see stoats, you big oaf.”
As the day shift trudged out of the compound and marched to the mine face, the night shift lined up at the doors to the three dormitory buildings. A fox at each door unshackled the exhausted miners. They looked like they were ready to drop. Norman prayed that they would find the energy to fight and run when the time came. He watched until the last stoat dragged himself inside and the barrack doors were bolted shut.
“Are they at the mine yet?” he asked Malcolm.
“The first stoats are just goin’ in. Any minute now, it’ll be time.”
These next few minutes seemed to take forever. Norman didn’t even know he was holding his breath until he finally had to exhale. Malcolm, nervous and fidgety on his shoulder, was too preoccupied to mock him.
“They’re all in the tunnel now. Start yer count.”
Norman counted the seconds under his breath, like he would in a schoolyard game. “One steamboat, two steamboat, three steamboat…”
At fifty steamboats, he bent down to pick up the rusty sheet of tin.
Malcolm was counting along with him now, though he surely had no idea what a steamboat might be—“…fifty-eight steamboats, fifty-nine steamboats, sixty steamboats. Okay, it’s time.”
Norman took a deep breath and held the tin sheet up in one arm. He was too nervous to swing with all his strength, but even a light blow with the stick was enough to make a clang resound through the valley. Two fox guards scurried out of the barracks. They peered around but didn’t spot Norman and Duncan in the trees.
“They’ve heard you,” Malcolm twittered excitedly. “Don’t stop now!”
So Norman hit the tin sheet again, harder this time, following it up with another and another in a steady beat. Thump, thump—bang; thump, thump—bang; thump, thump—bang; thump, thump—bang. This apparently was his most valuable skill for this battle: making noise.
More foxes had emerged from the mine buildings. They were pointing to the forest edge.
“You’ve got their attention now,” Malcolm said eagerly. “The vermin are pouring out of the barracks.”
“What about the mine?” Norman asked.
“Keep going,” Malcolm urged, “and holler something. Don’t your people have any war cries?”
Norman continued his rhythmic banging and shouted the only thing that seemed to go with drumming.
“We will, we will rock you!” he bellowed. “We will, we will rock you!”
Malcolm chuckled to himself. “You should see ’em now—they’re all out of the mine. The boss seems to be trying to get them to form up in ranks. Good luck. Cowardly droolers. Who ever knew a fox that was up to a fair fight?”
Norman had now switched to a cheer his soccer team chanted before games: “We’re number one, not two, not three, not four. We’re goin’ to win, not lose, not tie the score. We’re number one, number one. Let’s go, Duncan!”
As if on cue, a great shout was heard down below. Norman looked down to see a great swarm of stoats rush from the mine. Within moments the stoats from the barracks were unleashed too. There were no shackles to be seen. Gates seemed to have been magically unlocked. The two parties rushed unimpeded toward the small huddled group of foxes. Now Norman could see Duncan at the head of the night shift, his sword held high. At the head of the day shift, he saw the distinctive markings of Simon Whiteclaw. The two groups converged on the cowering foxes like the sharp-toothed jaws of a single giant angry stoat.
The enslaved miners no longer looked beaten and weary. Only their weapons made them distinguishable from Duncan’s rescue party. The workers held their picks above their heads as they charged. The rescuers brandished their swords. Both looked utterly fearsome. The foxes retreated slowly backward as the charge came.
Above them Norman continued through his meagre repertoire of war chants. “You’ve got to fight, for your right, to paaaarty!” he screamed. Malcolm seemed to take no notice of the words. He delighted in the effect. Though faced with an onslaught of vengeful stoats, the foxes made no move to flee to the woods. They knew the danger in front of them, but could only guess at what horde of fearsome beasts awaited them in the woods. Norman could see them eyeing the vast desert behind them as the best available escape route. Some of the more cowardly ran in this direction even before the stoats were on them. Duncan’s archers sent a few arrows their way to hasten their flight.
“I’m gonna knock you out. Mama said knock you out!” Norman bellowed, so excited that he was just shouting whatever came into his head. He was gripping the stick so hard now that his hand was almost numb.
A great roar came up from the valley floor below. The two pincers of the stoat advance had closed on the retreating foxes. The long battle hisses of the stoats drowned out everything but the high-pitched yelps of wounded foxes. The mine guards put up a feeble fight, overwhelmed by the stoat numbers. But they knew exactly how much their captives had to be vengeful for, and they could not expect mercy from them now. Whenever a fox got a chance, he limped away from the melee. The attackers let them go. The goal of this battle was not bloodshed, but victory.
“Look,” Malcolm shouted excitedly, pointing toward the ships still at anchor at the river dock. “The flag! The flag of the stoat kings flies again!”
This was the signal to disengage. Duncan’s men had secured the boats. The time had come for them to make their escape. Duncan’s men continued
to take the fight to the foxes, while the miners disengaged and rushed in small groups to the boats. If the foxes noticed, they could do nothing. When the miners were all safely onboard, Duncan’s men too began to slowly edge backward toward the river. A few more foxes took this opportunity to flee, but a few braver creatures now saw what was happening and fought back. Foxes who would not fight to keep their slaves suddenly found anger when the ships were threatened—ships laden with diamonds, their precious diamonds.
A trumpet clarion came from the boats.
“That’s the signal. It’s time,” Norman said solemnly as he put down his makeshift cymbal and drumstick.
Malcolm was unusually silent.
“Come on, Malcolm. I’ll carry you down to the edge of the valley. It will be a shorter distance for you to run.”
The little stoat nodded silently. His intelligent little eyes looked moist and clouded. Norman tried to remember if he had ever heard of a stoat or weasel crying in the Undergrowth books. He knew that if Malcolm cried, he would not be able to hold back his own tears.
“I’ll see you in Lochwarren soon,” he tried bravely as he stepped slowly down the slope closer to the battlefield. “Your father has promised to build me a barn. We’ll go swimming together in the loch, like we said.”
“I still don’t believe that creatures like you can swim,” Malcolm answered, trying to cheer himself up with a joke, but neither of them laughed. They walked on in silence now until they were level with the battlefield.
“You better stop here,” Malcolm warned. “You’re to be well away before the foxes start their hunt.”
“Goodbye, Malcolm,” Norman said quietly, putting his friend down gently on the ground.
“Thank you, Norman Strong Arm,” Malcolm said. Norman took three steps, then turned and saluted the boy. “Take care and keep to the map,” Malcolm added, “and trust only stoat folk and their kin.” It was the same advice his father had given.
“Look after yourself,” Norman called. The stoat bobbed his head to nod and turned. In a flash he was bounding his way to the boats, skirting the battlefield. Within a few minutes he would be safely on board. Norman vowed to watch him until he was securely on deck.
From the boats another trumpet sounded, faster and more urgent than the first clarion. There was no plan for a second trumpet signal. Out in the open, on the stretch of desert between the woods and the river, Malcolm stopped and looked up. Something unexpected had happened. Norman peered around fruitlessly for the cause of the alarm. Out on the plain, Malcolm still stood frozen. Perhaps he understood the trumpet’s code better than Norman. While Norman watched his friend’s indecision, the cause for alarm finally became clear. Three dark shapes burst from the forest nearer the river. Too large, too fast to be foxes, they could only be…“Wolves,” Norman gasped to himself. Instinctively he backed farther into the woods.
The remaining stoat fighters hastened their retreat. The wolves were tearing directly toward them, and the foxes, chastened by the appearance of their wolf masters, began to fight back more fiercely. The stoat skirmishers would make it to the boats in time. Already one ship had lifted anchor and was moving slowly down the river on the current. Those fighting the rearguard had but a little distance to run, and their retreat would be covered by archer fire from the mast tops. It was Malcolm who was in trouble.
The wolves’ path to the boats intersected the young stoat’s escape route. He was cut off. Norman could see him twist round, trying to decide whether to turn back to the forest or to continue toward the boats. Every second he hesitated made it worse. Another boat left the shore and followed the first downstream. All of Duncan’s warriors were at the river’s edge. Safety was only a leap away for them, but for Malcolm it was a full ten minutes’ sprint. Any moment now the wolves would reach the last stoat swordsmen. Malcolm seemed to realize that if he had ever had an opportunity to make a dash for the boats, it was gone. He had made his decision, and was scampering quickly back to the forest edge. His best hope now was with Norman.
Norman waited, breathless, at the tree line, willing his little friend to move faster. One eye he kept on the last ship. The rest of the stoats were all on board now, but this last boat remained at the water’s edge. One figure, surely Duncan himself, taunted the wolves from the prow, gaining Norman and Malcolm a little more time, creating his own diversion to finish this battle, just as Norman’s had started it. At the bow too there was motion. Norman caught a glimpse of a white tail dipping below the water’s surface. A few metres downstream, a matching snout appeared—SimonWhiteclaw.
Malcolm arrived at that moment. “You’re not rid of me yet, Strong Arm. Let’s get going,” he gasped. Without a further word, they disappeared into the forest.
The Pursuit
They fled headlong through the forest. The branches that whipped Norman’s face did not sting yet. All he felt was fear. He had not been afraid during either of the two battles he had participated in. Ravens and foxes didn’t frighten him, even if they could hurl stones and swing swords, but the wolves were something different. Just the sight of them bounding out of the darkness had sent a shiver of terror through his bones. These were killers, eyes and ears alert to prey, teeth made for rending flesh, and legs that hurtled the beasts with ferocious speed. Norman could not outrun them, nor could he fight them. He would be torn to shreds.
This sort of terror was new to Norman. A few days ago he would have told anyone that wolves were an endangered species and an amazing animal. Back home on the living-room wall there was a picture of arctic wolves. Norman’s mother had won it at a silent auction for a wildlife charity that reintroduced wolves back into their traditional territories. That was the world of another Norman. In this world, Norman knew that wolves were hunters—ruthless and implacable. He did not want to face them. It was the image of those cold, intelligent eyes from his own living-room wall that drove him on. It was as if they could see him running and knew that they would catch him. During all his panic, they were calm and assured of capturing their prey.
The forest grasped at him on every side, tearing his filthy pyjamas, stubbing his toes, aiming twigs at his eyes. Malcolm bounced his way between Norman’s shoulder and the trees, scurrying off to scout ahead and then back to whisper breathless directions into Norman’s ear. Norman doubted he had ever run as fast, even on the flat grass of the playground or the smooth tiles of the school gym. Malcolm’s reconnaissance kept them clear of steep gullies, impassable cliffs and dense brush, but their path was still strewn with rocks and roots that tripped Norman’s feet, sending him headlong in the dirt, bruising another rib, scraping another elbow. Malcolm encouraged him to his feet each time. There wasn’t a moment to spare to check for cuts, to rub injuries or to make friendly jibes about human clumsiness. They were running for their lives.
The wolves hadn’t seen them at the mine. If they had, Norman and Malcolm would be dead already. They were alive only because Duncan had fought on at the river’s edge as long as he could and because the wolves had stayed to hear the story and punish the foxes who told it.
There was no use pursuing the fleeing boats down the river. They could harry the boats from the river’s edge and expose themselves to stoat archers, but they could not stop the ships entering the gap and disappearing into the mountain canyons. The wolf hunters would hear about the disturbance in the woods that had started it all, and they would quickly pick up the scent of a human boy and his stoat companion. The pursuit would not be delayed. The wolves would be determined to find some creature, any creature, involved in the attack on their precious mine and to exact their revenge.
The sun was high in the sky when they stumbled, exhausted, into a small clearing. Neither boy nor stoat said a word, each sucking deep breaths of air into their starved lungs. They lay upon their backs in the grass beside each other, blinking up at the sun while their chests heaved. Norman patted Malcolm on the head kindly, hoping the gesture said everything he wanted say. He was glad that the littl
e stoat was here with him. Somehow it made him braver. He could not have found a path through the woods without the animal’s help, but he was proud of having done his part too, carrying Malcolm on his shoulders and doing the heavy running when Malcolm’s injuries caught up with him. This pat on the head was supposed to say everything it meant to be a friend in a time of trouble. And he was sure that Malcolm’s curious little stoat wink in return meant the same.
They had almost caught their breath when a gruff voice startled them to their feet.
“That’s enough of a rest now.”
Norman leapt to a shaky version of the guard stance he had learned in his white-belt karate class: feet planted and fists raised. Malcolm was at his shoulder, his bow drawn and an arrow nocked. They might have scared a party of marauding field mice or a couple of mole farmers, but it was hardly a show of force to cause a trio of wolf hunters any grave concern. Luckily it was not a wolf hunting party they turned to face.
“Ye couldna found a longer route?” Simon Whiteclaw asked. “Were ye aiming to put the fang beasts off your trail?”
The two friends had no reply to this. Malcolm put his bow down and returned the arrow to its quiver. Norman relaxed his shoulders and lowered his fists.
“You’re not thinking of heading back the way ye came, are ye?” Whiteclaw asked, his voice making it clear what he thought of this plan. “The wolves will know that trail by now. They’ll be waiting for you at the pass, I expect. The foul black birds will have let them know where to find you.”