Bookweird (7 page)

The wolves' path to the boats intersected the young stoat's escape route. He was cut off. Norman could see him twist round, trying to decide whether to turn back to the forest or to continue toward the boats. Every second he hesitated made it worse. Another boat left the shore and followed the first downstream. All of Duncan's warriors were at the river's edge. Safety was only a leap away for them, but for Malcolm it was a full ten minutes' sprint. Any moment now the wolves would reach the last stoat swordsmen. Malcolm seemed to realize that if he had ever had an opportunity to make a dash for the boats, it was gone. He had made his decision, and was scampering quickly back to the forest edge. His best hope now was with Norman.

Norman waited, breathless, at the tree line, willing his little friend to move faster. One eye he kept on the last ship. The rest of the stoats were all on board now, but this last boat remained at the water's edge. One figure, surely Duncan himself, taunted the wolves from the prow, gaining Norman and Malcolm a little more time, creating his own diversion to finish this battle, just as Norman's had started it. At the bow too there was motion. Norman caught a glimpse of a white tail dipping below the water's surface. A few metres downstream, a matching snout appeared—SimonWhiteclaw.

Malcolm arrived at that moment. “You're not rid of me yet, Strong Arm. Let's get going,” he gasped. Without a further word, they disappeared into the forest.

 

The Pursuit

T
hey fled headlong through the forest. The branches that whipped Norman's face did not sting yet. All he felt was fear. He had not been afraid during either of the two battles he had participated in. Ravens and foxes didn't frighten him, even if they could hurl stones and swing swords, but the wolves were something different. Just the sight of them bounding out of the darkness had sent a shiver of terror through his bones. These were killers, eyes and ears alert to prey, teeth made for rending flesh, and legs that hurtled the beasts with ferocious speed. Norman could not outrun them, nor could he fight them. He would be torn to shreds.

This sort of terror was new to Norman. A few days ago he would have told anyone that wolves were an endangered species and an amazing animal. Back home on the living-room wall there was a picture of arctic wolves. Norman's mother had won it at a silent auction for a wildlife charity that reintroduced wolves back into their traditional territories. That was the world of another Norman. In this world, Norman knew that wolves were hunters—ruthless and implacable. He did not want to face them. It was the image of those cold, intelligent eyes from his own living-room wall that drove him on. It was as if they could see him running and
knew that they would catch him. During all his panic, they were calm and assured of capturing their prey.

The forest grasped at him on every side, tearing his filthy pyjamas, stubbing his toes, aiming twigs at his eyes. Malcolm bounced his way between Norman's shoulder and the trees, scurrying off to scout ahead and then back to whisper breathless directions into Norman's ear. Norman doubted he had ever run as fast, even on the flat grass of the playground or the smooth tiles of the school gym. Malcolm's reconnaissance kept them clear of steep gullies, impassable cliffs and dense brush, but their path was still strewn with rocks and roots that tripped Norman's feet, sending him headlong in the dirt, bruising another rib, scraping another elbow. Malcolm encouraged him to his feet each time. There wasn't a moment to spare to check for cuts, to rub injuries or to make friendly jibes about human clumsiness. They were running for their lives.

The wolves hadn't seen them at the mine. If they had, Norman and Malcolm would be dead already. They were alive only because Duncan had fought on at the river's edge as long as he could and because the wolves had stayed to hear the story and punish the foxes who told it.

There was no use pursuing the fleeing boats down the river. They could harry the boats from the river's edge and expose themselves to stoat archers, but they could not stop the ships entering the gap and disappearing into the mountain canyons. The wolf hunters would hear about the disturbance in the woods that had started it all, and they would quickly pick up the scent of a human boy and his stoat companion. The pursuit would not be delayed. The wolves would be determined to find some creature, any creature, involved in the attack on their precious mine and to exact their revenge.

The sun was high in the sky when they stumbled, exhausted, into a small clearing. Neither boy nor stoat said a word, each sucking deep breaths of air into their starved lungs. They lay upon their backs in the grass beside each other, blinking up at the sun while their chests heaved. Norman patted Malcolm on the head kindly,
hoping the gesture said everything he wanted say. He was glad that the little stoat was here with him. Somehow it made him braver. He could not have found a path through the woods without the animal's help, but he was proud of having done his part too, carrying Malcolm on his shoulders and doing the heavy running when Malcolm's injuries caught up with him. This pat on the head was supposed to say everything it meant to be a friend in a time of trouble. And he was sure that Malcolm's curious little stoat wink in return meant the same.

They had almost caught their breath when a gruff voice startled them to their feet.

“That's enough of a rest now.”

Norman leapt to a shaky version of the guard stance he had learned in his white-belt karate class: feet planted and fists raised. Malcolm was at his shoulder, his bow drawn and an arrow nocked. They might have scared a party of marauding field mice or a couple of mole farmers, but it was hardly a show of force to cause a trio of wolf hunters any grave concern. Luckily it was not a wolf hunting party they turned to face.

“Ye couldna found a longer route?” Simon Whiteclaw asked. “Were ye aiming to put the fang beasts off your trail?”

The two friends had no reply to this. Malcolm put his bow down and returned the arrow to its quiver. Norman relaxed his shoulders and lowered his fists.

“You're not thinking of heading back the way ye came, are ye?” Whiteclaw asked, his voice making it clear what he thought of this plan. “The wolves will know that trail by now. They'll be waiting for you at the pass, I expect. The foul black birds will have let them know where to find you.”

These accusations of incompetence were meant for Norman. There was scorn in every syllable.

“We're not going over the mountains,” Norman shot back. “We're going to the Borders.”

Malcolm gave Norman a quick sideways look. This was news to him. They hadn't discussed a destination. They had just run.

“The Borders, eh?” Simon asked with a sneer. “Well, you're taking a mighty curious route if that's where you're headin.'”

There was no answer for this.

“You'll set us right though, Whitemitts, won't you?” Malcolm affirmed brightly. He didn't care that they had been running the wrong way. His old friend and guardian was here. A human boy might be an amusing companion, but a seasoned tracker and fighter was handier in their current predicament. Even Norman could see that they were better off with the older stoat's guidance and protection. He just wished that Simon Whiteclaw didn't look at him that way.

“Shall we check the map?” Norman patted his chest pocket, where he'd safely stowed the tiny stoat chart. He was trying to be helpful. Whiteclaw only scoffed.

“Don't need no map. Just need a brain in yer 'ead.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two small chunks of bread. He tossed one to Malcolm, who caught it deftly and set upon it greedily. The older stoat seemed to think for a moment before tossing the second at Norman. It hit him in the chest, but Norman recovered to catch it before it hit the ground. It was a whole meal for a stoat but hardly even a snack for a human boy, yet he was grateful for it anyway. “Thank you,” he said, before popping it in his mouth.

Simon Whiteclaw grunted and bounded off into the forest. It was not the direction that Norman would have taken.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Norman was certain that the trail became less human-friendly now that Simon Whiteclaw was leading them. Complaining was useless. He was breathing raggedly already and words would only have wasted more breath. He did his best to absorb the trail's fury and keep up. It seemed to Norman, when he could spare a second to think of it, that they were heading vaguely downhill.

At midday they stopped for a bite to eat. It was literally a bite for Norman. He let the bread dissolve in his mouth so that he could savour it longer, but it did nothing to assuage his hunger. While the stoats chatted, he foraged for something else to eat. His
days with the stoats had taught him a few things about staying alive in the woods. Not far from their rest spot he found a stand of blackberry bushes. The berries were plentiful, but the picking wasn't easy. Still, it was worth the stings and scratches. He ate as he harvested, stuffing the berries hungrily into his mouth. When he had nearly exhausted the bushes, he collected one last handful for his companions.

Simon Whiteclaw could not disguise his surprise when Norman held out his hand. His eyebrows furrowed suspiciously and he motioned Norman's hand away.

“Let the boy have them,” he muttered ungratefully.

Malcolm winked his funny little animal wink and picked the berries one by one from Norman's open palm. Malcolm was fearless again now his guardian led the way.

“How far are the Borders?” he asked brightly.

“Three or four days to Edgeweir,” Simon growled in a low voice, “if I were on my own.” His whiskers twitched as he added, “It'll be a few more days with you lot.”

Norman felt certain that Simon really meant with
him.

Little Malcolm's cheerfulness was unaffected. “Ah, it'll be nice to spend a few days in the Borders. It's been months since I've seen the inside of a pie shop. Edgeweir is a biggish place, isn't it? It should have a pie shop or two. Norman, have you ever tried a spiced lingonberry pie? Well, you haven't lived. When we get to the Borders, we'll share the biggest lingonberry pie that can be bought.”

“It's not a shopping trip we're on here, young pup,” Simon scolded. “Edgeweir is no holiday town. It's a dangerous place. There's wolf spies aplenty in the Borders towns near the Wolflands.
If
we make it to Edgeweir, you'll be keeping out of sight, my son.”

Simon cast a weary glance at Norman. No doubt he was wondering how a human boy could possibly be kept out of sight.

Malcolm chattered on undeterred. “At least we've outrun the wolves,” he said brightly, licking blackberry juice from his paws.

Simon Whiteclaw harrumphed. “Ye think ye've outrun 'em, do ye? Don't you believe it. Wolf hunters won't let you go that
easily. They're still out there sniffing us out. It's not like we didn't leave a trail.”

With this dour pronouncement, he rose and shouldered his pack. “We've tarried too long,” he declared. “Let's be off.”

 

If it was possible, the terrain became rougher and the woods thicker when they resumed. The forest was a solid wall of pine needles and branches. Norman covered his head with his arms and used it as a battering ram, charging, sometimes just stumbling forward. Only Malcolm's merry chatter kept him on track. His eyes were useless in the dense woods.

Occasionally Simon tried half-heartedly to keep the young stoat quiet.

“Quit yer chatter, will ye,” he ordered, finally losing his patience with his young ward. “Ye want the entire wolf horde to hear ye?”

At that moment, Norman came crashing through the forest behind them, snapping branches, crunching twigs and grunting.

“Are we stopping?” he huffed.

Norman couldn't see the older river raider roll his eyes.

 

It was the wolf howls that finally silenced the ebullient little stoat. Near dusk on their second day out from Scalded Rock, they heard the first one, a distant cry somewhere in a valley behind them. Nothing was said between the stoats and the human boy. They merely quickened their pace. They heard the howls intermittently through the night while they tried to sleep, and again the next morning—hollow, hungry cries from the valleys behind them. More often now one cry was answered by a second.

By noon on the third day it was impossible to deny that the wolf calls were getting closer. The fleeing stoats and boy did not stop to eat that day. Simon handed out what morsels he had left in his satchel and they consumed them on the trail. The ordeal was taking its toll on Norman. His entire body ached and he found his mind drifting, imagining that he was back home again. The terrain
was smoother and the trees more sparse, so he could walk upright and unimpeded now, but they were moving faster to keep ahead of the wolves. The pace aggravated Malcolm's injuries and he had to be carried again. Norman didn't mind. The stoat hardly weighed anything, and he was happy to be of some use. It focused his mind, reminding him where he was and why.

A few hours after nightfall they stopped. If he had been alone, Simon would likely have carried on through the night, but he could see that both the human boy and his stoat ward could be pushed no further. It would be dangerous to keep going in such a state. He guided them to a half cave beneath an overhang of rock, completely concealed from the path—you would have to know it was there to find it. Norman threw himself down thankfully. For the second night in a row, there would be no fire. Norman rubbed his arms and legs as much for warmth as to smoothe out the bruises and aches. Even in the cold it was not long before he was asleep. His young friend curled up beside him for warmth and they were both asleep in no time.

The moon was high in the night sky when Simon Whiteclaw startled them awake.

“I'm taking yer bow,” he told Malcolm in a whisper. The young stoat did not protest. “The three hunters have joined up again. They have our scent. I'm going to double back and see if I can't slow 'em down a bit.”

He was gone before either Norman or Malcolm fully appreciated what he was saying. Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, they didn't speak for a long while, only listened to the forest. Soon enough they heard the high, hollow howl of the wolf call. The predators called in unison now, egging each other on, sensing that their prey was near. The closer the cries came, the harder it became for Malcolm and Norman to remain quiet and still. They fidgeted and looked for signs of nervousness in each other, each reassured that he wasn't the only one terrified of the wolves' approach.