The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (18 page)

These were old bushes, and behind the green outer cover lay the growth and litter of a hundred years; tough, crooked boughs, inches across, stemming to long, pliant, wire-like shoots; skeins of dead branches which snapped at a touch, forming lancets of wood to goad and score the flesh; and everywhere the fine, black, bark dust with the bitter taste, that burnt throat and nostrils and was like fine sand in the eyes.

“It's as … bad … as walking … on an old … spring mattress!” puffed Susan.

“It's worse!” said Colin.

They had to step on to the thicker branches to clear the snare at ground level, and once off the ground they were helpless. The bushes dictated the direction in which they could move, and movement was not easy. Branches would give beneath their feet, and spring back awkwardly, catching limbs, and making even Gowther, for all his weight, lurch drunkenly, and grab in desperation the nearest support, which was invariably a change for the worse. And always they seemed to be forced to climb, with the result that they were soon two or three feet from the ground. Sense of direction left them: they just took the line of least resistance. But they
noticed, with growing concern, that the earth, or what they could see of it, was becoming less like earth and more like water. Ice-covered puddles were frequent; very frequent; broader; deeper; they joined each other; and then there was water tinkling the pendants of ice at the bush roots, and no earth at all. Ahead, the curtain was not so dense, and Fenodyree, with renewed enthusiasm, plunged, bounced, rolled, and squirmed, and his head broke free of the chaos. Before, on either side, beneath, lay Radnor. The rhododendrons spread for many yards out over the mere, their roots gripping deep in the mud; and at the point where they stretched farthest into the water, five faces bobbed among the leaves like exotic flowering buds.

“Happen I'm nesh,” said Gowther, “but I dunner foncy a dip today. I'm fair sick of this here cake-walk, though; so what do we do, maister?”

“Nay, do not ask me, my friend. I am past thought,” said Durathror.

“We must go back,” said Fenodyree. “Cousin, we may have space to draw our swords here. If we can do that, we shall cut an easier road to the path.”

Dyrnwyn and Widowmaker, after much effort, were drawn from their scabbards, and by leaning backwards over the water, the dwarfs gained room for the first, most difficult strokes. After that, in comparison with what had gone before,
the progress was much easier. The dead growth, and the leaf-bearing tentacles fell to the keen temper of the swords, which left only the thicker limbs to be negotiated, and they were not the obstacles they had been when the all-smothering lesser branches were there to aid them. The real danger, and it was a risk that had to be taken, was that the dwarfs were carving a track that could not fail to be visible from the air.

“Now we must run,” said Fenodyree as, hot, weary, smarting from a hundred pricks and scratches, they tumbled on to the path. “For the morthbrood know where we are.”

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.”

W
e 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.”

And that is what they did. Choosing a moment when the sky was clear, they darted towards the road like frantic ants, weaving from tree to tree in bursts of speed that amazed Gowther: he had not run like this for thirty years. But they reached the strip of woodland before the next patrol flew by.

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?”