Moon Crossing - A Fellhounds of Thesk Story

by Farr, Cathy;

  ‘Does that mean that you’ll be joining us, Mister Beck?’ asked Mortimer without taking his eyes off the map.

  ‘If one of the four Fellmen is Leon then yes, I don’t want my boy going the same way as Giles!’

  Godwyn Savidge, who had been smouldering quietly for quite some time, was once more on his feet. Agatha Peasgood dropped her cup.

  ‘And just what do you mean by that, Beck? That I should have been on that Moon Chase? That I should have been there – for my boy?’ said Godwyn in a dangerous voice. His bloodshot eyes blazed red in the light of the fire. Oswald met his glare but Morten Mortens got in first.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Oswald didn’t mean anything of the sort, Godwyn,’ said the Grand Wizen pleasantly. But his normally pink and jovial face had gone the colour of the white china plate he held in his hand. ‘Why don’t you take a seat and have a glass of elder wine. I’m sure Martha has a bottle ready to open somewhere?’

  He raised his eyebrows hopefully at Martha. She took his cue and scuttled out to the kitchen. But Godwyn was not going to be placated that easily.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why this boy is so important?’ Godwyn hissed through gritted teeth, jabbing his finger towards Wil. ‘Or for that matter why, Morten, you are prepared to risk the safety of Saran for a fourteen-year old girl – who is not even Saran-born – and an old horse! And as for this legacy of yours, your Worship – even as a member of the same Order, I am obviously not worthy enough to share the secret of its whereabouts or, in fact, what it is!’

  For the first time that evening Morten Mortens’ face coloured with anger.

  ‘Now, really, Godwyn, that’s–’

  But Godwyn Savidge was not to be stopped.

  ‘No, Mortens! I’ve only ever done my best for Saran – with my own gold, too! And how do you repay me? You keep secrets. You have my son destroyed. And now it seems you are suggesting that somehow I might be to blame! Well, this member of the Order will NOT support this fool’s errand – and if I were you,’ he snarled, turning to Mortimer, ‘I wouldn’t worry about how to get to Armelia, son, Rexmoore’s men will destroy you before you reach the slopes of Tel Harion!’

  Then without another word he marched to the front door, grabbed his cloak off its hook and swept out into the fading light of the late afternoon – leaving the door wide open behind him.

  A loud POP! came from the kitchen – followed by the clinking of glasses.

  With Godwyn gone and a glass of ruby red elderberry wine in front of everyone, the mood in the Hall lifted considerably. Lady Élanor and Oswald Beck eventually got their way – largely thanks to Mortimer who seemed very keen for an excuse to get back out onto the Fells. Wil guessed that the Fellman must have had something of a quiet winter.

  With the route finally agreed, the decision that Mortimer would head the rescue was largely academic. They were to leave at first light. Wil and Phinn were to join him, together with Fellmen Leon Beck, Curtis Waller and Becky Lum; and although Mortimer made absolutely no effort to hide his objection, Oswald remained adamant that he was to join the party.

  As he listened, Wil desperately wanted to ask why Gisella wasn’t going but shied away from mentioning her name in case he looked stupid; Wil wasn’t sure how people would react if he appeared to be too keen to see her. He was surprised that the disappearance of Gisella’s mother, Fermina Fairfax, had not been discussed. It was one of the other pieces of dramatic news that Lady Élanor had shared on her arrival in Mistlegard that morning. But as the subject had not come up at all at the meeting Wil guessed that Gisella’s mother must have turned up and had not come to the meeting for some other reason. Instead, Wil asked why Seth Tanner hadn’t been included, but it was everyone’s view that Seth’s mother wouldn’t let him go – particularly after the last Moon Chase! Wil couldn’t disagree.

  The formulation of a firm plan seemed to calm Lady Élanor but Wil got the distinct feeling that something was still troubling her. Time and time again during the evening she had asked how long the rescue mission would take. But each time no one was able to give an answer.

  As everyone finally got ready to leave, Lady Élanor touched Morten Mortens on the elbow, ‘Morten, before you go, could you just spare me a minute – I would like to discuss the linen stocks for the infirmary.’

  ‘Er – right now, my Lady?’ said the Grand Wizen, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. ‘It’s just that Millicent is cooking the first of the spring lambs – it’s always a bit of a celebration in our house, you know – new season’s lamb, new potatoes and spring greens – one of my favourite meals as it happens.’ He smiled wistfully and fastened his cloak under his chin. ‘We’ve kept a bottle of mead from last year, too – should be quite a treat!’

  A shadow passed over Lady Élanor’s face. She turned; her voice fading as she walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, if your meal is more important than the cleanliness of the town’s only hospital, particularly during this latest outbreak of chicken fever, then of course you must go, your Worship.’

  With a sigh, the Grand Wizen undid the clasp of his cloak and plodded after her.

  Agatha and Oswald followed Mortimer down the garden path and Martha shut the front door. She stood with her hand still on the latch, looking puzzled.

  ‘Funny, there’s a mountain of clean linen in the laundry – did it myself yesterday,’ she frowned. But then a thought struck her. ‘Oh my, I hope those blessed swallows haven’t been nesting in there again – it’s the same every year – droppings everywhere! Better go and check – I’ll be so cross if I have to wash all those sheets again! It’s not as if her Ladyship hasn’t got enough to worry about as it is…’ And, completely ignoring Wil, she too headed for the kitchen – the quickest route to the infirmary – leaving the door slightly ajar in her haste. Unsure quite what to do, Wil sat in one of the huge wooden armchairs and gazed into the glowing remnants of Martha’s blazing inferno.

  Lady Élanor’s worried voice drifted out from the kitchen.

  ‘I know that, Morten, and her disappearance troubles me, too. But with the Alcama only a few nights away – we must get them back. Goodness knows what will happen to Saran without–’

  The door was closed quietly and, try as he might, all Wil could hear was the crackle of the glowing embers of the fire.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dawn Flight

  A rush of freezing air smacked into Wil’s face like a wave of icy water. Robbed momentarily of breath, he opened his eyes but the darkness smothered everything in a blanket of black. He was sure he was in the air – how high, he didn’t know – and certainly didn’t want to know! He was also sure he was travelling very fast – downwards – and braced himself ready to hit the ground. But then, almost leaving his stomach behind, he was suddenly hauled upwards into a long climb. The wind roared in his ears; his eyes streamed in the freezing blast and his nose was so cold it burned. Wil screwed his eyes tight shut in case he got a glimpse of just how high – or low – he was to the ground as he soared and swooped. But then he felt himself tumble into another dive and instantly regretted that last piece of honey cake. He retched, lurched sideways and landed with a thud on the floorboards of the bedroom in Lovage Hall.

  Utterly bewildered, he squinted into the more comfortable darkness of the bedroom. He could hear rain hammering against the window. From down the hall light footsteps raced towards his room and Lady Élanor’s voice called out.

  ‘Wil, are you alright? Can I come in?’

  Dazed and shaking, Wil clambered back into bed, ‘Er...hang on…yer...er …’

  The door flew open and Lady Élanor stood in the light of the lamp she was clutching in her raised hand.

  ‘What was that noise? Wil – are you alright? You haven’t seen any more prowlers in the garden, have you?’

  ‘No – a dream… I think… I fell out of bed,’ Wil admitted. Lady Élanor’s words made him feel even more foolish – the last time he had spotted someone trying to brea
k into Lovage Hall he had raised the alarm by banging Martha’s precious copper pots together and had scared everyone witless in the process!

  ‘I… I thought I was flying,’ he said. His cheeks blazed red.

  Lady Élanor opened her mouth to speak but a sudden, sharp tap on the window made them both jump. Waves of rain hurled against the leaded glass. The tapping got louder and slightly more irritable. In the darkness on the other side of the tiny glass panes Wil could just about make out the shape of a very wet raven.

  ‘Pricilla!’

  With a wide grin, Wil scrambled to the end of the bed and opened the window.

  ‘Crronk! Crronk! Prruk!’

  The soggy raven hopped, dripping, onto the bed, spread her wings and flapped – for several seconds. Wil grabbed the covers to fend off the spray of icy water and waited until she had made her point. The images from his dream fell into place.

  ‘Well, if that was your idea of a welcome, Pricilla, I’m glad it was dark! You know how much I hate heights!’

  The huge bird shook herself again and gave Wil’s big toe a light peck. Then she flapped over to the washstand and took a long drink from the water pitcher.

  ‘Heights – what do you mean, Wil?’ asked Lady Élanor with a frown. But she wasn’t listening for an answer. She stood, gripping the window latch and stared out of the open window into the drenched black night. Rain trickled over her small white hand but she didn’t seem to notice. Wil answered anyway.

  ‘I was dreaming that I was in the air – flying – I must have been reading Pricilla’s mind – you know, while she was flying here.’ He watched Pricilla sploosh water over the bedroom floor. ‘I never realised how cold it is up there!’

  Lady Élanor didn’t speak. Her pale eyes searched the night sky and rain splashed off the window sill onto the brightly coloured quilt at the end of Wil’s bed.

  ‘Don’t worry about Tally, my Lady,’ said Wil, guessing her thoughts – he could read the minds of animals in a somewhat haphazard and barely controlled way, but reading the minds of humans was definitely Lady Élanor and Tally’s area of expertise.

  ‘I’m sure she’s OK,’ he added.

  But even to Wil, his words sounded lame. The lamp flickered, caught by a sudden gust and Lady Élanor pulled the dripping window closed.

  ‘I hope so, Wil,’ she whispered and walked to the door. Without a backward glance she said softly, ‘Pricilla, I have a dead mouse downstairs. Would you like it?’

  Pricilla cocked her head to one side, gave Wil a disdainful look and fluttered off the washstand. Wil heard her noisy landing on the bare boards out in the hall and then Lady Élanor’s voice as the bedroom door closed with a soft click.

  ‘Good night, Wil.’

  ‘Night,’ replied Wil and kicked the soaked quilt off the end of his bed. But as he listened to the rat-tat of Pricilla’s claws across the floorboards a thought struck him, ‘Funny, it wasn’t raining up there.’

  Puzzled, he sank back onto the soft pillow and breathed in a vaguely familiar flowery scent. But before he could place the smell, Wil was fast asleep.

  The next time Wil was woken up, the day was only just breaking. A heavy pounding on the front door downstairs jolted him out of a very nice dream in which he and Gisella were floating on a boat on East Lake. They were laughing and she was about to give him a piece of the apple she had just cut up when Wil heard a man’s gruff voice interspersed with the indignant voice of Lady Élanor’s housekeeper. Shaking himself awake, Wil got out of bed as quietly as he could and dressed quickly in the thin dawn light. Then he retrieved his hunting knife from under the pillow, grabbed his cloak and hurried out of the bedroom – boots in hand.

  At the bottom of the stairs he barged into Mortimer who was standing just inside the doorway that led into the living room. Wil opened his mouth to speak but Mortimer pushed him flat against the wall, pressed his finger to his own lips and crooked his ear with his other hand. Wil got the message and nodded.

  This time it was Lady Élanor’s steady voice, crystal clear through the walls.

  ‘Sorry, who? Wil Calloway? There is no one here by that name, I can assure you, Sire.’

  A man’s voice replied.

  ‘We know he’s staying in this house, my Lady. There is no point lying to us. The boy must be taken to Armelia immediately. Lord Rexmoore is waiting.’

  ‘Well, I can only repeat that he is not here! What does his Lordship want with this boy anyway?’

  Wil wondered the same thing – he had never even been to Armelia, and had certainly never met Lord Rexmoore. How did Rexmoore even know Wil’s name – let alone that he might be in Saran? Wil lived in Mistlegard!

  Then a second man spoke.

  ‘Look, you can make this easy and give him up, woman, or we’ll come in and search for ‘im!’

  A chill crept down Wil’s spine – that voice – he was sure he’d heard it before. He held his breath and strained to listen in case the man spoke again. But instead Wil heard the familiar creak of a hinge and knew that Lady Élanor had opened the front door wide.

  ‘You are welcome to search, gentlemen! Where would you like to start?’ Lady Élanor’s voice could not have been more welcoming.

  ‘Right, where’s the stairs? I heard something up there just now – someone moving about. I’ll bet he’s under the bed – they’re always under the bed – unless you’ve got an attic!’

  Wil and Mortimer exchanged the same horrified look – they both knew that the only way to the bedrooms of Lovage Hall was right where they were standing – it was also the only way out!

  Then Wil heard Lady Élanor’s voice again. This time there was something very odd in her tone.

  ‘But wait, Sires. Before you start I am sure you would welcome a cup of mint tea… and some breakfast, perhaps? It is only just dawn. You must be starving.’

  The words rushed into Wil’s ears. Images of warm bread heaped with freshly churned butter and sweet raspberry jam floated in front of his eyes. Memories of all sorts of delicious tastes wound around his tongue as hunger engulfed him. Unable to resist Lady Élanor’s invitation, he moved forward. But as Wil took his first step, a chubby hand grabbed his arm. Salivating, he looked round. It was Martha. Her other hand was wrapped around Mortimer’s elbow – he, too, seemed to be heading in the same direction as Wil. Without a word Martha pulled them away towards the library.

  Lady Élanor’s hypnotic voice drifted from the living room as she continued to tempt Rexmoore’s men with talk of hot buttered toast, home-made marmalade, scones, scrambled eggs... but as Martha dragged Wil and Mortimer away the voice, and the gnawing starvation, dwindled to nothing. By the time they reached the balcony at the far end of the library, Wil felt as though he had already eaten a perfectly satisfying breakfast.

  ‘What on earth was going on back there?’ whispered Mortimer with a bewildered look back towards the stairs.

  ‘Yer! That breakfast sounded fantastic, but now I don’t feel hungry at all!’ whispered Wil, utterly confused. Martha chuckled.

  ‘Oh, that’s one of Lady Élanor’s little tricks,’ she answered loudly.

  Wil and Mortimer exchanged another horrified look and Mortimer tried to clamp his hand over the housekeeper’s mouth, hissing ‘By the moons, Martha. Do you want to give us away?’

  Quite unperturbed, she brushed him aside and continued, her voice as loud as before.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that – they can’t hear us.’ She gave a wicked chuckle and her eyes were suddenly filled with mischief. ‘They’ll be tucking in to scrambled eggs and bacon in no time – won’t even remember why they’ve come here! I’ve seen her do that with naughty children before now… although it doesn’t seem to work quite so well on Tally nowadays for some reason!’ She frowned. ‘Not sure how the chap with only one hand’ll cut his bacon though? Or butter his toast, for that matter?’

  Her face was filled with genuine concern but her words gave Wil the clue he needed. He knew that voice was fam
iliar – it belonged to the man who had grabbed hiss ankle when he and Gisella were trying to escape from the deer rustlers on the Thesker Fell, after the Moon Chase.

  And, thought Wil, that must be how Lord Rexmoore knew about him! That man must have told Rexmoore that ridiculous theory dreamt up by Sir Jerad Tinniswood, about Wil being a seer. Of course! That was why Rexmoore was looking for him now – to help him find the legacy if Tally wouldn’t. Maybe Rexmoore thought Wil would be able to read her mind? But Wil knew that he couldn’t – whenever he and Tally linked minds the effect was so bad that Wil seriously thought he was going to die!

  The ancient ladder that led up to the library balcony had been something of a problem for Wil in the past. Even this time, despite the threat that Rexmoore’s men may find them at any moment, Mortimer had to go up and down three times before Wil could be persuaded that the rickety rungs wouldn’t collapse under him! And once at the top, Wil felt anything but safe.

  The tiny space was absolutely jam-packed with books and papers and Wil was in no doubt that with the three of them adding even more weight, they would go crashing back down into the library below at any minute.

  Despite his aversion to heights, Wil stood right on the edge and clung to the rail. Martha, however, seemed determined to go even higher. Ignoring his protests, she hopped up onto a precarious stack of books, reached for a dusty volume entitled, ‘A Hundred and One Ways with Carrots’ and tipped the book towards her. To Wil’s horror the bookcase started to creak.

  ‘Get down! The balcony’s collapsing!’ he yelled – any memory of Rexmoore’s men wiped from his mind.

  But Mortimer stayed where he was. Instead Wil heard him mutter, ‘Well, I’ll be…’

  The creaking had stopped only to be replaced by the most terrible grinding and scraping and Wil turned just in time to see the bookcase shoot up into the attic leaving a huge plume of dust in the space it had just filled.

  As the dust settled, Wil could see the entrance to a dark tunnel. There was also a sudden and very strong smell of damp. Martha wrinkled her nose and peered towards the murky blackness.