Now, about Swin’s travels in the South – at first with Melohtar and the army, and then with Erum, and finally alone. It’s a dreadful tale – far worse than what happened when we followed the Fox. But I don’t see how it can be skipped.
And I still don’t understand it.
There are so many implications, and they’re all appalling. I cannot begin to understand how – for instance – Erum, who of all people has the right to be taken seriously, can say to me, with that smile of his, full of baffling serenity, that it was all in accordance with the will of Dru. He says that all things work together.
How? They cannot be good, the things that happened, and the thing that Swin did, that must now be written of. They cannot be right. The one thing that can be said for them, I suppose, is that they have a quality of richness – of complex abundance. The layers of implication seem to be capable of endless unfolding, like some terrible dark flower.
*
The road-surveyors hastened through the final stages of their task, relaxed by the knowledge that the land was peaceful behind them but impelled by the imminence of the dragon’s coming. A little after noon on the seventh day, they splashed across the Bournbrook-stream and drove in the last two pairs of flagpoles. Melohtar bade Mr. Graveldrop and the rest of the Punchkins farewell; he penned, with firm lips, a last reassuring note to Aldred, and then ordered his company to proceed in a south-easterly direction. He was aiming for the settlement of Ninniachlo, for he needed to collect his own band, the more experienced men from whom he had been separated, before beginning the next great task. That afternoon he rode in the lead, saying no word to any of his company. The next morning, May the second, was beautiful: the dewdrops sparkled on the ferns, the skylarks sang and the swarms of new-hatched butterflies were very numerous. Still Melohtar kept himself to himself, speaking tersely if he spoke at all. But as morning wore on the company smelled a burning, a hint of smoke in the breeze; Swin sniffed, and turned in his saddle, and saw the grey smudge that rolled over one part of the horizon. Presently his keen eyes made out the form that squirmed and flickered amid the smoke, like a tiny twist of living silver wire. Then the scars of all his wounds ached again, more painfully than at any time since they had been healed; and he also turned again, and rode on in grim silence.
Shall we inquire: what were Lord Melohtar’s thoughts at this time? What struggle lay behind the dark brow? What grief in the underlining of the eyes? We know now that he had been one of the main plotters, actively conspiring with Gauriel, Tirmo and Megiluin. A way must be made through the Demesne. Providing that the route was marked out for him, the dragon could do this job more quickly than anyone else. It was expedient. It was also expedient that Ostendil be kept in ignorance of Fëaruk’s part in the plan. If this expediency had resulted in a cruel abuse of Ostendil and Aldred together – the two whose clearly honourable intentions had after all persuaded the Punchkins to yield and agree – what would the response of the other principals be, but a contemptuous wolfish snarl? And if Melohtar’s sense of his own honour had been fatally hurt – if he now struggled, amid the expediencies and corrupt necessities that now enmeshed him, to find some meaning in his life, and some will to go on with it – shall we condemn or pity him? Our gaze lingers on him for the last time, dogged by his black devil-familiar while he rides on through the blue brightness of the springtime; and so let us recall (for we shall meet him only once after this, and then briefly) the virtues of Melohtar Ostendil’s son. He was a lord and a Prince of the realm, the last scion of a noble branch, beloved by his household and all the folk of his barony. He was a lover of learning, a maker of maps, a user of the Orb of Vigilance, a steadfast friend and valiant warrior, having no less courtesy of speech than prowess in arms. Reader, canst thou say as much? If not, forbear to judge.
In due course the party reached Lord Lefnui’s new domain and found that much progress had been made. Many hundreds of acres had been cleared and ploughed, and the crops were springing up, and the Foro people were in good heart. ‘These are the lucky ones,’ said Melohtar with a grim smile. Lefnui himself welcomed Melohtar and Erum with evident pleasure, but he had a harassed look. Besides consuming all the rock-blood that had been collected, Fëaruk had done considerable damage to the works; the marsh was now polluted, sinking and dying. Never mind. The great task now was to get the rest of Daelum surveyed and allotted. After a three-hour conference with Lefnui, Melohtar set foot to stirrup once more. and Swin followed him. Erum, however, would remain at Ninniachlo. Berven the priest, Erum’s former assistant, had managed to keep the settlement spiritually safe, but he had become restless and ill-at-ease; and three weeks ago he had gone off into the mountains on some kind of unauthorised missionary venture of his own. He had said that he was determined to bring the Gospel of Dru to the elves and heathens of the South. Presumably he was dead by now. And so the more devout settlers welcomed Erum with acclaim. The latter told Lord Lefnui that although he now had no official standing, the ‘bishop’ being a mere courtesy title, he should be very happy to look after things until a new incumbent should arrive.
For the next five weeks Lord Melohtar rode and worked untiringly, almost unceasingly. Retracing his former steps along the Rediath and the slopes of the great forest-wall, turning north again, weaving and advancing like a shuttle, he plotted the acres of the new demesnes, into which the settlers, now pouring into the land, must be organised. At intervals he returned to Gaurielost, the brand-new fort and tribute-station at the southern terminus of the extended Wainroad, forty miles south of the Bournbrook. Lord Megiluin arrived and rode out the bounds of his vast new estate; Lord Hriveor, cold and alert, was frequently seen by Melohtar’s side; the younger nobility of Thandor were also arriving in droves, arrogantly laying claim to the best land and riding off with large florid charters. To Swin, watching at a discreet distance, the operating principle was soon clear. Any person of rank, indeed any freeborn citizen who could display sufficient strength and resolve, might be granted a pretty much unlimited estate, with an unlimited supply of Foro to work on it, provided he could make them work hard enough, and the land yield enough, proportionate to area, to feed the hungry North. Not to mince words: the wretched Foro people were all being sold into slavery. Whoops! Another betrayal. Swin kept his thoughts to himself. He had no grounds to deny that all these measures were necessary, all incidental evils inevitable, even though he felt very unhappy about what he was seeing. With a huge dragon now loose and roaming about the country, unstoppable, invulnerable, how could they be otherwise?
For himself, he was still waiting on events. His official function had resolved into a peculiar compound shape, including herald, escort-rider and man-at-arms, gentleman-in-waiting, bodyguard and dog-handler. As for his unofficial part: Swin had leisure to think, as they rode along in silence, and a certain amount of curiosity, and sufficient insight to discern that he himself, Swin Guma’s son, had become Melohtar’s final peg, or handhold, or place of refuge. All the rest had fallen away. Which was all very well for the time being; but as they went on circling and exploring, Swin slowly became aware – the self-knowledge taking longer to dawn on him, naturally, than the insight about his friend – of certain...difficult...truths. His peace of mind depended on his continuing to travel South, or South-west on the whole, toward the Bleck. As long as he kept going in that direction he was happy. He began to resent their returns to the fort. Yet there was now a sense of blamable passivity in his allowing himself to be subject to another’s will. He looked back on the events of the last few months, and on what he had learned of the previous year, and it seemed to him that every one of his vicissitudes had come from his deciding, or letting himself be persuaded, to go along with somebody else. Oh dear! Oh dear! It was high time he started to make his own way in the world, but what was that way to be? He was supposed to be the rightful King, but he had no ambition. He tried to imagine himself making his way to the throne. There he was, rapping on the gates of the palace with his sword-hilt, peevishly demanding to be admitted and recognised as the sovereign; and there was Gauriel, leaning out of an casement with a brimming chamber-pot in her hands...no. No. He had only one lead to follow: the hint of Wencela, supplemented by the directions of Arloth.
Southward.
Along the River.
Meanwhile at least he was getting plenty of exercise, and it was interesting to help to spy out his new land; and the sun continued to shine every day as spring passed into the full flush of early summer. The rose-thickets on the eaves of Gladram Wood were pink and red, and the nights were full of their fragrance. But then, one morning in June, one of the surveyors was found to be missing, and no-one could work out why he had gone off alone; and that night Swin was woken up by the Queen herself, Queen Gauriel of Thandor. There was a touch of elvish lightness in her bearing as she glided away from him, beckoning and then putting a forefinger to her smiling lips. Swin set off in eager pursuit. He could see the roses blooming in the darkness, and the mossy banks were deep and soft. He caught a last glimpse of Gauriel. His way was then blocked by thorny branches, one of which suddenly turned into a hand and grabbed his arm.
‘Swin, wake up! Wake up, wake up!’
Melohtar caught him round the waist and tugged him back. Together they staggered back from the edge of a steep cliff. By the light of the stars and the crescent moon, Swin looked down at the distant shadowy undergrowth. He came to his senses.
‘Have you just saved me?’
‘I certainly have! You were about to break your neck!’
There could be no doubt that they were being attacked again. Melohtar had no choice but to withdraw his band from the edge of the dangerous wood. This necessity was very annoying as he was just about to enter the last unsurveyed section of the province. He sent a fast rider (not Swin: he hardly ever let Swin out of his sight now) to Erumardil, care of Lord Lefnui, summoning the priest to leave his flock and to perform his useful magic where it was more needed.
So he came, and so he did, and as before, the magic was effective. The party moved on, westward and a little southward, towards the Bleck. From there they would explore and chart the East Bank of the River, as far as the Ford; and then Melohtar’s task would be complete. But in the meantime Erum’s return had a striking effect on Melohtar’s mind. His possessive need of Swin now flared out in obvious and embarrassing ways. He was jealous of Erum, desperately envious of every word that passed between him and Swin. He kept Swin with him at all times, to the extent that they even slept close together; and Swin would wake up to find Melohtar’s arm thrown over his shoulders. At supper-time Melohtar would launch bitter attacks on Erum’s beliefs: how can you believe in a god who...? and so on. Erum answered the questions adeptly, reasonably, even (to Swin’s mind) quite convincingly. But the more meekly he argued, the more angry Melohtar became.
The borders of the Gladram or Neverglades, as is now known, run ten leagues from the end of the Rediath (where Melohtar and Erum had crossed before) to the first of the three bends of the lower Bleck. It was idle to think of penetrating that forest, much though Melohtar would have liked to link up the present exploration with his previous one. The Neverglades, even without the elvish enchantments that Erum was able to oppose, were not to be passed by any small band of explorers. Higher and higher, thicker, mightier and darker rose the trees, as the heads of the further wooded hills receded from view; denser, blacker and more tangled the thickets, huger and more formidable the thorns of the brambles and the mighty roses, more and more impenetrably woven the ivies and the creepers and the luxuriant vines. ‘We’d need an army to cut a way through that lot,’ commented Melohtar; ‘or better still – and why not, come to think of it? – the dragon himself?’ Meanwhile he led his men along the forest’s northern edge, along ground which sloped up once again.
For the Bleck, when they reached it, proved to flow through a deep gorge – the lowest, most accessible path, as one can only suppose, that the River had been able to hollow out for itself, on its way through the hills that formerly barred its long-winding course to the sea. Standing amid crowded flag-lilies in the light of a peaceful noon, the explorers gazed upstream and had the sense of a natural river-plain, already baked somewhat brown in the hot dry days, but essentially peaceful and unthreatening. Their spirits rose: the last part of the journey would not be difficult. Just opposite them, however, the first hills of the Anglad Morwen rose low and ominous; and the face of the other side of the gorge, rising to the left, was partly black rock, partly dun or reddish-brown clay, with a sullen defiant look. The big dragon-flies that shot back and forth, their colourful bodies glittering in the sunlight, seemed vigilant like guards on duty, and the voice of the great River, as it began to surge downward and be gathered into the hollow of the hills, was a restrained threat. The form of this threat could not be seen, concealed as it was, on the explorers’ left hand, by the high end of Neverglades. This was an immense tree-covered shoulder. The explorers shaded their eyes with their hands and strode forward into the swirling water, trying to get a better view; still, nothing could be seen of the gorge itself.
‘Disappointing,’ said Melohtar. ‘But look up there! See where the trees thin out, and the high ground drops a little to the edge: and there are patches of flat green.’
‘And sheep,’ added Swin.
‘Yes. I judge that we could find a way up without too much trouble.’
He was right. Leaving their horses, six of the party climbed up to the top of the gorge without accident or serious difficulty. At the end, the climb turned into a short easy walk over dry turf dotted with traces of deer and rabbits. A track led to the green down they had seen from below. To the left of this stood the outriders, the bracken and thistles and single oak-trees, of Gladram forest. To the left, where the westering sun made it harder to see clearly –
‘Look out!’ cried Swin.
‘Ah,’ said Melohtar.
‘Goodness gracious!’ said Erum.
The cliff-edge cut in with sudden treachery, almost under their feet. The opposite face of the gorge had come aggressively close. Far down below, in a vertical drop, the explorers’ eyes were drawn to the shadowy depths and the curling torrent. Swin drew back at once, as did Melohtar, but Erum took a couple of steps forward, attracted by the height and the danger. The sun shone on his white tunic and straw-coloured hair. He bent a little further over.
And then, to Swin, as he heard Melohtar’s whispered command, the sicking of the dog, everything became wonderfully clear.
There was even a joy in it, in the cutting-through of the motives and snared purposes that had held him captive for so long. The blade came and passed in two seconds, long enough for him to enjoy an almost leisurely appreciation of the scene: of the golden sun in the blue sky, of the stark landscape and the bright vulnerable figure at the brink of the cliff, of the undisguised devilish smile on Melohtar’s face and the black beast springing forward.
‘Erum!’
Erum turned back in response to Swin’s shout. He saw Sedro in mid-leap and flinched away. Quite likely Swin saved his life by shouting, for though the two figures at once disappeared over the edge, Sedro’s fangs had closed on the air rather than the nape of Erum’s neck.
A scream of terror came up from the depths. Swin was addressing Melohtar before it had died away. No words were needed, only a stern frown and a quick shake of the head. Then Swin ran to the cliff-edge, put the palms of his hands together and dived. He had experience of long dives, but this one seemed to go on for an incredible length of time.