He rested his head on his forearm and looked down at the crowd. He saw Tod and Spindra, returned in the night from the Gorji settlement, and whose opinions on the ways of giants were now in great demand. The news of Lumst’s death, slain by a Gorji felix, had caused many a mouth to fall open in horror – though few would have known who Lumst was. He saw his father arguing with ’Pecker-Petan – not violently, but red in the face nevertheless, tapping the finger of one hand against the palm of the other as he made his point. Then Little-Marten saw Scurl.
The Ickri captain had appeared, alone, at the edge of the clearing, and was now making his way through the crowd. He looked up and caught Little-Marten’s eye, paused for a second, fixing on him, and then held him in his impassive gaze as he calmly continued to weave his way among the restless woodlanders. Little-Marten felt the back of his neck go cold, prickly cold, even in the searing heat, and was certain that Scurl was coming for him then and there. He was going to shoot him, put a feathered arrow straight through him, in front of the whole crowd – Maglin or no Maglin. He gasped and shrank back against the hot dry trunk of the dead tree.
Scurl had stopped. He was standing next to his father and Petan. The two old men were still arguing. Scurl looked at the ageing fletcher and then looked back at Little-Marten. He raised his thick black eyebrows and, with a horrible smile, drew a lazy finger across his throat. What did he mean? What was he going to do? Little-Marten wrapped an arm back around the tree trunk behind him, trying to steady himself, trying to focus. It was so hot. The sweat trickled into his eyes and he couldn’t seem to see properly.
Scurl, standing behind old Marten, raised his hand and suddenly clapped it down on the fletcher’s shoulder. Little-Marten saw his father turn, his expression startled, as Scurl quickly whispered something in his ear. Then Scurl pointed up at the Rowdy-Dow tree, sharp white teeth showing in a wolfish grin, and his father looked across. His father smiled up at him and began to laugh. Petan leaned over in query, one hand to his ear. Scurl muttered something to him and Petan also looked up into the Rowdy-Dow tree. Then he began to laugh as well. What – what was happening? Scurl had his arm around his father’s shoulder, as though he were a friend. Like three old friends, the men were sharing a jest. They were waving at him. The laughing faces, three laughing faces, like wurzel lanterns, seemed to rise up strangely then, on the noise of the crowd, lifted high upon the noise of the darkening crowd, before spinning away into blackness. Hwa hwa hwa!
The Woodpecker’s wings must have half-opened by instinct, for his limp body spiralled down into the noisy throng, to slump, more or less unharmed, at the feet of Glim, the archer. Glim’s wife, Zelma, gave a little gasp of shock but then quickly moved towards the crumpled figure. ‘ ’Tis Little-Marten,’ she said, kneeling on the dusty earth and looking up at Glim. The archer leaned forward. ‘He’s in a swound. ‘Tis the heat, most likely. We’d best bring him to shade.’
The tribespeople in the immediate vicinity of the Rowdy-Dow tree had pulled back in surprise, momentarily silenced by the incident, but seeing that Little-Marten was already beginning to stir and groan as Glim lifted him up into a sitting position, they gradually returned to more urgent considerations. Fletcher Marten and Petan, who had seen the young Woodpecker fall, pushed their way anxiously through the crowd and helped Glim and Zelma to carry the invalid into the shade of the trees. He was still, miraculously, holding on to the clavensticks. They propped him against the cool trunk of a great sycamore, and Zelma sent her husband for water.
‘He’ll mend,’ she said to old Marten, seeing the worried look on the fletcher’s wrinkled face. ‘He’s been too long in the sun – and no cap for his curls neither. ’Tis no small thing to sit up in that tree from sun-wax till noon.’
‘You’m right there,’ said Petan, with feeling – he remembered such duties all too clearly. ‘How be doin’, young ’un?’
Little-Marten had turned a pale yellow colour and didn’t look at all well, but he groaned and said, ‘I improve.’
Glim returned with a stoup of water, and old Marten lowered himself stiffly on to one knee to offer his son a drink. The lad took a few sips, and the fletcher dipped his fingers into the plain wooden bowl, bathing the bruised forehead of his son in cooling drops of water.
‘Don’t ’ee try such frolics again,’ he said softly. ‘I were near frit to death.’
Little-Marten was properly conscious now, and beginning to remember what had happened. He looked over his father’s shoulder, anxiously searching for Scurl – but the Ickri captain was nowhere near. ‘Scurl . . .’ he whispered, grasping urgently at his father’s woollen sleeve, ‘he means us harm . . . he . . . put his finger on his throat . . . he wants to . . . kill me . . .’
‘Scurl? No, no,’ said old Marten, ‘bide still. You’m all mazed. Scurl means ’ee no harm – he were makin’ jest wi’ I and old ’Pecker-Petan, thass all. ’Twere a bit o’ chaff, nothing more.’
‘But ’tis so, Father – he tried to shoot the giant . . . then Mad Maven was there . . . Tulgi’s dead . . .’
‘Hush, boy . . . nobody’s dead but a Troggle. You’m mazy . . .’
‘Let him rest,’ said Zelma, ‘that’s what he wants now. Close your eyes, Little-Marten, and take some ease. Come, Petan, Marten, leave the lad be. We’ll return presently. He’ll do better without us fretting round him. Rest now.’
Little-Marten closed his eyes obediently – he would have liked nothing more than to sleep peacefully beneath the trees – but he was still whispering ‘no, ’tis so, ’tis so,’ as the others drew quietly away.
* * *
Maglin was finding it warm work trying to maintain some sort of order in the crowd. All attempts at reasoned debate had come to naught, and once it became clear that the Elders and tribe leaders could offer no immediate plans or solutions regarding the imminent arrival of the Gorji destroyers, the task of keeping control became increasingly difficult. Ba-betts had remained in the Royal Pod all morn – not that Maglin wished her present. His own archers were scattered who knows where, and those who were distantly visible, Benzo and the like, were more intent upon having their own say than in quieting the rising hubbub. Scurl was nowhere to be seen.
Only faithful Aken was on hand to help. Together they moved among the confused woodlanders, separating those who were close to blows and ordering one and all to return to their homes. If there had been any likelihood of this happening, a fresh piece of startling news soon put paid to it. Another death – Tulgi had been killed!
The rumour flew from mouth to mouth – Tulgi was murdered! Killed yestere’en by the mad hag! She had slain him with curses – with evil looks – with poisoned darts! The noise grew to a crescendo. What was happening to their world? They didn’t understand.
Maglin glanced over at the Rowdy-Dow tree. Where had that hemmed Woodpecker got to? He caught a glimpse of Petan’s white head, bobbing among the crowd, and plunged in after it.
* * *
On hearing the news of Tulgi’s death, old Marten and Petan immediately remembered what Little-Marten had said. Perhaps the youth’s words were not all the result of his fall. Together they pushed their way back to the edge of the clearing and hurried over to the sycamore tree. Little-Marten had gone.
He had gone, and at the foot of the tree, carefully placed, were the clavensticks. On top of the clavensticks lay the brown Woodpecker’s cap, neatly rolled. The two old Ickri tribesmen gazed in sad wonder at the mournful little display. The Woodpecker had apparently deserted his post.
Maglin caught up with them and glanced down at the sticks and the cap. ‘Where is he?’ he said harshly. No reply. He grasped Petan by the shoulder. ‘Can you still beat?’ Petan looked startled, but nodded dumbly. ‘Then get your old backside up on to that Perch, and beat for silence, and you’ – he turned to old Marten – ‘bring that youth of yourn back here. I don’t care how, move. Move, before I use your witless old heads for clavensticks.’ Maglin was just getting into his second wind. He�
��d thrash that mob into order, if he had to take them on one at a time – and he rather hoped it might come to that, for he was in that kind of temper.
The Ickri General stormed back to the Whipping Stone at the centre of Counsel Clearing, furiously grabbing such of his archers as were within grabbing distance along the way. He stood by the stone and waited, breathing heavily.
Old Petan gained the lower branch of the Rowdy-Dow tree at the fourth attempt, spurred on by the hoots of those who were near enough to witness his efforts, and by thoughts of what Maglin might do to him if he failed. He climbed up to the Perch, pulled on the cap, and took the clavensticks – heavier now, they felt, than he had remembered. He began to beat for silence. The dry rattle sounded high and sharp across the clearing, and the crowd, reacting by force of habit, was momentarily hushed. Their emotions were high, and no doubt the power of the sticks alone would have had no more than a fleeting effect – but that brief pause was all the opportunity that Maglin required. He opened his mouth and roared.
‘Silence! SILENCE, YOU WITLESS FOOLS!’
The startled heads of the crowd turned dumbly in the direction of the Whipping Stone. Open-mouthed they gazed at Maglin – Maglin who was known to raise his voice when in a temper, but who had never raised it to anything like this volume before. It was a primary law of the forest that all business should be conducted as quietly as possible – shouting and yelling being dangerous pastimes – and so even extreme anger was usually conveyed in relatively muted tones. But now Maglin’s voice rang through the high treetops, and was likely audible in the valley below.
Having gripped their attention at last, Maglin tore into one and all. ‘Do I have your ear?’ he cried. ‘You? And you?’ He jabbed his thick forefinger this way and that. ‘And you? Do you hear me at last? Ha? Or must I nail each and all of ’ee up by the heels before you take notice? Ha? Speak up! Though, by Elysse, I’ll have the tongue of the first that dares!’
And, as if to demonstrate his meaning, Maglin left the Whipping Stone and strode towards the crowd, grasping his spear in both hands. ‘Hold your ground!’ he roared as the crowd began to back away from his storming advance. ‘Hold your ground till I give you leave to do otherwise! Aye, and let this be your watchword at all times – hold your ground. Hold till I say move. And when I say move, then move you will!’ Face to face with the terrified mob, Maglin now paced up and down the straggly line, alternately thrusting his razor-sharp spear and his snarling countenance towards all within reach. ‘When I say – and if I say – then you’ll do as I say! And not before.’ He paused when he came to the three Elders. ‘And you,’ he addressed them collectively, ‘who shall have the final say, think you?’
Ardel cleared his throat and began, tentatively, ‘Well, of course, Ba-betts, as queen . . . although our laws are above all . . . and er, naturally, we as Counsel . . .’
‘Fool!’ roared Maglin. ‘Be you deaf? I shall have the final say, from now on. I, Maglin! For ’tis clear to me that you’ve not a thing worth saying, nor listening to. I shall be the judge of all arguments, I shall decide what to do about the Gorji, I shall lead us away from here or command that we stay, as I see fit. Why? I’ll tell ’ee. ’Tis clear to me that there’s none other that can, that’s why. None other can. And if there’s a one of you who’ll say me nay – then step up now and we’ll have it out.’ No one seemed inclined to take up this challenge, and Maglin continued, ‘Very well, then. I say go back to your homes – all of you, and wait there. And wait there until I say otherwise. Go!’
The assembled woodlanders needed no further bidding. They went. For this was testament – this was fire. This was what it meant to hold power and sway – and if any had been in the slightest doubt as to whom they were answerable to, and why, Maglin had put them right. Maglin had put them right, and having been put right, they were very glad to depart, in a quiet and humbled manner, to their respective homes – there to begin piecing together the remains of their shattered wits. Maglin was the law, and whilst Maglin could still stand and see, that law would be obeyed. This, at least, they understood.
Little-Marten hesitated in his stumbling flight through the trees as he heard the rattle of the clavensticks – his clavensticks, the hard-won emblems of his position, now returned to the hands of his old master. He had relinquished his post, lately the source of all his pleasure and pride, and was now but a fugitive, running he knew not where, fleeing he knew not what.
He stopped for a moment to press his hands to his pounding temples and to try and think. He had done no wrong. Maglin had given an order – to lead the Gorji child to the tunnel – and he had obeyed. But Scurl would have killed the girl, caring nothing for Maglin’s wishes it seemed, and would now see him dead, as a witness to his actions. Scurl was beyond the law – that was what it came to. He could not remain in the forest and hope to live. ‘I’ll sithee dead.’ It was a promise, simply made, quietly spoken. There was no reasoning against it.
Panic clutched at his heart once more and he lurched forward, his head bursting with the effects of the sun and his fall from the Perch. He would . . . he would . . . Wild ideas of leaving the forest came to him as he slithered down the shaly banks of the lower East Wood. He would run – run like a deer through the Gorji wetlands and go and live in the Far Woods – better to take his chances among the renards and the brocks than to face Scurl again. He would give himself up to the giants and be roast upon a spit – rather that, than to wake in fright with a cold hand at his throat. He would find a haven. Somewhere.
Panting and sobbing he leaned against the trunk of a sapling as the fierce blue sky seemed to whirl above him. There was nowhere, nowhere for him to go. He wound his arms about the young tree and pressed his burning cheek against the cool green bark. Through half-closed eyes he looked across the steep slopes of shale to the mouth of a Tinkler cave. The Tinkler cave where he had first seen Henty . . .
Henty . . . He pushed himself away from the tree and staggered up the bank of loose shale, stumbling forward, his fingertips touching the hot smooth stones. Henty . . . His feet crashed and floundered on the treacherous slope, and it seemed that he lost a yard for every foot of progress that he made. Salty drops of perspiration ran down his temples and stung his eyes as he dragged himself, at last, out of the burning sun and into the dim mouth of the cave. He paused for breath. Henty . . . The pitted walls were cool and the air smelt faintly of . . . lavender. He began to crawl, hearing his own breathing, loud and echoing in the sheltered quiet of the dim cave. A little further, further into the darkness, just a little further – away from the forest he would crawl. He licked the salt from his lips. Just a little further, into the cool darkness, to Henty, and safety, and the sweet smell of . . . lavender.
Chapter Sixteen
MAGLIN’S VIOLENT TIRADE had exhausted him. He felt old and spent, though none would have guessed it to look at him. He stood by the Whipping Stone, gaunt, upright and formidable, facing every last tribesperson down till all had left Counsel Clearing and gone to their homes as he had ordered. Only then did he allow himself to lay a weary forearm on the stone and bow his grizzled head. Ah, but he was too long in the tooth for this game. A few more seasons and he would begin to look a fool.
Maglin.
It was the white horse. Appearing like a ghost from nowhere. Was there to be no respite?
‘Go back to your pastures, Pegs. Leave me.’
We must talk.
‘Talk? You’ve said enough of late to keep me in talk till the leaves fall. Go.’
We must talk.
Maglin took a deep breath. Were his words not clear? Must he begin again? He drew himself up angrily and turned to look at the winged creature. The dark brown eyes gazed steadily into his, and something in that wise expression checked the flow of curses rising within him. He breathed out again in exasperation.
‘Come then. I shall walk the bounds. Talk if you must.’ He strode away from the Whipping Stone at a furious rate, knowing that the injured a
nimal would be hard put to keep up with him. But after a dozen paces he stopped and turned round. The horse hadn’t moved. Maglin sighed, and walked slowly back to the stone, beaten. He reached out and roughly tousled the horse’s mane, still half angry. ‘Ah, Pegs. Pegs-pegs-pegs. Hemmed if I know what this day shall come to. What are we to do?’
What would you? They moved away from the centre of the clearing, and made their way across the rough turf towards the West Wood.
‘What would I? Set all the Gorji to a blaze and bide here content. Or find new lands. But all lands are Gorji lands.’
No. Not all lands.
‘So?’ Maglin’s voice was bitter. ‘Do ’ee know of another?’
We are travellers, Maglin. And ever were. Travellers through the ages, our forefathers were, and so may we be again, though now we may seem to have lost our way. What do you know of the Touchstone?
Maglin was thrown. ‘The Queen’s bauble?’ he said guardedly. ‘ ’Tis but a . . . a lump of red rock. I know naught of it.’
And yet, I believe you do. I believe you to have seen a little of its art.
Maglin was now deeply suspicious of this conversation. ‘What have I seen?’ he said. ‘And what is it to you? What do you know?’
I know many things. And the time has come for you to know a little more than you do. Know this, Maglin – I am here to a purpose. I was born to a purpose, which you may understand in time. But tell me – would you not save your people if it were in your gift? I say you would – for you have a true heart, and are a believer if you could but see it. I will be your guide – but you must follow me.
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