The Weirdstone of Brisingamen
Page 14
Only when they had put much dense woodland behind them did Fenodyree allow a few minutes for rest.
“Are we making for anywhere in particular?” asked Colin.
“Not for the moment,” said Fenodyree. “I have a place in mind that may be the saving of us – if we can reach it. But I shall not speak of that while there is danger of hidden ears.”
“Cousin,” said Durathror, “do you hear?”
They fell silent, tensely listening.
“Ay; it is an axe.”
They could all hear it now – the clear, rhythmical ring of steel in timber.
Gowther relaxed.
“I know who yon is,” he said. “It’ll be Harry Wardle from the Parkhouse. He’s all reet. I’ve known him since we were lads. If theer’s been onybody in this end of the wood today, it’s as like as not he’ll have seen ’em. Let’s ask him.”
“Hm,” said Durathror. “I would rather not meet with men at this time; trust no one.”
“But Harry and I were at school together: he’s a good lad.”
“He may be all you think,” said Fenodyree. “If he is, he may be able to help us. Speak with him: Durathror and I shall watch. If he is of the morthbrood he will not raise the alarm.”
They halted at the edge of a clearing. A lean, bony, middle-aged man, with close-cropped, iron-grey hair, was standing with his back to them, and wielding a long-handled felling axe.
“How do, Harry,” said Gowther.
Harry Wardle turned, and smiled.
“Hallo, Gowther! What’s brought thee down here?”
“Oh, I’m just out for the day with young Colin and Susan here.”
“Eh, you farmers! I wish I could take time off when I wanted! How is the farm these days?”
“Middling, for the time of the year, tha knows. Could be worse.”
“And Bess?”
“She’s champion, thanks. Busy morning, Harry?”
“Fair. Couple more trees to drop after this before dinner: but I’ll be having baggin after this one’s down. Care for some?”
He nodded towards the flask and sandwiches that were lying on a tree stump.
“No; thanks, Harry, all the same, but we mun be getting on.”
“Just as you please. Going far?”
“I dunner know: as far as we’ve a mind to, I expect. Mony folks about today, Harry?”
“Not a soul, till you come along.”
“Well, if onybody does show up, you hanner seen us, reet?”
A slow grin spread over Harry Wardle’s face.
“I’ve never clapped eyes on thee, Gowther. What’s up? Are you fancing a cock pheasant or two? Because if you are, take a look round Painter’s Eye; but dunner say to onybody as I told thee.”
Gowther winked slyly.
“Be good, Harry.”
“Be good, lad.”
They waved and left him, and a moment later the sound of his axe rang out behind them through the trees.
“Well?” said Gowther. “What did I say?”
“He is no warlock,” said Fenodyree, “but there is that about him I do not trust: it would have been wiser to pass him by.”
“Hush!” said Durathror. “Listen!”
“I can’t hear anything,” said Colin.
“Nor me,” said Gowther.
“But you should hear something!” cried Fenodyree. “Why has your friend’s axe been stilled?”
“Eh? What?” said Gowther, suddenly flustered. “Here! Howd on a minute!”
But Durathror and Fenodyree were speeding back towards the clearing, drawing their swords as they ran.
The clearing was empty. Harry Wardle, axe, flask, and food, were gone.
“But …” stammered Gowther, his face purple, “but … it’s not … no, not Harry. No! He’ll have nipped back to the Parkhouse for summat, that’s what!”
“If that were so,” said Fenodyree, “he would have come up with us, for we were heading for the Parkhouse, were we not?”
“Ay, I suppose we were.” Gowther looked stunned.
Durathror, who had taken the path on the other side of the clearing, returned, shaking his head.
“As you say, farmer Mossock,” said Fenodyree, “you can never tell.”
CHAPTER 17
MARA
We must not act rashly,” said Fenodyree. “Fear is our enemies’ greatest ally.”
“Ay,” said Gowther, “but let’s be moving, shall we? I dunner mind admitting I’ve had a shock; and standing here talking while who knows what may be creeping up on us inner improving things.”
“But which way shall we go now in least danger?” said Fenodyree. “That is what we must decide. I put no trust in blind flight, and though time is precious, a little may be well spent in counsel. Remember, your Harry may have to travel some distance to give his warning.”
“Well, they know what direction we’re following now, don’t they?” said Colin. “And I don’t suppose Harry Wardle realises we’re on to him, so why not double back on our tracks?”
“That is good,” said Durathror. “The hares will dart north while the hounds run south.”
“I think … not,” said Fenodyree. “It is a good plan in many ways, but we have too great a charge to take the risk. Consider: it is probably that the body of the morthbrood is to our rear. They will come southwards through this wood, and along its flanks. If we lie in the thicket, and they pass by, ours will be the advantage. But if we should be found, far from help, unable to wield a sword for the dense growth, what need then of fimbulwinter or the mara? And if we should win through their line unnoticed, our way would grow more perilous. North of here lie villages: too many men. South, the land is open for ten miles and more. We are not far from the southern boundary of this wood: let us hurry southwards. If we are clear of Radnor before the alarm has spread, the morthbrood may waste time in sitting round to mark where we run clear.”
So it was agreed; they walked swiftly, and carefully, close together, and the swords were naked.
Durathror kept glancing upwards at the patches of blue sky. He was troubled. Then he began to sniff the air.
“Is it near, cousin?” asked Fenodyree.
“It is. An hour, two hours: not more.”
“Yon warlock, with his snow-garments, removed any doubts,” said Fenodyree to Gowther and the children. “The morthbrood have called Rimthur to their aid, and the ice-giant’s breath, the fimbulwinter, is upon us. We must bear it if we can.”
The curtness of his speech told them more than the words. He was pale beneath his nut-brown skin, and even Gowther felt in no need of further explanation.
After they had skirted the Parkhouse and its outbuildings the wood declined into timbered parkland, which thinned to open fields, and under the last cluster of trees, the dwarfs halted to consider the next move. To their right was the Congleton road, bordered by a stone wall. On their side of the wall a belt of woodland followed the road, and the open ground between where they were crouching and this thicker cover was sparsely dotted with trees. A flock of birds wheeled overhead. No human figures were to be seen; the intermittent buzz of traffic on the road was the only noise beyond the wind.
“Where may our way lead now?” said Durathror.
“It’s a deal too exposed for me,” said Gowther. “And if we carry on we come to Monks’ Heath, which is a sight worse. But howd on a minute: let’s have a look round. It’s a while since I was round here. I wish them birds would give it a rest!” He scanned the country before them. “It’d be better if we could reach them trees by the wall; ay, yon’s the best road. Sithee; they go reet down the wall, and bend across to Dumville’s plantation, and that’ll take us round the edge of Monks’ Heath to Bag brook. From there we may – we may – be able to nip across to the game coverts by Marlheath at Capesthorne. It’s these next two hundred yards as is going to be the biggest snag. But happen if we keep an eye open for birds we con pick our time and dodge about a bit till we’re theer.”
The trees left the road almost at right angles and continued across the fields as what Gowther called Dumville’s plantation. For most of its length it was very narrow, only a matter of feet in places, but it gave splendid cover from the air. After half a mile the wood swung right and headed south once more: it curved over the brow of a low hill, and from there a good view of the surrounding country was obtained.
“It’s well-wooded, at any rate,” said Susan.
“But it will appear bare to you for most of our journey,” laughed Fenodyree. “Things are not as they were: in the elder days ours would have been an easier task. There were true forests then.”
“I wonder who yon is on Sodger’s Hump,” said Gowther.
They all looked. A mile away, above the crossroads on Monks’ Heath, a grassy hill stood out above the land. It was like a smaller Shuttlingslow – or a tumulus. It had the tumulus’s air of mystery; it was subtly different from the surrounding country; it knew more than the fields in which it had its roots. And this uneasy mood was heightened by a group of Scots pines that crowned the summit. They leaned towards each other, as though sharing secrets. And outlined among the trees was a man on horseback. Little detail would be seen at that distance, but the children thought that he was probably wearing a cloak, and possibly a hat. He sat completely motionless.
“I … cannot tell who he is,” said Durathror, after much peering. “There is that about him that strikes a chord of memory. What think you, cousin?”
Fenodyree shook his head.
“It could, and could not, be one I know. It would be strange to find him here. It is almost certain to be a warlock guarding the crossroad.”
But, for some time after, the dwarfs were withdrawn, and pensive.
The trees dropped to the Macclesfield road in the hollow where it crossed Bag brook, and, dividing his attention between birds and traffic, Fenodyree was kept busy for a good ten minutes while he shepherded the others to the opposite side of the road and under the bridge arch. This accomplished, the dwarfs, for the first time since the disappearance of Harry Wardle, put away their swords.
“I begin to have hope of this quest,” said Fenodyree. “We are well clear of Radnor, and I think the morthbrood have lost the trail.”
“Ay, but I hope we dunner have to stay under this bridge all day, patting ourselves on the back,” said Gowther. “I wouldner say as this mud is over fresh, would you?”
“We shall move at once!” said Fenodyree.
“Here is what we shall attempt. North of Shuttlingslow lies Macclesfield forest, as wild a region as any on the hills; but men have covered much of it with spruce and fir. Do you know it?”
“Ay,” said Gowther. “It starts above Langley reservoirs. I dunner reckon much to it, though – mile after mile of trees on parade; it inner natural.”
“That is the place: a dungeon of trees. But their sad ranks grow thickly, and there is little chance of finding aught that hides within. The forest will keep us till Friday’s dawn, when we shall climb over the last mile of the moorland to Shuttlingslow.”
“As easy as that?” said Gowther.
“If we can gain the forest,” said Durathror.
Fenodyree’s plan was to head south for a few miles before turning east, and to travel, wherever possible, through woods. The intervening stretches of country, he hoped, would be crossed by following the lines of streams. Ignoring discomfort, the advantages of this plan were many. Along the streams, alder and willow were certain to be found, linked by lesser growth, reeds, rushes, and straggling elder. Moving lower than the adjacent fields would make for greater stealth, since there would be no danger of being outlined against the sky. And, in the last resort, it would be possible to lie close under the bank if caught in the open by the approach of birds. Also, running water kills scent, which might be important, for there were still two of the hounds of the Morrigan left alive.
All this Fenodyree explained; his plan was accepted without dissent, and they now began the most arduous part of their journey, falling into a pattern of movement that was to govern them for slow, exhausting miles. They had to keep together as a body, yet move and act as individuals, each responsible for finding, and gaining, cover before birds were overhead, and pushing on as soon as the sky was clear. Desperate scrambles, long periods of inactivity, mud, sand, water, ice, malicious brambles; one mile an hour was good progress.
The brook led them south-west, towards the left of Sodger’s Hump, and inevitably crossing under the Congleton road, which was not at all to anybody’s liking. However, a few yards short of the bridge, though still dangerously close, a tributary joined Bag brook. It flowed in an acute angle from the left, from the direction of the Capesthorne game covert. This meant that they were almost doubling back on their tracks, but it promised to be such an accommodating route that no one regretted the lost ground or wasted energies: it was worth all that to be travelling in exactly the right line – an experience that was to prove all too rare. Not long after turning up this smaller brook they saw the first hikers on the fringe of Dumville’s plantation.
The brook came from a valley of birch scrub and dead bracken; this was an improvement on bare fields, but ahead towered a sanctuary of larches, and the crawl seemed endless.
“By the ribbons of Frimla!” said Durathror when they were beneath the laced branches. “It is good to drop that coward’s gait and walk on two legs.”
“I only hope the birds are deaf,” said Susan.
The ground was covered inches deep with dead larch twigs and small branches. It was impossible not to tread on them, and with five pairs of feet on the move, dwarfs and humans passed through that wood with a sound like a distant forest fire.
From the larches they crossed a small area of scrub to a plantation of firs – specimens of Gowther’s despised “trees on parade”. But these trees were well grown, and there were few low branches. The floor was mute; no sun cut through the green roof: here twilight lay hidden at noon. Everybody was more at ease than at any time since leaving Highmost Redmanhey.
“It’s a treat not to think eyes are boring into your shoulder blades, inner it?” said Gowther.
“And to be out of the sun,” said Colin. “It was trained on us like a spotlight.”
“Well, the light’s certainly dim enough in here,” said Susan. “It’s taken till now for my eyes to get used to the change.”
“I mun be still a bit mazed, then,” said Gowther, “for to my way of thinking it’s coming on darker instead of lighter.”
“It is,” said Fenodyree.
The wood broke on the foot of a small hillock, and there all was plain to see.
The blue sky and brilliant sun had vanished. From horizon to horizon the air was black and yellow with unbroken clouds.
“These are but the outriders,” said Durathror. “Do we stay here beneath shelter, or move on?”
“On,” said Fenodyree. “While we may.”
A path took them through the covert, past many green pools; and, at a plank that spanned a boundary ditch, all shelter ended. Before them was parkland, the nearest wood a quarter of a mile away across open country that offered no scrap of cover.
“Well, that’s that, inner it?” said Gowther. “What do we do now? Wait while night?”
Fenodyree shook his head.
“We must not travel in the dark; not when we are so far from help. We shall move soon. The storm is at hand, and at its height it will pluck even the morthbrood from the sky. Then shall we cross.”
They did not have to wait. The first snow whipped by as Fenodyree finished speaking, and the next moment the world had shrunk to a five-yard circle, shot through with powdered ice, and bounded by a wall and
ceiling of leaping grey.
“Naught can find us in this!” shouted Fenodyree against the skirl of the wind. “Now is our chance!”
Once they were out of the shelter of the wood the full weight of the storm flung itself upon them. Susan, Colin, and the dwarfs are picked up and thrown to the ground, while Gowther lurched as though he had been stunned. They groped their way together, and linked arms, Gowther in the middle as anchor, and the wind frog-marched them at a giant-striding run direct to their goal.
It was the shallowest of valleys. They bounced over the edge, and were dropped by the storm as it leapt across the gap. Close to where they landed a fallen tree threw up soilclogged roots, a natural shield against the wind.
“We shall fare no better than this,” said Fenodyree, “and we cannot battle with such a storm, so let us make the most of what we have.”
At first it was enough to be out of the storm’s reach: the snow hissed past, and little settled. But the air was cruel; and behind the roots there was not much space for five people to move, so they crouched and stood by turns, and the breath froze on their lips, and their eyelashes were brittle with ice.
The children pulled on all their spare clothing, and huddled to share the dwarfs’ cloaks. Gowther came off worst. He had to make do with sticking his feet into the rucksack, and wrapping himself about with the clammy, cold, rubber-scented groundsheets. It was then that Durathror spoke of the lios-alfar, and of his friendship with Atlendor.
“But why should the elves leave here in the first place, and where did they go?” asked Colin when the tale was ended.
“The lios-alfar,” said Durathror, “are the elves of light, creatures of air, the dew-drinkers. To them beauty is food and life, and dirt and ugliness, death. When men turned from the sun and the earth, and corrupted the air with the smoke of furnaces, it was poison to the lios-alfar; the scab of brick and tile that spread over this land withered their hearts. They had to go, or die. Wherever men now were, there were noise and grime; only in the empty places was there peace. Some of the lios-alfar fled to the mountains of Sinadon, some to the Isle of Iwerdon across the Westwater, and others past the Depths of Dinsel in the south. But most went north with Atlendor to far Prydein, even beyond Minith Bannawg, and there they dwell upon the high hills. Now some, at least, have come south, but to what end I cannot tell, nor why they are hidden from me. But there can be no evil in it, that much is certain.”