The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (22 page)

“Welcome, Gaberlunzie,” said Fenodyree. “Yesterday we saw you from afar, but could not be sure. Will you not come
among the trees? The Morrigan and her brood harry us, and the spies are out.”

The stranger looked at the sky.

“I thought they were no birds,” he said.

He dismounted, and brought his horse under the trees.

Fenodyree quickly told their story, and the man called Gaberlunzie heard him in silence.

“And therefore we must be on Shuttlingslow at Friday's dawn to meet Cadellin Silverbrow, or the world we know may not endure. Will you stay with us, and help us?”

The blue eyes stared into space; then Gaberlunzie gave his answer.

“I shall not bide. Listen to my say. Beyond Minith Bannawg there is trouble breeding greater than this – or so we fear. The lios-alfar of the north are not enough to act alone. So I have come to gather to their aid kinsmen and allies. I have wandered through Dyfed's plundered land, along the shores of Talebolion, many a weary month to Sinadon. And I am needed in Prydein within the week.

“I stopped by Fundindelve to ask for help, but there was no answer, only the morthbrood. The storm caught me before I could reach Angharad Goldenhand, and when darkness came I heard the mara and sought this island without delay. It was a cold swim, and the sun rose before I dared to sleep.

“I must turn northwards this day: my duty lies there. But what help there is in me you shall have before I go. If I leave you at the forest by nightfall, will that serve you well?”

“That would almost end our labours,” said Fenodyree. “But alas, we dare not move openly: by day the skies are watchful, and by night the mara walk. We crawl on our bellies to our noble end!”

“But now you will ride!” laughed Gaberlunzie. “No, I do not trifle with you.”

“
Look
!” cried Susan, her voice hoarse with alarm.

So intent had they been that they had not noticed the wall of mist come creeping over the snow. Like a white smoke it curled among the trees, and eclipsed the far end of the lake even as Susan spoke.

“Grimnir!” said Durathror.

“Whist now!” said Gaberlunzie, who was the only one undisturbed. “Sit you all down again. It is nothing of the sort. It is what I have been expecting. Cloudless skies, snow, such frost as this, and darkness not two hours away – what more natural than a good, white mist to blind the morthbrood and speed us on our road? Now on to my horse, and away!”

The fog was about them, absolute.

“You hold on a minute!” said Gowther. “Before we try to fit six on one horse, I'd like to know how you think we're
going to find our way in this lot. It's about as much as I can do to see my feet.”

“Do not worry, friend: my eyes are not your eyes, and my horse is not of earthly stock: we shall not stumble. But come! Are we to argue here until the day of doom? Mount!”

And they did mount. Durathror and Fenodyree bunched together in front of Gaberlunzie; behind him sat the children, and behind them Gowther, his arms on either side of Colin and Susan, holding Gaberlunzie's cloak in his fists.

Gowther expected to come off within a minute of starting – that is, if the horse could start. But a flick of the rein, and they were away like the wind; no horse ever sped so smoothly. Fields, hedges, ditches, flowed under its hoofs. The snow muffled all noise of their passage as they plunged full tilt through the mist. The air whipped about them, and their hands grew black, and cold grasped their heads as if with pincers.

After a while they left hedges behind, the land became broken and uneven, but they did not falter. Wide trenches opened under them, one after another, dangerously deep; and ghostly, broken walls, gaping like the ruins of an ancient citadel, lowered on either side. It was as though they were rising out of their own time back to a barbaric age, yet they were running only by the peat stacks of Danes Moss, a great tract of bogland that lay at the foot of the hills.

Trench after trench they crossed, and each a check to the morthbrood, should they follow after; for Gaberlunzie was of a cunning race. And so they came into the hills, and down to a lonely road in a valley.

“We are in the forest now,” said Gaberlunzie.

He swung his horse off the road, and in one sailing leap they were among the trees. A broad path cut upwards through the close-set ranks, and here Gaberlunzie slowed to a walk.

“I shall not stop; you must leave as best you may, so that my trail will be unbroken. Do not stop to cover your own, but look for a place of shelter. Later you will see foxes: do not harm them.”

“But what of yourself?” said Fenodyree. “It will not do to be abroad after sunset.”

“The morthbrood are welcome to the chase! For I shall go by Shining Tor, and Cat's Tor, and the Windgather Rocks, and the sun will rise for me out of the three peaks of Eildon. I do not think the morthbrood will be then so keen.”

Five minutes later they said their goodbyes, and tumbled into the snow.

“Do as I have said,” called Gaberlunzie, “and you will come to no harm here; and when you meet Cadellin, say I wish him well.”

Durathror was the last to leave, and as he picked himself up, the form of Gaberlunzie, one hand raised in farewell, blended into the mist, and passed out of his sight for ever.

“I don't like the idea of leaving all these tracks,” said Colin.

“There is little else we can do,” said Fenodyree. “And I feel that Gaberlunzie knows what he is about. Our task is to hide, and this is the place. Take care lest you shake the snow from the branches!”

The trees grew only a few feet apart, and the sweeping branches came close to the ground, so close that even the dwarfs had to crawl, while Gowther had to pull himself along on his stomach.

They went downhill from the path a good way before Fenodyree stopped.

“Here will be as safe as anywhere. Even without the mist you can see no more than a few yards. Let us make ourselves as comfortable as we can, for we shall not stir again until we go to greet Cadellin.”

Down the path through the forest two dim shadows moved. Coming to the trampled snow, and the trail leading under the branches, they stopped, and sniffed. And then they began to roll and frolic all around: two foxes sporting on a winter hillside. When every trace of human feet was obliterated, they
set off down the trail, throwing the snow into confusion as they fought.

The sound of their approach reached the dwarfs' ears, and they waited, sword in hand, for whatever was drawing near. Then the foxes tumbled into sight, and landed on their haunches, side by side, flecked with snow, their red tongues lolling, and their sharp eyes narrowing, in a wicked, panting grin.

For a while they sat there, and Durathror was about to speak, but they flung up their tails, and streaked away downhill.

“Thank you,” said Fenodyree.

“Why?” said Colin. “What were they doing?”

“Covering our tracks rather well, I reckon,” said Gowther. “Now yon's what I
call
clever.”

“And the scent of a fox is stronger than that of either men or dwarfs,” said Durathror, smiling.

He smiled again, alone to himself in the night while the others slept, when he heard the baying of hounds pass over the hill, and fade into the far distance.

N
o one slept much all through the second, and last, night in the forest. It had been a strain on the nerves to lie inactive, yet constantly alert, for a whole day. The cold was no longer a problem, and the food of Angharad was safeguard against hunger and thirst for many days, so there had been nothing to do but wait, and think.

It was as though the night would never end: yet they could find little to talk about, wrapped in their cloaks, five dim shapes against the lighter background of the snow.

And, because of the snow, it was never quite dark, even in the forest; and although they could not approach the dwarfs' powers of sight the children found that, as the night wore on, they could see well enough to distinguish between individual trees and the hillside.

Tension mounted with every hour. But at last Fenodyree said:

“Dawn is not far off. Are we ready?”

They climbed up the path. The marks of hoofs were still
there for the dwarfs to see, but they were overlaid with many tracks: hound, svart, and others.

After a long drag uphill they came above the forest on to a bleak shelf of moorland; and out of the far side of the plateau, half a mile distant, the last two hundred feet of Shuttlingslow reared black against the paling night.

They halted, and stared, prey to their emotions at the sudden appearance of the long-sought goal. It was so very near.

“Yonder it is,” said Durathror, “but shall we ever reach it?”

They looked cautiously around. The snow lay two feet deep upon the moor. Not a tree could be seen in the gloom; only a dark line of wall, the dry stone walling of the hills, cut across the landscape. Once committed to this waste, once they had made their mark, there could be no drawing back. And after all those miles of stealth it seemed madness to walk out across such naked land. More, an actual fear of the open spaces came over them, even the dwarfs; they felt lightheaded, and weak-kneed, and longed for the security of a close horizon.

Then Gowther squared his shoulders. “Come on,” he said, “let's be doing.” And he strode off towards Shuttlingslow.

It was a hard trek, and a stiff climb at the end of it, but both were achieved without sight of the morthbrood or any of their kind. Up they toiled, hands and feet working
together on the near-perpendicular slope; up and up, till their lungs felt torn and their hearts were bursting. Thirty feet more! They had done it! In spite of all the forces ranged against them, they had done it!

They lay panting on the flat summit ridge. All about them was nothing but the air. When exultation had died, they crawled round until they were lying in a rough horseshoe, facing outwards. In this way, while keeping together, they could watch all the surrounding land except for the southern approach, which was hidden by the far end of the ridge. The crest of Shuttlingslow is only a few yards wide, and they were able to talk without raising their voices.

Fenodyree reckoned that dawn was less than half an hour away. All eyes strained to pick out Cadellin as soon as he should appear. Once Durathror thought he saw him, but it was a troll-woman striding across a hillside miles away. It grew lighter. North, south, and east, the hills rolled away, and to the west, the plain, a lake of shadow into which the night was sinking.

“Isn't it time we were seeing him?” Colin asked. He could now see the straight track they had drawn across the plateau. The others, too, were glancing in that direction.

“The sun has not yet risen,” said Fenodyree. “He will come.”

But he did not come. And soon they could no longer
pretend that it was night. There was no break in the ceiling of cloud, but the day would not be denied.

“It looks as if we've shot our bolt, dunner it?” said Gowther. “Do we just lie here and wait to be picked like ripe apples?”

“We must wait until the last moment,” said Fenodyree. “And wherever we go now we shall not escape the eyes of the morthbrood.”

“It looks like being a grand day, then: Friday the thirteenth and all!”

“Ay,” said Durathror. “‘Between nine and thirteen all sorrow shall be done.'”

Their spirits drained from them: their trail stood out as clearly as if it had been painted black. And there was no Cadellin.

Occasional specks moved singly or in groups across the white backcloth of hills, and, out on the plain, from the smudge that was Alderley Edge, drifted what might have been a plume of smoke, but was not.

“Now that
they
are astir,” said Durathror, “Cadellin must needs come quickly, or he will come too late.”

As it gained height the column of birds split into patrolling flocks, two of which headed towards Shuttlingslow. When they were a mile away it became obvious that one flock would pass to the south of the hill, and the other to the
north. The northerly flock raced over the plateau, and the watchers on the hilltop wanted to close their eyes. Suspense did not last. The leader swung round in a tight circle over the line of footprints, and brought the flock slowly along the trail, close to the ground.

“
Do not move
!” whispered Fenodyree. “It is our only chance.”

But the muspel cloaks were not proof against keen eyes at close range. The whole flock shot skywards on the instant, and broke north, south, east, and west to din the alarm. One or two remained, at a safe height, and they cruised in beady silence. The specks in the distance slowed, changed course, and began to move in towards a common centre – Shuttlingslow. More appeared, and more still, and distant, thin voices were raised in answer to the summons, and mingled with them the whine of the mara, and a baying note, that the children had heard once before at St Mary's Clyffe, and Fenodyree more recently in the forest. From all over the plain clouds of birds were rushing eastwards. Durathror stood up.

“Is this the end of things, cousin?”

“It may be.”

“Where is Cadellin Silverbrow?”

“I cannot think; unless it be that he is dead, or prisoner, and either way
we
are lost.”

“But if he's coming from
that
direction,” cried Colin,
pointing south, “we shouldn't see him until he was right at the top!”

“Fool that I am! Quick! We may throw away all hope by standing here!”

Halfway along the ridge the birds attacked. In a cloud they fell, clawing and pecking, and buffeting with their wings. And their attentions were directed against Susan above all. In the first seconds of advantage they fastened upon her like leeches, and tangled thickly in her hair. And their strength was human. But before they could drag her from the hill Dyrnwyn and Widowmaker were among them.