Alan Garner Classic Collection. Alan Garner
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.”
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