by Paul Glennon
“Lochwarren,” he whispered, amazed.
He broke into a run. The prospect of seeing his friend Malcolm again chased every chill from his body. Even his sore head felt better. If he wasn’t home, then this was the next best place. Reaching open ground, he began to jog across the uneven heath toward the castle.
He was well within shouting distance of the castle walls when he pulled himself up short. That was not the red flag of the Stoat Kingdom flying from each of Lochwarren’s three towers. Instead Norman spied the ragged yellow pennant of the forest wolves. Lochwarren was still a wolf stronghold.
Norman realized that there was no way of knowing where in the story he had arrived. Had he arrived during the Princes’ exile? Were Duncan and Cuilean still growing up somewhere, or had the war begun? Either way, wolves would be everywhere now. The forest would be full of them. Feeling suddenly exposed, Norman crouched and surveyed the battlements for a sign of its defenders. No movement could be seen in the notches of the parapets. Nothing obvious stuck out from the arrow loops, but the drawbridge was up and the portcullis down. The wolves were on the defensive. They had withdrawn to the castle and were prepared for an attack. Had Lochwarren only just fallen to the wolves, or had Duncan and Cuilean’s rebellion reached this far?
Try as he might, Norman could see no evidence of a stoat army anywhere around him. This was no proof of anything, of course. If the stoats didn’t want to be seen, it would take sharper eyes than Norman’s to pick them out. But perhaps this was just wishful thinking.
As Norman crouched in the shrubs, a wolf appeared at the top of the lowest tower. He was a haggard creature who must have seen many battles. Norman shuddered and remembered his flight from Scalded Rock.
“Come out of your holes, vermin!” the wolf howled. “Come take your puny castle back if you dare!” There was a hint of desperation to his voice. This was a last stand of some sort.
There was no reaction to the wolf’s taunt. Norman scanned the forest line around the castle for any movement, any glint of steel in the shadows of the pines. Nothing—only the trees swaying in the breeze, the forest creaking with their motion. No other sound was to be heard. That clinched it: the stoats had to be out there. The whole forest was hushed in anticipation. No birdcalls, no chattering from field mice or voles—all the woodland animals of Lochwarren knew that a battle loomed.
Up on the battlement more wolves appeared. They whistled and jeered and rattled their spears against the stone encastlations.
“You coward weasels, come out and fight. Come out and take your worthless little hovel. It’s not fit for wolf kings,” the shaggy predator on the tower called.
It was easy for them to be brave. Up there on the battlements, they knew that they were out of archer range. They could heckle all they wanted. Norman wanted to shout back. He wanted to tell the wolf to come down and fight if he was so brave, but he wasn’t about to reveal his position.
The grey wolf snarled in frustration and disappeared again into the tower.
What was the stoat battle plan? Norman wondered. How did they intend to take back their castle? Surely they would need siege engines. Archers and swordsmen alone would be useless against the thick fortifications of Lochwarren castle. He scanned the forest again for any sign. Still nothing.
A shout from the castle caught his attention. Norman caught his breath as he saw the scruffy wolf emerge once again. He stood high on the wall now so that he could be seen. His sword was drawn in his right paw. He turned it menacingly so it glinted in the sunlight. In his left paw he held something else up high. Norman squinted to try to identify it. It was brown, too small to be a shield. Suddenly it moved, and Norman knew exactly what it was.
“Such cowards you are,” taunted the wolf. “Cower in the woods, you vermin. Don’t bother trying to save your little friend.”
The young stoat struggled vainly in his captor’s vicious paw.
The squirming captive was too far away to recognize, but a sickening feeling gripped Norman’s stomach. It could be Malcolm up there twisting in the wolf’s grip. The more he thought about it, the more he felt it must be true. They had taken Malcolm hostage. It was his own friend up there with the sword at his throat.
A deep rage welled up in Norman. So much had gone wrong since he’d first fallen into this book. He had screwed up so much. But one thing had gone right. One thing was worth it all: the friendship of the little stoat prince, Malcolm. If he was up on that parapet right now, Norman wouldn’t hesitate to confront that wolf. It wouldn’t matter that the beast had been raised to kill, and that he could do it equally well with his claws and teeth as with the sword. Norman would stand up for his friend.
Only then did Norman recall the bow at his side. The castle was farther and higher than any shot he’d made back at Maldon, but he didn’t care. He had to do something. He could give that filthy wolf something to think about. Gripping the bow just as Wulfmaer had shown him, he notched the straightest of his remaining arrows. He could feel a snarl growing on his own face as he drew the string back. The anger surging through his body lent strength to his arm, but his hand didn’t shake. It was steadier than ever as he pulled back and raised his aim. The fingers released just right. The flight didn’t snag on his fingers. The string didn’t snap on his arm. The arrow flew high and straight. Even as he heard it whistling in the air, Norman was shouting.
“For Tista Kirk!” he yelled, bellowing it from the bottom of his stomach, packing all his anger and his love for the little stoat into his breath. The volume of his voice startling him. The echo resounded through the valley. Shocked wolves on the parapets of Lochwarren castle turned toward him, their long snouts agape in amazement. Then a gurgling cry from the parapet snapped their heads the other way. The grey wolf was on his knees, clutching his chest. His captive had scampered away and was nowhere to be seen.
The echo of Norman’s shout was just dying out when he realized what he’d done. He’d actually hit the wolf. He almost couldn’t believe it. You could give him this shot a hundred more times and he’d never make it again.
There was a moment of shock before he could speak again. There was still anger in his voice, but also a strange bewildered awe at what he’d done. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “For Duncan and Cuilean! For the sons of Malcolm!”
Bewildered wolves on the castle wall looked around for the source of the battle cry. Most cowered behind battlements. A few fired back, their arrows falling harmlessly in the field in front of him. Norman sent another arrow back. It whistled past harmlessly this time, rattling off an inner wall, but the wolves had been warned and ducked hurriedly behind the parapet.
Norman was reaching for his third arrow when he heard a swelling roar of voices from the woods. Those stoats were small, but they could make an oversized racket when they wanted to. Norman unleashed another arrow toward the castle. The wolves, shocked by his range, ducked behind merlons on the castle battlements and did not reappear.
The stoat army poured from the forest now. Norman could see the red cloaks and gold banners of the old stoat kings along with the buccaneer flags of Duncan’s Rivernesters. At the centre there was even a small body of hares marching under the banner of the Five Cities. So Duncan’s and Cuilean’s forces had united. The brothers were marching together to free their ancestral home. A desperate hope filled Norman’s chest—maybe that hadn’t been Malcolm there in the clutches of the grey wolf in the tower after all.
From within the castle a horn blast sounded. Norman had heard that call before. It was no wolf clarion. That was a river raider horn. A new banner thrust now from one of the drawbridge towers, Duncan’s black battle ensign. There were stoats inside the castle already! The mechanical clank of the drawbridge cogs could be heard now too, and sure enough the portcullis was creaking upward and the moat bridge was descending.
“Of course,” Norman whispered to himself, “the tunnels.” Years ago, the stoat princes had fled Lochwarren through hidden passages
that led out to the lake. They would return the same way. A small party of Rivernesters had slipped in through the tunnels, silently securing the gate towers while the garrison focused on the drama up on the high parapets. The bridge fell into place with a thud, its timing perfect. Stoat troops streamed into Lochwarren castle. Norman could hear the panicked howls of the wolves within. They were trying to defend again now from the castle towers, aiming crossbow bolts directly down at the drawbridge, but Norman harried them with his longbow. It no longer mattered if he hit them or not. Just the sound of arrows rattling off the stones sent them scurrying. With each arrow, fewer and fewer wolves dared to show their snouts.
It could not be going well for the defenders inside either, because another door had opened at the side of the castle, from which wolves were now fleeing in twos and threes. Norman hurried them along in their flight by sending a few arrows their way. There were no returning shots now from the castle. The defence was crumbling. Undone by the shocking fall of its commander and the surprise attack from below, the wolves were in disarray. One by one the wolf banners had been replaced by the red and gold flag of the stoat kings.
As the clamour of fighting died down, Norman edged closer to the castle. His quiver was empty now and there was nothing more he could do from the forest edge. Perhaps it would have been wiser to wait there until the battle was over and the castle fully secure, but he could not wait. He needed to know if that was Malcolm up there. He needed to know that his friend was okay. Soon he made no more pretence at caution. As he jogged across the heath, he glanced up occasionally to appreciate how much bigger the castle was when you got close to it. It no longer looked like a plaything or a model. And the carcass of a slain wolf that lay across the castle gate was no toy either—it was as long as he was high. A chill of fear went through him finally. He had forgotten how big these predators were. Norman just stood there staring at the fallen wolf. If any defenders had remained on the high tower, his bare head would have been an easy target.
A shout from above snapped him out of his reverie.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
Norman grinned up at the little animal standing atop the gate tower. The young stoat looked bigger, stronger and if possible cockier than when Norman had last seen him.
“In England!” Norman shouted back, the grin wide on his face.
Malcolm laughed his gleeful stoat laugh. “England? Tell me another one. Every stoat-body knows that England is the stuff of fairy tales.”
Norman heard the full story of the stoat campaign that night. A fire roared in the great hall of Lochwarren and a grand feast was served. It was only the second room in Undergrowth that actually accommodated Norman, and it was certainly warmer than the ruined shell of Tintern Abbey. Norman sprawled down the length of the hall, warming his socked feet by the fire. Someone, most likely Malcolm, had lashed Norman’s one sneaker to an iron peg high up on the wall beside the ancient armour and trophies of the stoat kings. Malcolm sat beside him at the banquet table, chatting away vigorously. Norman did his best to follow the story.
“I’m sorry we didn’t stay and look for you when you disappeared like that, but Uncle Cuilean said we had to move on. There were too many wolf spies in Edgeweir to hang about looking for a great oaf like you. That old fox abbot at Tintern told us you were probably gone for good.
“We spent the spring gathering men to fight in the uprising. At first there were just a few of us. We hijacked the wolf mail convoys and set fire to their weapons stockpiles, little things that showed the people that we could fight back. Every time we struck out at them, we drew more stoats to the struggle. By midsummer we were an army of hundreds.”
Cuilean’s old companion James turned to face them from his place on the feast bench. There was a look of grandfatherly pride on his face as he smiled and nodded at the young stoat. “This young scoundrel would have fought the war on his own, but the new recruits kept coming. The hares came to deliver swords and crossbows, a gift from the Duke of Logorno, but stayed when they got their first taste of real fighting after so many quiet years in the Five Cities.” He amicably nudged the russet brown hare who shared his bench.
Malcolm bounded onto Norman’s shoulder and made himself comfortable there—like old times—and continued breathlessly. “With reinforcements and the proper weapons, the wolves could nae handle us. They locked themselves up in their strongholds. They were afraid to stick their noses out without armed knights, but we ferreted them out of their towers one by one. It was almost too easy.”
“The boy’s right,” the hare added. “The towers and fortified towns fell with minimal resistance. The cretins waited for reinforcements that never came, then tried to escape in the night.”
“Uncle Cuilean couldn’t understand why the tower garrisons weren’t reinforced, but I always knew. I knew that Dad was on the march, too. I knew he had drawn the wolf armies out. Soon we heard the news from the other side of the mountains. Another stoat army had massed in the west hills. I wanted to be the one who took the message to Dad, but Uncle Cuilean sent James instead.”
James placed a friendly hand on the young prince’s shoulder. “The boy was already too valuable. He led two regiments of archers at that point. The lads shoot farther and with more accuracy when a Mustelid prince gives the orders,” the old stoat boasted. James had only just met Malcolm when Norman last left Undergrowth. In the interim he had clearly developed a soft spot for the boy.
Malcolm suppressed a proud smile. “James snuck through enemy territory to Dad’s war camp at Castle Craigweel. Dad knew I was alive all along. He knew you and Simon would get me out of Scalded Rock.”
Norman thought back to that harrowing escape and that moment of confrontation in the forest. The last time Norman had seen Simon Whiteclaw, he was facing down a wolf assassin.
“I don’t suppose Simon…,” he began.
James shook his silver head. “No sign of him. I never had much time for the man, but the scoundrel did right by the boy, and he went down fighting, like a true soldier.”
Norman felt a shiver go through the young stoat on his shoulder. “Like my dad,” Malcolm whispered.
It took a second for Malcolm’s words to sink in. When they did, Norman didn’t know what to say.
“Aye, lad,” James said, eyeing his young charge sympathetically. “He lived like a hero and died like one. They’ll be telling his tale in this hall for generations to come.”
“But what happened?” Norman couldn’t help worrying that it was something he’d done, some change he’d made in the book that had precipitated Duncan’s death and orphaned his young friend.
“’Twas at the second battle of Tista Kirk, a masterful bit of warcraft by this lad’s dad and uncle. Some might say that a stoat is no match for a wolf. Your wolf in fighting trim is often four times the weight of even the largest stoat. But a stoat’s got speed, speed of hand and of brain. A well-trained sword-stoat is more than a match for a lumbering wolf in hand-to-hand combat. What you don’t want to do with wolves is engage them in pitched battles. On open ground, a well-formed wolf army would smash through the strongest shield wall. That’s what happened at the first Tista Kirk. Duncan dared the wolves to do it again. His army had fought its way up the mountains in a series of bloody battles. His war was tougher than ours. We stayed in the forests, harassing the supply lines, hiding our real strength. When Duncan formed up his battle lines on the fields of Tista Kirk, those wolves must have been licking their chops—a good old pitched battle, just their kettle of tea. Those Rivernesters are brave lads, I’ll give you that. They stood firm behind their shields and taunted those wolves until they charged. There’s not many a stoat who can stand firm in the face of an armed wolf charge, but those lads did. They knew we were hiding in the woods there, waiting for the wolves to break cover, but they wouldn’t have kidded themselves. They must have known that many would die that day.”
“I shoulda been there with ’em,” Malcolm muttered t
hrough gritted teeth. “I ought to ’ave been at my father’s side.”
“Ah, lad, but then who would have won the battle for us?” James asked the young prince gently. He turned back to Norman. “It was Malcolm’s archers that made the difference. They’d been lying low in the woods just behind the wolves all day. Once the wolves moved out into the open, we brought our archers up at the tree line. Just before the wolves reached the shield wall, Malcolm’s lads unleashed their fury, used those slobbering bags of fur like pincushions. They didn’t know what hit them. They ran about like madbeasts scrambling to get out of range. When they finally formed up again, we rained more arrows down on them and made ready for another charge. By the time they reached Duncan’s lines, their force was half what it had been. It was enough to do some damage, though. Duncan’s men fought them every step of the way. Thankfully, the archers had done enough, chopped the wolf regiments up into little bite-sized chunks that Duncan’s men could digest.
“By noon only the fiercest wolf lairds remained, those that knew the battle was lost but fought on anyway, hoping just to take a few stoats with them to the grave. It was one of them that did it, Nighthowler, a fierce old warrior, strong and sly. He was there at the first Tista Kirk. He boasted of knocking the banner out of old Malcolm’s hand and of dealing the last blow.
“Duncan called him out there on the battlefield, challenged him to single combat. It didn’t matter that Duncan was wounded already and had fought all morning while the old wolf prowled and hid behind his bodyguards. Within minutes Duncan had him at swordpoint. It was a done deal, but the treacherous beast wasn’t having it. Nighthowler knew he’d lost the duel, but he couldn’t allow it, couldn’t end it with dignity. Before any stoat could do anything, three wolf bodyguards jumped Prince Duncan from behind. He took two of them with him to the grave as well as old Nighthowler, but between them, they did him in.”
The whole table was quiet now. Hares and stoats alike had put down their tankards and lowered their eyes. Perhaps, like Norman, they could not bear to look at Malcolm. James lowered his voice as he continued.