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Chapter Four
A LACK OF PETTY WARRIORS
It was a partial victory. Megiluin – for reasons best known to himself – retreated north-west from the River with two-thirds of his army intact. Swin, after each success, was becoming more and more of the formidable difficulties that still remained. Dreng, of course, had been fully aware of them from the start. That evening they found themselves sharing a kind of companionship amid the celebrations. Everyone else, including even Lefnui, was talking, singing and joking about Swin’s conquest of the whole North as if complete triumph was pre-ordained.
‘You can’t delay,’ Dreng said: ‘You’ve got to hasten on. They’ve all got faith in you, but it’s burning like straw. And every day now gives the Queen more time to muster more men against us.’
‘But Megiluin’s still behind us,’ objected Swin. ‘That was the point of coming all this way: to eliminate him before we strike northward.’
Dreng lifted his drinking-horn. He sat motionless for a few seconds, staring at Swin sombrely over the silvered rim; the firelight gleamed on the silver and threw dark shadows over his lined face. Then he drank. ‘Have you ever heard of petty warfare?’ he asked.
This, as he described it, turned out to be that from of warfare in which a small mobile force, lying concealed in the folds of the land, refusing open battle, is able to preoccupy a much larger one. ‘Shooting arrows from behind a tree,’ he said grimly. ‘Creeping up in the darkness and knifing a sentry. Poisoning wells. Firing barns and storehouses of innocent folk. Using oil-fire as a weapon. That’s how the raiders from the deserts made war against the King of Turmal. We had to learn to beat them at their own game.’
Swin seemed to feel a shadow looming over him: the presence of Berven the Priest. He looked round quickly. No-one was there.
‘It’s your meaning, then,’ he said, ‘that a fairly small detachment of our force could distract Megiluin? Keep him off our tail?’
‘Yes, and keep him from rejoining the Queen. Not for ever, of course, but at least as long as the days you’ve got left to you.’
‘Well.’ Swin poked at the fire with a long stick. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that this petty warfare must be very dangerous for those who practise it. What did your general do to the raiders when you caught them?’
Dreng made no answer.
‘And even more dangerous, I would say,’ suggested Swin, ‘for the commander of such a force?’
Dreng made no answer.
‘And for his wife?’
‘Oh no,’ said Dreng, ‘that life would be far too hard for her. You keep her safe for me.’
‘I will,’ said Swin. ‘Thank you, Lord Dreng.’
Next moment, somewhat to the surprise of both, the two were fiercely embracing. Dreng’s fist thumped Swin’s back several times, hard.
‘You sod,’ he muttered in Swin’s ear: ‘You bloody little swine! You go on! Get on with it! But look after her for me, eh? Treat her right this time!’
‘I will,’ said Swin, deeply moved: ‘and I’ll never forget this.’
‘Damn it, I won’t let you!’
They drew apart. Swin picked up the flagon and refilled Dreng’s horn.
‘No, it’ll be hard,’ Dreng said, ‘but I’ll manage. I’ve a foresight that I’ll see you again.’
‘That’s a special gift of yours, so I’ve heard.’
‘Surely. We’ll draw swords together, you and I. But not here. Away down South, I think. But say you do become king: have you thought yet about your kingcraft? What’s the word – your policies?’
‘Not at all,’ said Swin. ‘Time enough for that, surely, when my bum’s on the throne?’
‘Well, I’m no merchant, Dryghten be thanked, and I care little for trade, but I do know that they mind it a lot in the City, and the King of Turmal, he thinks of naught else. This killing of the worm, it’d already made a whole new world even before Lefnui shut down the works – d’you see? No more dragon-fire that the Dwarves need to make their special toys with? No more fancy goods for the southern markets? I reckon Her Majesty must be feeling the pinch already – but in the long run it may be worse for the King of the South. You keep an eye on him!’
Wise words, no doubt. Swin remembered Lord Engwe saying something similar. But now he was summoned to go and inspect the volunteers from Megiluin’s army, and so the admonition was pushed to the back of his mind. He had been more struck by Dreng’s gift of foresight, if such it truly was; and Bryd agreed with him in this, for she later said that only one thing made the parting bearable for her: Dreng’s firm promise that they too would be reunited once again. ‘Mark my words, lass,’ said he: ‘I’ll be coming back to you, though I may be in danger. Wait for me on the road outside the City!’ And she smiled through her tears, and he comforted her. ‘Give a kiss to Wencela from me,’ he said later. ‘You may see her sooner than you expect.’
‘You’re a real soothsayer tonight!’
‘Aye. I do wonder, though, when I’m to set eyes on the wench myself.’
Next morning, in an hour of uncertain gleaming sunlight, Dreng asked for and obtained three hundred volunteers for his own command. Taking Billing as his lieutenant, with three hundred horses, he set out across the Ford. Swin came with them as far as the Waymark. Tall and ominous it stood up now, and the sky was dreary and dark before them. Swin lifted up his hand, blessed the three hundred and bade them farewell; and they clashed their shields in reply. A final handclasp with Dreng, and then they all turned away, each man carefully leading his beast, forming an irregular line. The Bleck did not obstruct their passing. Swin stood watching them until the line disappeared. Then he turned back to raise the heavy burden of his task.
He left a regiment to guard the Ford and the prisoners, with Wulfstan and one of Lefnui’s officers in command. Even so, he marched away with hardly fewer than he had come with, still more than six thousand men; for many of Megiluin’s army had enlisted with him. They now made greater haste, with Thoronhir beating the drum urgently, but the recruits still continued to flock in; Swin must instruct them and take charge of the training and discipline, and he sorely missed Dreng’s presence, although Lefnui took it upon himself to manage all other things needful for the army. They marched on, zigzagging northward and eastward, and so they came to the marshes of the Bournbrook, the little stream that formed the southern border of the Demesne; and they found the long flat bridge that the Queen’s engineers had made, for wagons to cross over the marsh, and thus crossed unhindered into the Demesne itself. They began their march up the new Wainroad.
It was a sad time. The army lost none of its resolve; they neglected no precaution, and no enemy attacked them; but their banners drooped, and the men had no heart to sing, so that they marched in silence, with only the drum to accompany their steps that rang out on the hard Road. For there were no more Punchkins in Punchkinland.
None?
Never a one.
Such at least was Dulinir’s and Thoronhir’s conclusion as Swin reached the Middle Hundred. It was the end of the second day’s march through the Demesne. Not a single native had yet been seen. ‘Are you sure?’ Swin asked. ‘Remember they’re very good at hiding themselves.’ ‘So are we,’ was the answer: ‘Believe me, there are none.’ ‘Well, keep looking,’ said Swin. The tiny cottages, the low walls and hedges, the little fields spread out over the hills like a reduced patchwork of russet and green and stubbly gold – all these evoked a sense of those who had made them, evoked it so powerfully that no-one could help hoping still to see a little housewife fluttering her handkerchief from a cottage window, or a group of pipe-smoking gaffers on the next village green, or a cluster of punchkin-children playing in the next brook. Alas, no. Instead, increasingly, over each new rise of the landscape, the scenes showed marks of careless brutal mistreatment. Large, raw-timbered barns and houses, wide tracts of tree-stumps to show where the wood had come from, deep ruts of wheels gouged into the flowery swards that ran alongside the too-narrow lanes, dilapidated bridge-parapets, hedgerows beaten down or completely removed – and of course, and most of all, the dreadful Road itself, running straight into the distance, cut and embanked, grey and shining like a poisoned blade – all these sights, with many others, too many and too sad to describe, combined to depress Swin’s spirits and the spirits of all his men.
The land was not deserted. Like the regions farther south, it had been swiftly colonised from Thandor. Here too the work was going on, the harvests being gathered in. But the settlers were preoccupied or hostile, with only a few of them willing to join Swin’s cause. They were very busy, they said: they must finish the work or the Reeve would be angry and their claims taken away from them. These were not villeins, impressed slave-labourers like those who now made up the bulk of Swin’s army, but Thandorians who had paid a land-fee and been granted an estate out of the well-cultivated land. It was true that they had a lot of work to be getting on with, but Swin sensed a deeper reason for their coldness towards him. In their dark glances, their fidgety movements, he perceived the unwillingness woven into their loyalty to the Queen, like a close braid of guilt and complicity. Guilt for what? They had not driven the Little Folk away; they had arrived to find the land deserted, the gates open, the fields standing ripe. What would he have? Could they please go now? They wished His Lordship all prosperity and success. But if he did become King he would need them to work for him as much as the Queen herself now did. Swin had to accept this, and to accept that they were honestly ignorant of the mysterious fate of the Punchkins.
‘But it’s very strange,’ said Lefnui. ‘She knows perfectly well that the Punchkins are, or were, the best ones to get the best out of this land. You can see how clumsily the work’s been going on. Mark my words: they’ll over-use the land, this lot will. They’ll wear it out.’
Swin nodded and drained his mug. He and Lefnui and a few others were sitting at a wooden table outside The Six Jolly Wizards, perhaps on the same bench where Aldred had sat. (The inn was being carried on under new management.) The rest of the army were glumly encamped around Middleton. Swin had another reason to feel disappointed: he had been planning to add a large contingent of Punchkins to his army. Since hearing Dreng talk of ‘petty warfare’, he had realised that it must have been by comparable methods that the Punchkins had defeated King Asuldo. With their toughness, their skilful archery and self-concealment, the Punchkins would have made fine auxiliaries; but now he was faced with a complete lack of petty warriors. He would be lucky to come away with five hundred of the Demesne’s new Men.
‘How are our supplies holding out?’
‘You need to replenish,’ answered Heoden. ‘Does Your Lordship command that we pay for what we must have, or take it by force?’
‘Oh, pay them for it: we don’t want to make these people our enemies. How much money is there left? Use it up, why don’t you?’
Next day the army halted and rested while Lefnui and Heoden sent out commandeering parties. The sense of a great secret seemed to be pressed down below the hot and heavy sky. The hedgerows were dusty, and there was a mutter of thunder in the distance; and the children of the settlers cried harshly and threw stones at Lefnui’s men, as the wagons were driven from the guilty farms. Swin retired early to bed. He then lay awake for three hours, brooding and fretting. The air in his tent was stuffy and close, the air outside no better. At last he fell asleep. He dreamed that he had solved the mystery of the Punchkins. Then he woke up in darkness. Rain was pattering on the tent. Someone was making their way inside. Swin twisted, grabbed his sword and sat up.
‘No need for alarm, my lord,’ said Dulinir’s pleasant voice. ‘We’ve spotted one of ’em.’
‘Well done! Where?’
‘Up the hill. Thoronhir agrees, seeing how shy they are, it would probably be best if you came back with us.’
So he followed the Sons of Athelstan from the camp, through the silent village and across the mill-stream. The wind was rising, the leaves straining to let go of the summer, the cold rain increasing to a downpour. Lightning glowed in the sky, revealing the black shape of Middlebrow Hill.
Dulinir and Thoronhir led him to the hill’s leeward side, then up a narrow, forgotten lane beneath trees that shivered and heaved and wrung their hands. Lightning flashed frequently, ever closer and brighter, the thunder hastening after it as if competing in a race. Through the trees, Swin caught brief glimpses of neglected gardens, plants and shrubs all desperately waving and appealing, and the little thatched houses staring forlornly from their blind windows. Yet he himself was feeling more relaxed in the storm. He lifted his face and allowed the rain to wash the tiredness out of his eyes. Beyond a shaggy meadow that stretched up to the top of the hill, and below the threatening shape of the burnt thorn-tree, a further row of dwellings was tucked away, muffled in trees and bushes. A very dim light was shining from one of these. A single candle in an upper room, Swin thought, unless the lightning was playing tricks with his eyes. Skirting the edge of the field, the three Men came up to the tenanted house. Thoronhir slipped round to the back garden while Swin and Dulinir quietly approached the porch.
A faint light was coming into the eastern sky.
The two of them paused for a moment, steadying themselves before they tried the door; but at that moment it was opened from the inside. A small dark figure came under the porch. It, or rather he, was smoking a pipe: Swin saw the little red glow and smelt the fragrance of the burning. The Punchkin stood still, smoking quietly as he watched the storm.
Greenish lightning shone all around, leaping and dancing through the upper air, enduring for several moments: just long enough for Swin’s eyes to adapt to the glare and the fierce shadows, to adjust themselves and to recognise the figure.
‘Walt Hardedge!’ he said clearly. His words were at once followed by a tremendous crack of thunder. Dulinir darted forward instantly and pinioned the small figure. But the Punchkin made no attempt to escape. Dulinir lifted him off his feet, swept him out into the rain and set him down on the soaked path, a yard away from Swin. Another timely glare of light gave them the chance to take in each other’s faces; but Waltrot’s eyes were dazzled. ‘Walt,’ said Swin kindly, ‘how are you?’
‘Mr. Gumasson? Mr. Gumasson, sir, is that you?’
‘None other. How come you here, Walt?’
‘Oh, Mr. Gumasson, sir, do come in and speak to the Master. It’s a miracle, you turning up like this. Come in, sir, do!’
The rain roared steadily all around them. Thoronhir, hearing voices, had come back to rejoin the group. ‘Was all our stealth unnecessary?’ he inquired.
‘I don’t think so. Why are you hiding?’
‘We’re afeared of what the Men may do to us. Leastways Master Aldred is, and I ain’t agoing to leave him while he’s still alive, which it mayn’t be long now. We never dreamt for one second as it might be you that came! Come on in, good sirs, please, kindly do!’
So they ducked under the low lintel and followed him into the house. A rushlight was guttering on a stand, at the other end of the hall. From this Waltrot lit a new candle. He put it into a candlestick and led the way upstairs. The wind was curling round the house: the shutters rattled and the candle-flame danced wildly. Swin and the two Princes followed Waltrot into a small bedchamber. They had to stoop below the beams of the ceiling. In one corner of the room was a bed, and a bedside table with a jug and bowl that were lit up suddenly in another flash; and a disorder of bedclothes, and someone darkly tangled up amongst them.
‘Master Aldred!’ called Waltrot eagerly. ‘He’s come! He’s here!’
There was no response.
‘Ah, sir, he talked of little else but you, while he still spoke. You’re the man for him, sir! You take this – you go to him!’
Swin went up to the bed. He knelt, and put down the candlestick; gently but firmly he pulled down the blanket. A pale wasted face was revealed. The eyes stared fixedly upward. But then, and this time at the same instant, came the glare and the sound. The eyes flinched.
‘Aldred,’ said Swin.
He was ignored. But as the thunder continued still to reverberate, and the water cascaded from the thatch and poured down the window-pains, Swin became aware of a kind of gateway within himself, an unfamiliar path that gave access to deeper sources of power.
‘Aldred Sherling,’ he said.
Flash – rumble – CRASH!
‘Aldred Sherling! If you are the last of the old ones of this Demesne, you alone remain to speak for your people, and by you alone can the Shield be supported!’
Aldred’s head turned a little on the pillow. His lips moved, and his tongue worked, and at last he whispered:
‘Command me, lord.’
‘Drink, and eat something, and recover your strength. And then you shall tell me the tale of your folk. And then follow me, if you will.’
Waltrot came forward. ‘Let’s help him up, sir,’ he said. Swin took Aldred’s armpits and held him up while Waltrot arranged the pillows for him to lean back against; and then Swin tidied the blankets. The Sons of Athelstan watched without speaking. Swin took a cup of water from Waltrot and held it to Aldred’s lips; he took a few gulps, and his lean throat moved and juddered in the wavering candle-light. Then slowly he brought one hand up, and rested it, thin and cold, on Swin’s warm strong hand that held the cup. Aldred looked into Swin’s bright eyes, and gave a gasp; but the wind was still shaking the house, and the candle still flickered, and there was no sense of peace in the room.
‘Is his other arm all right?’ asked Swin.
Aldred’s right arm was rigid under the bedclothes, pressed against his side.
‘He’s been like that for days and weeks, sir,’ said Waltrot. ‘He’s a-holding on to summat within his fist, and I’ve never had sight of it yet.’
Aldred blinked. He seemed to remember something. ‘Swin,’ he breathed, ‘you...’
‘Yes, old friend?’
‘You...take it...back.’
His arm quivered. He was trying to move it, but the muscles had been locked for too long. Swin and Waltrot had to move the bedclothes again, ease Aldred’s arm free, bend the elbow a little and loosen the fingers one by one. The arm was pitifully thin. While they patiently worked, the storm began to move off and daylight strengthened in the room.
Waltrot saw what Aldred had been clutching. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘of course! This was Mr. Gumasson’s!’
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