Alan Garner Classic Collection. Alan Garner
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.
Backwards and forwards along the crest the conflict raged, until the ground was red and black, and still they came. Not before fully a quarter of their number had been hewn from the air did they abandon the fight.
Durathror and Fenodyree leaned on their swords, heads hanging. All were torn and bleeding; but the wounds were not deep.
“It is well they broke,” panted Fenodyree, “for I was near spent.”
“Ay,” said Durathror, “it will go hard with us if they come again.”
Gowther reversed his grip on his ash stick, which he had been wielding with terrible effect, and pointed.
“And yon have not been idle, sithee. We’ll have to be thinking quick!”
The morthbrood were pouring in from all sides; only to the south-west was the land not thickly dotted with running figures. The near groups were not heading for the top of Shuttlingslow, but were moving to encircle it; and out of the valley of Wildboarclough, seven hundred feet below at the foot of the hill’s eastern slope, came a band of svarts, five hundred strong. There was no Cadellin.
“Can we stem this flood, cousin?” said Fenodyree.
Durathror shook his head.
“By weight of numbers they will conquer. But since it has come to this we must draw what teeth we may before we go down to rest. And it is how I would wish to die, for so have I lived.”
“Well, I’m not going to let them have the stone as easily as that!” cried Susan. “You stay if you like, but I’m off!”
And she started down the hill at a mad speed towards where the numbers of the morthbrood were thinnest.
“Come back, Sue!” shouted Colin.
“No!” said Gowther. “She’s the only one round here as is talking sense. Well, come on! Are you fain to let her go by herself?”
They sprang after Susan; floundering in the snow, leaping, bounding, falling, rolling, they hurtled after her, unmindful of bruises, caring nothing for safety, while the air clamoured