After the Battle of Bigginton Walt had received his pay from Aldred and then returned home, vowing to go on no more adventures. But – rather like Aldred, some of whose instincts he shared – Walt found this a hard resolution to keep. He could not settle down. He was irked by the general complacency of Tregg village, its thoughtless slavish loyalty to the House of Ostendil, its practised indifference to all the news and rumours from the wider world. These stories were growing taller and taller and they upset Walt more and more. At last, after a drunken evening at The King’s Head which resulted in him being ejected and banned from the premises, Walt decided to go back to the Demesne and find out the truth for himself. He found only Aldred, but was just in time to persuade him to take a little food and drink, thereby prolonging and ultimately saving his life.
And it was Walt who made a remarkable discovery, that same morning, before the army resumed its march up the Road. He strolled out into the meadow to smoke a last pipe there. It was the last time he would see the hedges, trees and roofs of Middleton; well, of course it was. What reason would he ever have to return? He shook his head at the charred stumps. He laid his hand sadly on burnt black bark. Then he wandered off down the field. Twenty minutes later he burst in among Swin and his officers.
‘Sir! Mr. Gumasson, sir! You must come quick!’
Amused, and wasting no time on needless questions, Swin left his breakfast and followed the breathless Waltrot back up the hill, into the field and then down a slantwise path. This led to an old field-gate between bushes of hazel and red-berried thorn, on whose branches hung many bright-beaded cobwebs. With a groan and a squeal it yielded to Swin’s push. Beyond it, a small overgrown paddock was all surrounded by trees, the tall thistles and dead wet grass overlain by mats of yellowing bindweed. In the midst of this space was an inconspicuous pool. Something was growing beside the pool. The birds were hushed, the sounds of the army distant and faint; a little buried rill that led to the water was now heard, speaking up with a muffled musical voice. Swin and Walt, following the slot Walt had already made, tramped through the wetness and then squatted down to look at the strange plant.
It was a sapling, comely and young, like a boy-prince growing up in the cottage of adoptive parents. It was about four feet high. Its teardrop-shaped leaves, green above and greenish-silver below, seemed to shed a faint light of their own. Swin gently parted some of them to reveal a single fruit, red on one side and golden on the other.
‘So – you think the thieves brought back a seed after all?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir, that’s right! Take it, sir! It’s for you, ain’t it? Go on!’
‘Sorry, Walt, how?’
‘A spade. Half a barrel of earth. Go on. Bring it to its rightful home.’
The spade and barrel were found; and Swin, carefully following Walt’s directions, filled the barrel half-full of earth and loosened the root-ball. As the sapling was transferred to the container the bright leaves danced and shook, seeming to laugh with excitement. Swin added spadefuls of earth round the sides and smoothed down the surface; beyond the gate, Lefnui, Berven, Wulfstan, Wald and the sons of Athelstan respectfully watched. Swin wrapped his arms round the barrel, hugged it to his chest, carried it back to the camp and set it down in a corner of the wagon that the two Punchkins were to use. They tended the sapling from then on, and it flourished as if it really were enjoying its change of fortune.
Swin gave the order to march, and so the army departed, encouraged by this new sign.
By the time they left the Demesne, a poorish total of four hundred and forty men had been added to the host. Lefnui, however, had promised a thousand more, the whole complement of Thaliondas. The plan was now to turn north-east, wheel round through Lefnui’s barony and approach the City under cover of the woods. This way would take longer. Swin was keenly aware that he was going against Dreng’s advice. But he was mindful of the Orb and the likelihood of the army’s approach being watched by Ostendil and Melohtar. The Queen needed no scouts. Her advisers would be able to choose their own place and time for the battle that must be fought. In these circumstances, Swin judged, the extra men and the forest cover would make up for the delay.
It could only be that Thandor was biding its time and resting in the confidence of superior strength: no other supposition could explain the free, unhindered passage enjoyed by the army after it departed from Punchkinland. Moorland shepherds, startled woodmen and foresters were met, but never the least resistance. Merrily and unperturbed sounded the music of the drum, now joined with a band of horns and pipes. A few new recruits were added and the muster-roll climbed over seven thousand. On the seventeenth day of September they arrived at Thaliondas, the castle of Lefnui; the servants and the castellan rejoiced at their Lord and Lady’s return, and six score of oxen were roasted, and Lefnui ordered weapontake to be held on the next day. The army filled its belly, then settled down to clean and mend and furbish all its gear, in readiness for the last march.
On the nineteenth of September Swin led forth eight-and-a-half thousand men. Daeranna and Bryd, who would stay to await the outcome, waved their farewells from the battlements of the gatehouse. The army plunged into the woods of Aduchel and was led by Lefnui’s foresters along many secret paths. And still there was no sign of the enemy. At last, after two long days of slow progress, an advance party came upon a break in the trees; and Aduchel shimmered in the sunset, and its reflected light came flickering among the leaves of autumn; and beyond Aduchel the chimneys and towers of Ruminas were seen, with the cloud of pollution that hung over the City in the windless air.
The party consisted of Swin himself, Wald, three riders, and Waltrot, who had proved a tireless and active campaigner. They shielded their eyes against the setting sun and gazed, not without awe, at their journey’s end. But Colwine lifted up his head, and put his ears forward, and gave a little whinny. Presently the party heard the sound of hoofbeats, carried from a long way off by the surface of the tranquil lake.
Waltrot listened intently. ‘Two riders,’ he said, and the others nodded in agreement.
‘If they’re just two,’ Swin said, ‘let’s wait for ’em.’
Presently, from around the other side of one of the lake promontories, the first rider came into view; and then the second. The first was a woman on a dappled mare. The skirt of her dress flew out behind her, and the thudding hoofbeats resounded over the water. Behind her came a rider clad in black, leaning forward on his saddle; his steed was pale-coloured with a grey mane and tail. The attitudes of the two figures were eloquent of flight and pursuit.
Chivalrously Swin urged Colwine forward, the others following him, so that the whole party went to meet the hunted woman. She came galloping through the warm evening light, straight towards them, the hooves of the tired mare splashing through the shallows or slipping dangerously and striking the stones of the shingle. She raised her face, and it was lit up with sudden hope.
‘Mr. Gumasson! Mr. Gumasson, save me!’
She was Wencela, daughter of Bryd and Dreng. Swin ordered his party to protect her. She began to slow down, cantered up to them and was among them a moment later.
‘Mr. Gumasson! Oh, thank God!’ She laid her hand on her breast, panting with relief. The panting, foam-flecked mare put her head down and drank eagerly.
‘Mistress Wencela, you are welcome to us,’ said Swin. ‘The one who approaches, he is, I take it, the reason for your flight?’
‘Yes, didn’t I tell you?’ She breathed out hurried gasps. ‘He’ll rape me, he will, he will! Don’t let him have me, sir, save me, please save me!’
‘Don’t you worry, miss,’ said Waltrot cheerfully, as Swin made no immediate response. ‘We’ll see you right. Don’t you remember me?’
‘Oh! Mr. – Hardedge, isn’t it?’
‘Waltrot to you, miss, and yours to command!’
‘Yes,’ said Swin, leaving the train of his thought. ‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart. It’s that vicious little creep, isn’t it, and why O why didn’t I... Well, Your Reverence, what a strange meeting this is! Stand still now and tell me about your business with this young lady!’
Melda reined in his pale horse a dozen yards away. Once again he presented a changed appearance. Though dressed all in black as before, save for the round white collar and the eagle-emblem on his breast, he was now leaner, trim and active, with a short black cloak, polished jackboots and a thin leather belt round the outside of his tight jerkin. Calm and entirely self-possessed, he raised his hand in greeting.
‘Swin: hi! Good to see you again. I should ask you to tell me your own business first, especially if I was a loyal subject of Her Majesty, shouldn’t I? But I guess your business here is pretty well understood by all.’
‘This lady is now under my protection.’
‘That’s good. People who desert from the City are in quite some danger. I should know!’
Wencela burst into tears. ‘Look, Mr. Gumasson,’ she cried between sobs, ‘that ain’t true. I didn’t desert the City, nor my lady, nor the Queen! I had to flee away, I was that scared of him!’
‘All right,’ said Swin kindly. ‘You’re safe with us. And your mother’s not far away. I’ll have you taken to her at once.’
‘Oooh, is she, sir? Where?’
‘In Lord Lefnui’s castle.’
‘Ah.’ Melda cleared his throat. ‘You mean Thaliondas, Swin – but I’d advise very strongly against trying to go back there. Your army’s cut off by now. That’s my business, you see: that’s what I’ve come to talk about.’
‘To meet me?’
‘Of course.’
‘On your own account?’
‘Good Heavens, man, what do you take me for? Of course not. I’m here at the bidding of Ar and Atan.’
Swin stared at him grimly.
‘And since you glare at me like that, I will also point out to you, though it’s totally obvious, that I’m unarmed and quite, quite alone.’
Swin sighed with exasperation. ‘Very well. So now you’re an emissary. You want to talk to me in private?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Wald, Waltrot, take her back to the camp. Treat her with all honour. Farewell for the time being, mistress... Now, Melda,’ he said as the six riders trotted away.
‘Let’s sit down on that stone. I’m feeling a bit saddle-sore. What a lovely evening...and the dear old City looking so peaceful. Of course it don’t look right without the dome on the Temple, but I guess, Swin, that’s one of the things you’d want to make a priority?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ said Swin. ‘And don’t use my nickname. To you I’m Lord Eofor.’
‘Of course, my lord. Very sorry if I struck you as over-familiar. But that “lord” is itself kind of a little affectation of modesty, ain’t it? If all we hear is true? More like “Your Royal Highness”, surely?’
‘Get to the point.’
‘There’s two points and then a proposal. This is point one. Many people believe you’re the Prince. I pretty much believe it myself. The eagle’s prophecy is about to be fulfilled:
The white dragon will slay the boar
Whose elvish sword will come to restore
The royal seed and the fruit of the tree.
That’s how it goes, eh? You were slain, but here you are again, alive and well, complete with the elf-sword too if I’m not mistook. That prophecy was sent to us by Dru himself. I think, and Ar thinks, and Atan thinks, that it’s the will of the Almighty that you regain your grandfather’s throne.
‘Against that, however, we have point two, which is that your position – I mean your army’s position here – is quite hopeless.’ He fiddled and fidgeted as he spoke, but his voice was calm, even authoritative. ‘What do you suppose the Queen’s men have been doing, these last couple of days?’ Swin said nothing. ‘Surrounding you, that’s what they’ve gone and done. Eight thousand, give or take a few hundred, eh? And do you know how many she’s got? Over forty thousand. Sixty regiments. And do you know where they are? No you don’t, but you will soon, and I’ll tell you now anyway. In a circle all round you, that’s where they are. Basically, mate, from a military point of view, you’re well and truly fucked, is the second point I want to make.’ His eyes laughed at Swin from beneath the long blond lashes, and Swin saw again that evil perverted minion whose life had once been so foolishly spared. ‘Now then, in the light of the prophecy, what do we make of this? What are my superiors thinking? Well, if you’ll bear with me, there are two schools of thought. Sorondur of Emynos, who has written books on the subject, holds that Dru’s will must be fulfilled in all circumstances. If he’s right, you’ve nothing to worry about at all. But it raises the questions of evil and suffering: why Dru, if He is indeed both just and omnipotent, allow these to occur. My lord Pureor of the Temple, on the other hand, takes a different view, which, not being much of a theologian myself, I can’t give you in all its full nuanced complexity, but: he holds that the purpose of Dru is partly contained within human purpose: that God’s will works through Man’s will: so that it can be and indeed often is thwarted, alas, how sad to say. And so, on this viewing, us humans have more of a responsibility for carrying out His purposes.’
The sun was sinking, the light becoming red. The grinning face that Melda turned towards Swin had a devilish cast.
‘Which is as much,’ he lucidly continued, ‘as to sketch out the theological background of my mission to you. There’s also a political background which I will merely hint at. The relationship between the Palace and the Temple has tended to be difficult, historically, but this summer, thanks to our very strong-minded Queen, things have got worse than ever. So much so, that the thought of a new ruler who might – just to give a couple of examples – allow us to resume the sacred custom of animal sacrifices, and withdraw the Arostiri from the Temple itself – the thought of such a ruler is one that Ar and Atan rather welcome. Such a ruler would be assured of their full support.
‘A solemn oath would have to be administered first, and a sealed contract, with the full binding power of our Craft. Both parties to sign in blood. You’re not much of a writer, we understand, but surely you could manage to hold a pen in your fingers? Well enough to copy the letters of your name?
‘And so – thank you for being so very, very patient with me – and so we come to the proposal I bring.
‘Tomorrow is our day of thanksgiving for the autumn fruits and the harvest. There’s a quaint old custom that the City has, that farmers who desire Dru’s special blessing on their crops for next year, bring in the firstfruits of this year’s crops as an offering in the Temple. But it all has to be done surreptitiously, so that the display of fruits appears as it were by magic, as a pure gift of Dru, which of course it is, on the morning of the festival. Well, the children believe it anyway, and to the rest of us it’s a bit of charming make-believe; but the point is the secrecy. The farmers come in through the little old Priests’ Gate, which is only opened once a year, tonight. It’s on the east side of the City wall, and less than a mile, mostly by covered ways, to the Temple.
‘So, say you and up to five hundred of your likely lads were to turn up with me at Priestgate, around eleven o’clock tonight – it might very well be that my lord Ar had a contract ready for you to sign, and the ingredients for a spell of loyalty all ready to hand. And then you’d be let through, with some veggies to carry, just like you was farmers.
‘And after that – well, I guess your own strategic sense and the blessing of Dru would guide you. We’d hardly be so presumptuous as to offer any further help, without you asking for it. But surely five hundred men – resolute cunning warriors like yourselves – ought to be able to gather up the threads by dawn?
‘I see you sitting here, transfixed with attention, and I’ve enjoyed this little talk; but I’ll let you go now. Your spies should hopefully have found out about our forces. Your staff will need to hear about the situation from them, even though I know you fully believe and trust every word I’ve said to you. Right?’
He stood up, and Swin, released from the power that had been holding him captive, fell over on his back with a crash of armour. He rolled over and sprang to his feet, furious and crimson-faced, with Lydagnir in his hand.
‘To hell with you!’
Melda’s eyebrows drew together. He clicked his tongue with droll disappointment. ‘T’ch! Am I to take that as a “no”?’
‘Take it as your death, you sorcerer!’
Melda smiled amiably as Swin leapt towards him, and lightly raised one hand. Instantly Swin’s sword-hand was caught up, fixed rigidly, as if the air had become an invisible padded vice. For a few moments he struggled and cursed with bared teeth, while Lydagnir glittered and trembled.
‘Ah,’ said Melda, ‘the famous elvish blade.’
Swin watched the blade slowly bend, softly droop and hang down in helpless impotence.
‘I do hope for your sake that you’ve got a better one! Now, Swin, old chum, do think. Wisely. It’s for your own good, what I say. Believe me, none of us in the Temple want to be your enemies. We truly want to see the prophecy fulfilled... Just give me five minutes to get off, and then you can go back to your camp. And like I said, if you should want me, in an hour’s time, to guide you, you’ll be able to find me along the shore. Come on. Don’t be too cross.’
He set foot in stirrup, and was about to mount his pale horse; but then another thought struck him, and he turned back:
‘Oh yes! There is a certain lad I’d dearly love to meet again! Bishop Erumardil, he’s not with you by any chance, is he? Is he? Is he?’
By the end of the last repetition of the words Swin had begun involuntarily to shake his head. ‘No,’ he heard himself saying, ‘I left him in the South.’
Another smug odious grin. ‘I knew you wouldn’t lie to me,’ said Melda. He mounted, wheeled round and set off. ‘See ya later!’
A few minutes later, as promised, Swin found himself free. But Lydagnir was useless in his hand, an insult, a mocking bawdy jest. He flung it away with another curse; it whirled awkwardly as it flew, and then splashed into the lake. He rode back to the last camp-site, two miles off in the forest, where the tents were now being set up. Dulinir and Thoronhir were there to meet him. Their faces were grave. But before he conferred with them Swin sought Wencela out in her tent, making sure she had all she needed. ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ he said. ‘There are enemies now between us and your mother. But you know Thaliondas is a strong castle, so she’ll be safe there for long enough.’
‘How long is that?’ Wencela asked anxiously.
‘Good night,’ said Swin.
Aldred joined the council. He did not speak much nowadays, but he listened, and Swin had fallen into the habit of talking to him confidentially. Dulinir and Thoronhir reported. Their news was bleak. The trap was closing fast, if it had not closed already. If mere survival was to become the army’s aim, they could close ranks, make an immediate forced march in some unexpected direction and attempt to cut through the net before it had fully tightened; but what to do next? The campaign would have lost all its meaning. As for the treacherous expedient suggested by the Priests, Swin said nothing about it to the council, for he had dismissed it without a second thought.
‘So then,’ he sombrely concluded, ‘we go on tomorrow. We can’t choose our ground, so we march in battle order. When we encounter the enemy, we just do our best.’
‘Dru help us,’ said Lefnui.
‘And the Lady too,’ said Thoronhir.
‘Yes,’ said Aldred, speaking for the first time, ‘perhaps they both will. I’ve just remembered that it’s the first night of Fallmorrow: you know, light and darkness equally balanced. Maybe the odds are better than they seem?’