by Paul Glennon
It should have been easy to stay awake. There was plenty to worry about, and the stone floor of the cave was anything but comfortable. He did manage to stay up long enough to see the moon rise above the mountains, but not much longer than that. Even the guards were still awake when Norman dropped off.
Reunion
The voice that woke him seemed to come from nowhere, a whisper that echoed around the cave. There might be someone hiding in one of the dark crevices of the cave. There might be someone whispering right in his ear.
“Wha?” he asked groggily. Norman was used to waking up in strange places, but the darkness of the cave was more disorienting than most.
He’d heard a voice, but he hadn’t heard what it said. He wasn’t even sure whether he’d really heard it or simply dreamt it.
“I said that this is one of your more unusual rescues,” the voice said cheerfully.
Immediately Norman was completely awake.
“Malcolm?”
“Keep it down, Strong Arm,” the voice replied. “Those lazy weasel guards will sleep through almost anything, but your din could wake the dead.”
Norman’s eyes adjusted to the darkness a little. High up on the wall at the back of the cave, a light flickered. He scrambled to his feet and stepped towards it.
There it was, not much higher than his head: the little portal in the rock above the stone staircase. Barred by a rusted iron door, it was the ancient escape route of princes. Behind those iron bars, a torch illuminated the familiar sharp-toothed grin of a stoat prince he knew well.
“Malcolm! What are you doing here?” Norman whispered, pressing his face to the bars to see his friend at long last.
Malcolm nodded, rubbing his sleek forehead against the tip of Norman’s nose through the bars.
“I can’t believe you’re safe.” Norman’s voice cracked as he struggled to contain his excitement and relief. “Guillaume told us you were gone, abdicated.”
“Why would you believe anything that traitor told you?” Malcolm asked.
Norman didn’t bother to answer the question. “Can you get out of there? Do you have a key?”
“I was hoping you’d brought one,” the stoat said hopefully.
Norman stepped back and gave the bars a long look. “Stand back. Let me try something.”
Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around the iron bars. Bracing his feet, he took a deep breath and summoned all his strength, then pulled. The hinges began to creak and screech. Dust fell down into his eyes, making them sting and blink, but it did not stop him pulling. He closed his eyes and strained against the bars. His arms felt like they were going to come out of their sockets, but Norman would not give up.
The screeching of the straining hinges echoed around the cave.
“Stop,” Malcolm whispered. “The guards are waking up.”
But Norman wouldn’t stop. The hinges seemed to shift, as if they were about ready to give. If he could just give one good pull, they might snap.
“Stop,” Malcolm repeated more urgently.
Norman’s fingers lost their grip on the bars and he fell defeated in a heap on the ground.
From the cave mouth came the low grumble of voices and the distinctive clang of armour.
“Put out the light,” Norman ordered.
The torch winked out, and Norman covered his head with his hands and feigned sleep. Inside he was anything but asleep. At a word, he would have jumped up and thrown himself at the door again. He was not going to abandon his friend once more.
A chain rattled in the gears above the cave mouth. From his position on the ground, Norman could see the portcullis outlined against the inky sky as it began to rise. The guards must have heard him. They were coming in to investigate. He lowered his eyelids until only the smallest slit of his eyes remained, and then watched as the gate drew up.
Three figures entered the cave. The glint of moonlight off their armour marked two of them as guardsmen. Between them was a third person. Shorter than the guards, this one moved slowly. He wore a hood and a long dark cloak of some kind. He made a sort of scraping sound as he came towards the spot where Norman lay. It was a sinister, menacing sound, as if he was dragging something—a noose or a net or something. As they loomed closer, Norman closed his eyes for real.
The scraping sound stopped inches from his head. Norman tried to breathe normally, like a person just lying there, asleep, but his heart was racing and he could hear the ragged edge to his breath. What were they going to do to him now?
“Are ye aright there, Master Strong Arm?”
It was not the voice or the question he was expecting, but Norman did not stir.
“What ‘ave they done with yer?” the questioner continued, anxiety cracking its voice. “They have na killt yer yet, ’ave they?”
Norman knew that voice. It was, in fact, one of the first voices he’d ever heard in Undergrowth.
“Norman, are you all right? Are you injured?”
He knew this soft voice too.
“Esme?” His eyes snapped open. Sure enough, it was the little rabbit under that hood. She stood there between the two armed guards, and even in this light, Norman could see the concern on her face.
“I’m all right,” he said, pulling himself to his knees. “Are you okay? Did the guards hurt you?”
“Och, Master Strong Arm, we’d no sooner harm Lady Esme than we’d harm our own wee sisters.” The guard lifted the visor of his helmet to reveal the snaggle-toothed grin of Mackie the River Raider. “Pleased yer all in one piece,” he said.
The second guard lifted his helmet from his head and held it deftly under his arm as he executed a quick bow. “Strong Arm,” he said formally, snapping a salute, “it is a pleasure to serve with you again.”
“Mackie, Captain Harald—am I glad to see you. But how …?”
The archer captain stopped his question short. “There’ll be time aplenty for stories anon. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Wait,” Norman said. “It’s not just me. Malcolm’s here too.”
As if on cue, Malcolm’s torch flickered back to life at the portal overhead.
“I sure hope you lads have brought some keys,” he called down. “Strong Arm wasn’t living up to his name when you arrived.”
Mackie grinned, exposing the full crooked armoury of his teeth, and held up a ring of keys.
“The guards were very obliging,” Esme said with a smile. “They were quite happy to be relieved an hour early.”
“Especially when we promised not to report them for sleeping on duty,” Captain Harald added. He shook his head. “Wouldn’t be tolerated in my regiment.”
Norman took the keys and began trying each one in the lock.
“You’ll have to make for the forest,” Harald explained as Norman worked his way through the keys. “It’ll be easier now with King Malcolm. He knows the pathways better than most men in his kingdom—better than these weasels, anyway, and no stoat will help them—but you’ll have to be quick.”
Norman finally found the key that turned in the lock. Rusty after so many years of disuse, the mechanism lurched and grinded as he turned it, but finally it clicked open. Malcolm gave the iron door a good shove and pushed it open.
“Well done,” he said. “Now can you give us a lift down?”
“Us?” Norman asked.
“Aye,” Malcolm growled. “They’ve got the whole royal family locked up in here.” He turned and bent to pull a figure from the ground behind him. It was another stoat all right. He looked injured or ill, or maybe he was just old. He was almost silver grey, the colour of his ermine cousins, but the proud head on those tired shoulders was unmistakably Cuilean’s. With Malcolm’s help, he limped towards the hole in the cavern wall and cast a skeptical eye downwards.
“Last time I did this, there was a rope ladder to the steps and a boat waiting below.”
“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” Norman told him. King Malcolm was always just Malcolm to him, but Pri
nce Cuilean, his regent, always inspired the title Your Highness. “I can get you down.” He held out a hand like a landing dock below the opening in the rock.
Prince Cuilean hesitated. “If we’re to be escaping overland, I’m afraid I should stay here. I’ll only slow you down.”
Malcolm was having none of it. “I’m not leaving without you.”
The old prince smiled gratefully at his nephew but did not budge towards Norman’s offered hand.
Harald and Mackie looked nervously towards the open gate and the mouth of the cave.
“I’ll carry you,” Norman offered. “It won’t be a problem.”
The stoat prince stiffened, as if offended by the suggestion.
“If you will allow me, sir,” Norman said more formally. “When Malcolm was struck by Raven fire at the Glace Mountains ambush, I had the honour of carrying him to safety. I consider it my greatest service to your family. It would be my honour to do it again for you.”
Cuilean smiled ruefully and nodded. “Now is no time for an old soldier’s pride. Your offer is a gallant one.” He stepped onto Norman’s palm. Norman lowered him to the ground and held out his hand for Malcolm. The stoat leapt nimbly from the opening to the outstretched hand, then bounded up his arm to his shoulder. He tapped Norman gently behind the ear with one of his tiny paws and whispered into his ear, “Knew I could count on you, Strong Arm.”
Norman took a deep breath and smiled. The weight of the little stoat was never a burden. He was never happier than when Malcolm was there on his shoulder chattering into his ear.
“We should be moving,” Harald told them. “The next shift could be here any minute.”
Cuilean was already sitting down on the floor of the cave, exhausted just by his efforts to clamber out of the portal. Norman wondered if it really was a good idea for him to come. Last time he’d seen him, Cuilean was in the prime of his fighting years, but now he looked years older. He was clearly very sick. It would be a struggle for him to hang on to Norman’s shoulder like Malcolm did.
Esme seemed to understand the problem too. “Will this be of any help?” She held up the strap of Norman’s knapsack. “I was hoping I didn’t drag this down from the castle for nothing. The weasels wanted to make a tent out of it, but I claimed it for the Great Cities. Do you think you could be comfortable in there?”
Cuilean eyed the knapsack approvingly. “I think I could be very comfortable. Thank you, Lady. It’s a joy to hear a Santandarian accent again. I spent my university years in Santander.”
Norman held his bag open and the silver-haired stoat slowly manoeuvred himself inside.
“Very comfortable, indeed,” he said, once settled. “My command tent during the wolf campaign wasn’t as commodious. Nor did it smell so pleasantly of oats and honey.”
Norman smiled to himself. The bag had held a lot of granola bars. He was about to lift the knapsack to his shoulder when a noise alerted them to some movement outside the cave.
Their heads all snapped towards the cave mouth. They heard voices, it was certain, and the rhythmic ching-chang of marching armed men.
“Aw, Bead Eye, we’re too slow. It’ll be the relief guard,” Mackie muttered. “I was hopin’ not to have ta fight. My sword arm’s awful rusty.” He waved his sword tentatively, as if trying it out.
“Put your sword away and get your visor on,” Harald commanded. He replaced his own helmet as he spoke. “Come with me and let me do the talking.” He strode to the cave mouth, and Mackie tripped after him. “You two get out of sight,” he told Esme and Malcolm.
“In here,” Cuilean whispered from deep inside the knapsack. He might move slowly, but his brain was still agile enough to command. “Malcolm, extinguish that lantern and both of you get in here. There’s plenty of room. Norman, lie back down and pretend to sleep. Harald will handle the guards and buy us some time.”
Esme and Malcolm scrambled into the knapsack, pulling the flap over the opening, and Norman threw himself back down on the ground, concealing the sack behind him. Again he squinted towards the front of the cave. Two guards had arrived to meet Mackie and Harald.
“Why is the gate up?” one of the new guards asked. “Are you mad?”
“We heard a sound,” Harald explained. “Have you ever heard a human snore? It’s something you’re likely to hear in hell. Like a badger cornered. We thought it was going to gnaw off its own paw or something.”
“Then why in the Maker’s name did you open the door?” the new guard raged. “Are you simpletons?”
“We, er …” Mackie stammered. “Harry here wanted to give the beast a good poke with his lance, to shut him up.”
Harald must have been biting his tongue.
“Then you’re both fools. That thing is dangerous,” the guard spluttered. “The orders were to leave it alone. Report to the Captain of the Guard. He’ll have you transferred to the Sangbord Fringelands, no doubt. You can do your share of badger-baiting there if you like.”
Mackie and Harald executed a pair of sloppy salutes and marched out. The new guards shook their heads in disbelief. “Blasted fools,” one muttered. “They’ll get us all killed. Let’s get the gate down again double quick. That thing in there gives me the creeps.”
Norman could not help smiling to himself. Sometimes there were advantages to being a fearsome monster. He lay there pretending to sleep for a little while longer, before daring to whisper to the fugitives in his knapsack.
“Everyone okay in there?”
“We’re fine,” Malcolm whispered back. “Are you going to get us out of here?”
“How do you expect me to do that?” Norman asked, opening the flap of the knapsack just a little so he could see their faces. Three sets of animal eyes looked out at him.
“The bookweird,” Esme replied. “Isn’t that what you call it?”
The little rabbit was adapting very quickly to his ways.
“It doesn’t always work that way, Lady Esme,” Malcolm protested. “He seems to be able to bookweird himself, but bringing a passenger is a challenge.”
“But he brought me here with no problem.”
“To be clear: you were a stowaway,” Norman said.
Esme wrinkled her nose. “Well, we have to try. Hand me the paper and pen. What do you want me to write?”
“We need to go to San Savino,” Malcolm declared. “We need to get the treaty map and we need to rescue Jerome.”
“We can’t all go.” The idea of infiltrating Jerome’s historical novel with two talking stoats and a rabbit was too much for Norman. “It’s not safe.”
“What is this madness you are conjuring?” Cuilean wheezed as Norman handed the writing materials to Esme. “Is this the sorcery that heretic fox was teaching you? I warned you against it. That abbot cannot be trusted.” He broke down into a coughing fit.
Malcolm and Norman exchanged a worried glance.
“We can look after him in Willowbraid,” Esme insisted.
“Esme’s right,” Norman said. “Malcolm and I will go straight from there to San Savino.”
The rabbit dipped the quill into the ink and begin to write, tentatively at first, but quickly once she’d found her subject.
It was too dark for Norman to read. “How can you see in there?”
Cuilean read over Esme’s shoulder. “Rabbits are crepuscular. They can see in very low light. It’s what makes them such good archers,” he said absently, distracted by what he was reading. “This Willowbraid place is new to me. This woven dome you describe is ingenious. Is it based on a design from one of the Santandarian masters?”
Esme kept writing without answering him. Her little rabbit forehead furrowed as she concentrated, and she dotted her sentences with vigorous punctuation. “There,” she said, blowing on the ink to dry it. “Will that do?”
Norman held the paper up in front of him. “I’ll need the lantern for a minute to read it. I don’t think it works unless I read it.”
Malcolm lit his lantern, pulling
the flap of the knapsack around him to block the light. It was just enough for Norman to make out the tiny handwriting. It was Willowbraid all right, described better than Norman could ever have done. The way Esme described the morning light coming in through the gaps in the dome, the way she saw the differences between the various greys of the morning, on the stone of the church, in the shadows of the square—it was a very rabbitish view of the world. Norman had read a lot about Undergrowth, but he’d never read anything by an Undergrowthian.
“You should write a book,” he told her honestly.
Esme curtsied at his compliment and capped the inkpot.
The lantern winked out and the animals withdrew into the knapsack.
“Goodnight, everybody,” Malcolm called cheerily from inside. “See you in the morning … I hope.”
“Hold tight,” Norman advised them as he lifted the knapsack. “I hope everyone’s sleepy.”
Before lying back down, he stuck his arms through the straps and clutched the knapsack to his belly. He really was tired. His eyes were sore and his legs heavy, but he couldn’t fall asleep right away, and the shifting of the animals in the bag across his belly reminded him he wasn’t alone. Cuilean was more right than he knew: you couldn’t trust the fox abbot Fuchs and you couldn’t trust the bookweird. They might wake up in Willowbraid, or they might wake up just about anywhere. He only hoped that they woke up together for once.
Return to Willowbraid
Uncomfortable mornings were pretty normal now. If you fell asleep on a cave floor, you couldn’t complain too much if you woke up in some dusty warehouse or on a pile of pine cones. It was the trumpets that woke him this time—that and the shouting. It wasn’t much more noise than Dora made when she got up early for riding classes, but it was enough to rouse him, and it definitely wasn’t Dora blowing those horns and barking the orders for the archers to man the ramparts.