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THE TALE OF  WALTROT

 

Chapter I. The Council of Ælfric the Elf  

 

THOUGH not large even for one of his own race, standing but two feet eight inches tall on the soles of his shaggy feet, Mr. Elbo Doggends won great fame in all the lands of the West. As a youth, a mere stripling of forty-seven, he led an army against a horde of ravening hedgehogs that had invaded his homeland. The next year he slew the wicked badger of Morgond, and then rode to the aid of the King of Gondmor, arriving just in time to rout an army of cruel ferret-riders from the East. At the bidding of the King he then took part in the hunting of the Wolf of Carn Dûmuch, the fearsome Giant of Dûm-Yafaívur, and the enormous many-tentacled monster that dwelt in the fenland swamps of the River Ûpushduin. In his latter years, old but undaunted, he invaded the lands of the Black Sorceror of the South, demolished his fortress and single-handedly inaugurated a new era of peace, freedom and happiness throughout all the realms of Middle-Earth.
     Verily, Elbo son of Dumbo was accounted mighty among Elves and Men. Yet these deeds of prowess had not been achieved without cost. One finger of his right hand had been bitten off by the traitor Muggins, who served the Black Sorceror; the other hand had been severed completely by the battle-axes of rebel Dwarves. One foot Elbo had chopped off himself, by ill-luck or the mishandling of his axe, while felling timber in the woods of the Belíthryn Fûl. The whole of the other leg and foot had been chomped off and swallowed by the Monster of the Ûpushduin. One eye had been pierced by an orc-arrow before the gates of the enemy’s black castle, and the other eye Elbo had himself given away on his final quest for ultimate wisdom. And so it came to pass, ere his two hundred and fiftieth year, that Elbo was trundled about on a singular wheeled throne by his trusted servant, Bróin the Dwarf. Bróin son of Bóring son of Bóingg had dwelt with Elbo Doggends for over a century, and their mutual devotion surpassed the love of Barem and Wiggelem, renowned in song.
     One fine morning in May, as Elbo was smoking his after-breakfast pipe, the postman knocked on his door. ‘29 Bigshot Row? There you are.’
     ‘A letter for thee from Ælfric the Elf,’ announced Bróin. ‘I recognise his firm but flowing script.’
     ‘Ælfric the Elf is the wisest and noblest of the Elves that yet remain in Middle-Earth,’ replied Elbo. ‘What hath he to say to me?’
     ‘Verily I dread to think,’ snorted Bróin. ‘Ever he requireth thee to carry the can for him, and ever he subsequently droppeth thee in it… Yes, ’tis as I thought. Thou art bidden to a special Council, for a new dragon named Smóg has arisen in the North, and he threatens to ravage all the land. All heroes are expected to reported. Wilt thou go?’
     ‘Assuredly! And speak no evil of King Ælfric!’ answered Elbo solemnly. ‘He is my own liege-lord and to him my loyalty is ploth.’
     ‘Ploth?’
     ‘Or pledged, or plighted. Wheel me to his Council!’
     And so Elbo and Bróin left their beloved home. They journeyed slowly up the Northern Road to Esorl-Beyondmë, the ancient city of the kings, where Ælfric the Elvenking yet dwelt with his folk. After three months of hard travel, during which the pair were attacked by wolves, captured by trolls, buried alive by evil barrow-wights, swept away and almost drowned in the mountain floods of the River Dropuin, they reached his elegant palace. Great was the feasting at their arrival, but Elbo was too tired to do anything but go to bed and sleep. As he lay in his truckle-bed of clean straw, listening to the sounds of music and merrymaking that came up from below, his heart rejoiced at the thought of his finding himself once more in the fair house of Ælfric.
     The next morning he was summoned to the council chamber. Although he knew that very many mighty heroes had been invited, so deep and so solemn was the silence that he could have sworn he was there all by himself. Presently the clear voice of Ælfric spoke:
     ‘Welcome, Elbo son of Dumbo, truest of friends; and welcome, all ye many other warriors whom I have also called hither! We meet now in time of gravest peril. Smóg the Sepia, mightiest of Dragon-kind, has arisen in the Northern Wastes. He is proceeding southward, growing stronger and greater, month by month: this ancient City, Esorl-Beyondmë, capital of the old kingdom of Banarnor, lies directly in his path – for as ye know, the great Worms of the North go ever in a straight line – and will fall to his onslaught, I deem, before the year is out. He is mightier than five thousand warriors, armoured, fire-breathing, unsleeping and ever-vigilant. Our task would then seem hopeless; but that is only so much as to say that it may be attempted – I mean not to drop any hint here – with as much hope by the weak as by the strong.’
     Deep silence fell again. Elbo felt a dread in his heart. He longed to rest in his peaceful garret in the house of King Ælfric. What chance had he, blind and helpless, to slay such a dragon? At last he spoke, and wondered to hear his own small voice:
     ‘I will seek the Worm,’ he said, ‘though I have no weapon.’
     ‘I thank thee indeed, Elbo son of Dumbo, on behalf of all my people,’ said Ælfric gravely. ‘Never shall it be said that any Doggends held back in the face of peril! And as for a weapon, thou shalt have the greatest heirloom of my house.’
     Elbo closed his fingers on the shaft of a heavy spear as it was placed in his right hand.
     ‘Here,’ said Ælfric, ‘is Lipglos, the spear of Frut-Salad, King of the Elves of the First Age. It is the most ancient weapon that now remains in the whole of Middle-Earth. Though it be somewhat rusty, its current market value is above ten times the worth of my whole kingdom; and – unlike the Sword that was Broken – it is at least still in one piece. May it serve you well!’
     Elbo bowed his head in awe. ‘I will wield the spear of Frut-Salad,’ he whispered, ‘if strength is granted to me.’
     ‘It will be,’ replied Ælfric. ‘Go now. The journey soonest begun is soonest ended. Go now with my blessing. May the stars shine on the dotted lines down the middle of your road!’
     Elbo grasped the spear bravely and waited while the merry Elves poured ice-cold water on Bróin, who was still sleeping exhausted in the straw. Then the two Travellers were thrust out of the back door of the palace. Humble and secret was the manner of their setting forth. The door was slammed behind them, and once more the song and laughter of the Elves came to their ears. With his heart too full for words, Bróin the Dwarf pushed his master off down the winding road.

 

Chapter II. Lego the Loremaster

 

THAT evening, as clouds came on, and rain began to fall heavily, the Travellers came to The Furtive Stoat, a famous old inn on the outskirts of the city. They entered the bar, for Bróin had vowed to quaff many a deep mug of heady ale. Elbo sipped discreetly from his head-horn and listened to the conversations going on all around him. All the talk was of the dragon. After a long while he noticed one voice in particular, that of a Man who spoke in the accent of the South. The speaker – had either Elbo or Bróin (at this stage of the evening) been able to see him – was dressed all in threadbare black, apart from a curious old-fashioned hood of black and white ermine fur. He also wore a curious black square hat with a tassel, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved. His eyes were watery, his nose curiously long and red. Becoming aware of Elbo’s attention, he approached him and spoke ingratiatingly.
     ‘Lego the Loremaster at your service, good sir.’
     ‘Elbo son of Dumbo at yours and your extended family’s,’ replied Elbo courteously. ‘Have another?’ He passed a coin to the innkeeper.
     Lego drained his mug. ‘I thank you,’ he said, wiping his mouth, ‘and seriously, I mean verily, I really am quite at your service. I am a wandering loremaster and I offer my lore to all those who desire it.’
     ‘And in what way, O loremaster,’ asked Elbo, concealing his interest, ‘ might your lore be of service to me?’
     ‘In many ways,’ answered the man of learning. ‘I speak the languages of all living peoples – Men, Elves, Dwarves, Trolls, Birds, Trees, Bees – indeed, it is not difficult, but one has to have the knack. Besides that, I know much lore of all the lands, of ruins and runes of magic. And if the rumour be true, that thou art the one whom Good King Ælfric hath sent against the Worm, thou shalt have need of my lore then.’
     ‘Give me an example of your lore, O loremaster.’
     ‘Well, suppose you – thou – you – O bother –’
     ‘Don’t worry about it,’ advised Elbo.
     ‘Thank you. Suppose you wanted to pass yourself off as an Elf or a Dwarf. Elvish tongues need a lot of extra els and ens and esses, and a lot of extra vowels, especially at the beginning of words. Like this: Apeleässe ebûyen imë ëanóthere iderinquë.’
     Elbo smiled. ‘Eokë. Eanothere ibir?’
     ‘Very good, but put the accents in. As many as possible.’
     ‘¿Ëôkë. Ëánøðére îbír?’
     ‘Excellent! Yes thanks… Now, as for Dwarvish,’ he went on, ‘you have to turn all the words back to front, adding on a few zeds and kay-aitches and gee-aitches at the end. Oh, but remember: only circumflex accents this time. Sîzh tâhtz rûoyz dneirfgh s’ôhwz gnîttegh ŷletêl-pmôckh dehsâmz revôkh erêhtz?’
     ‘Er, yes he is,’ answered Elbo. And indeed by this time Bróin had slumped to the floor. ‘Very well, loremaster, I will accept your service, and if you serve me faithfully you shall receive rich reward.’

 
Chapter III. The Trolls

AND so, leaving the city behind them, Elbo, Bróin and Lego journeyed far into the wilderness. Bróin was often surly, especially when he had to push the wheel-chair up a more than usually steep and winding path, but Elbo and Lego talked amicably about the tales and legends of the elder days. Naturally they had many more adventures and saw many strange and wonderful sights; but of all these the episode of the Trolls was the one that afterwards remained clearest in their memories.
     One Tuesday evening in early autumn, as the leaves were turning gold and the companions were thinking about making up their camp for the night, they came to a clearing in the forest. A full moon had risen. A great tall stone like a pillar, crudely carved in a zigzag pattern, had been set up in the middle of the clearing. Around it were standing thirty or forty massive figures. Their bowed legs were thick and strong, their bare feet had but three massive toes each; their faces were grey, gloomy and dull.
     ‘Trolls!’ gasped Bróin, preparing to whirl Elbo round and dash back along the path.
     ‘Stay,’ said Lego. ‘This is the first full moon of authumn in a year of overlithe, is it not?’
     ‘Verily,’ said Elbo. ‘What of it?’
     ‘We behold a rare event: Trollswedding. It lasts only for a single night, every hundred years on the first full moon of autumn in a leap year that falls on a Tuesday. On this night and this night only do the Trolls and the Trollwives come together. Normally, as you know, their first act on seeing us would be to grab us for their cooking-pot, but tonight we have naught to fear.’
     As he spoke, one of the great figures lumbered forward and addressed them in uncouth guttural speech. With their newfound knowledge of tongues they could all interpret the words. They replied in like manner: no, they hadn’t seen any Trollwives on the road, and yes, they would speedily get out of the way. They hastened past the standing stone, ignored by the morose figures.
     Elbo could not see the Trolls but he was sensitive to mood. As the Travellers passed the last and smallest, one who looked a little less unfriendly than the others, Elbo spoke:
     ‘Stop the chair, O Bróin. Good sir Troll, why is all this company in such gloom? Is not this wedding a great and joyous festival of the Trolls?’
     The Troll looked at him with disgust. ‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘Issa custom, like a law, innit, yeah? We’d rather stop home, frankly. If them ladies don’t get here soon, we’re thinking, like, yunno, doing a runner?’
     ‘But how then is your race to continue, if Troll and Trollwife should fail to encounter?’
     ‘Thassit,’ answered the Troll sadly. ‘Thassa law, innit, yeah. Else we’d all die out. Yeah.’
     The three continued on their way. Ten minutes later they heard the sound of heavy marching feet.
     ‘Get off the road,’ said Lego sharply.
     They hid in the undergrowth and waited. The Trollwives came past, striding together in a military formation, full of grim purpose. Soon harsh yells, screams and roars of pain were heard from the clearing, mixed with heavy thuds and the snapping of tree-trunks.
     ‘It would seem,’ mused Elbo, ‘That the Trolls and the Trollwives take scant pleasure in each other’s company. What says your lore to this, good Lego?’
     ‘You speak but the truth, and yet such attitudes are more prevalent than you deem,’ said he. ‘Middle-Earth is a very British place. Of all its peoples, only the males and females of human kind, and perhaps your own, seem to be attracted to each other at all! The Elves, despite being immortal, produce only two or three children in their whole lives, and that with great difficulty. The Dwarves, as everyone knows, are much more interested in stonework than sex. As for the Ents, well, even the ignorant Trolls have not been so astonishingly absent-minded as to mislay, to lose all trace of the females of their own kind! That, my friends, is the reason why the older races have dwindled, although old Tollers could never bring himself to explain it; that is the cause of the Dominion of Men.’
     ‘And Women too,’ said Elbo.

 

 

Chapter IV. The Dragon’s Lair

AT LENGTH the three companions came to the very edge of the Northern Waste. On their left, the last peaks of the Mighty Mountains reared their heads against a darkling sky; in front lay a deep gorge with a raging torrent far below, spanned by an ancient delapidated bridge; behind, wolves had been following all day, and the howls were coming nearer and nearer.
     ‘Where are we now, O loremaster?’ enquired Elbo.
     ‘I will tell you,’ said Bróin in a deep voice and with a strange expression in his eyes. ‘Though I have never been here before, I need no map: before us stands the Bridge of Djîpurz-Khrîpurz, the ancient city of the Dwarves that the Elves name Cor Belaimë or Mindboggling Maze of Tunnels. Graven on the hearts of all Dwarves are the names of those peaks, the mountains of our first homeland! Opposite us stands Mâdazahâttir, that the Elves name Eaint Sérios, Mount Fartoosteep as rendered into the common speech. Long have I desired to behold its sacred gleaming crags! To the left of it rise the twin pinnacles of Lûkhinôribil and Fîlintêribil, or, as you would say, Lotsofice and Snowontop, that the Elves name Belúfaist and Shivrin. The fourth dark peak that towers against the sunset is the Orcburg, where the Goblins hang out, that they call Bûrgur-Bar in their foul tongue…’
     Lego and Elbo waited very respectfully while Bróin, in a fit of ancestral passion, went on naming all the mountains one by one, in the various languages, and the howling of the wolves came nearer and nearer. He ended just in time. The wolves came running up the stones of the path, their eyes glinting in the dusk. Bróin came to and swung Elbo round; the companions advanced on to the Bridge, where the wolves dared not follow.
     It was steep, and slippery, and incredibly old of course, and large parts of it were missing. Now and then a huge chunk of masonry cracked off as the Travellers passed, and fell down and down, turning in its descent, to shatter on the wet rocks far below. A strong cold wind blew, and the wheels of the chair skidded and slipped. Lego clung to the balustrade in terror; Bróin muttered ancient dwarvish prayers and curses under his breath; but Elbo sat up, proud and unafraid, his sightless eyes fixed on his destination. The three came down the farther slope, to a bay in the side of the mountain. There now seemed to be no way forward, or back, except along the bridge – which of course collapsed, with a sort of majestic predictability, just as soon as they were all safely across.
     ‘Well, here we are,’ said Bróin, as the echoes of the thunderous crash died away.
     ‘Do not be afraid,’ said Elbo. ‘My heart tells me that the end of the Quest is nigh.’
     ‘Look!’ said Lego.
     Bróin followed his pointing finger and beheld a small dark shape in the sky: the form of a great bird, the Lord of the Eagles. He descended in slow circles and presently alighted at the edge of the bay.
     ‘Hail, Elbo!’ he said in his harsh cawing voice. ‘I bring word from Ælfric the Elf: The fire-drake hath crept into the old dwarf-caverns of Cor Belaimë. There, if thou hast courage to seek, thou shalt find him at last. Remember the spear of Frut-Salad!’
     ‘The spear of Frut-Salad? Ah yes,’ said Elbo, for though they had carried the antique weapon with them all this time, they had never once thought of using it in case it got damaged. ‘But how shall I find the right cave?’
     ‘Ask me not of the caverns of the Dwarves,’ answered the Eagle proudly.
     ‘Lego! What sayeth thy lore to our present plight?’
     ‘Well,’ said Lego vaguely, ‘usually there’s some kind of magic door, with secret writing that shines by starlight, or a bird knocks a snail on a stone –’ the Eagle ruffled his feathers with contempt – ‘or else some bloke waiting in a trance wakes up to tell you about the door, and then dies. But I can’t see anything like that here.’
     ‘No, fool,’ said Bróin, ‘only a button set in the rock-face, lighting up red! I cannot reach it – thou art taller than I!’
     ‘Oh, verily,’ said Lego, pressing the flashing red button. At once a side of the rock-wall moved apart and a dark passage was revealed.
     ‘Well,’ said the Eagle, shifting from foot to foot, ‘looks like you don’t need me any more.’
     ‘Five minutes more, Lord Eagle,’ said Lego purposefully. ‘Now can my lore avail thee much, Elbo son of Dumbo. Hast thou considered how thou, small and blind, shalt encounter the great dragon Smóg, though armed with the eldest of weapons? Then hear me now. If thou fasten the spear to one of the arms of thy throne, thou mayst hold it securely, pointing forward. This passageway, we know, was built by the Dwarves at the height of their wealth and skill: it is perfectly smooth-floored and slopeth downward, straight as a ruler. The dragon, doubtless, is resting in his chamber at the lower end of the tunnel. Now if we push thee a little, thou mayst then run forward under thine own weight, and swiftly gather speed, so that thy spear shall gain force and power to pierce even the dragon’s armoured hide – especially if we load thy chair up with a boulder or two. This, I deem, is thy only hope.’
     ‘Your counsel is good,’ said Elbo. ‘Friend Bróin, fix things up for me.’
     While Bróin was doing this, Lego moved up to the Eagle and asked, in an undertone, ‘Do you take passengers?’
     Soon all was ready.
     ‘Farewell, Elbo son of Dumbo!’ cried the Eagle ceremoniously. ‘May the North Wind, the Norther and the Northest Winds all speed your flight!’
     ‘Farewell!’ said Lego.
     ‘Luck, matey!’ said Bróin.
     They pushed him to the mouth of the tunnel. Immediately he began to roll down the smooth slope. They climbed onto the Eagle’s back and flew off.
     Elbo felt the chair gather speed: it rattled and quivered and hummed as the air began to blow strongly past him. He grasped the shaft of the venerable Spear and a thrill seemed to come up through his hand – a memory as of the strength of the Elvish princes who had wielded it, whose eyes had seen the Light of the Undying Lands. A fey mood seized him: it seemed that his own eyes were opened, and before him stretched a wide dark plain; he was driving forward in a mighty chariot, and the Sun rose behind him, and the grass flamed into green before the hooves of his galloping horses. Faster and faster spun the wheels. In his exaltation he chanted aloud his personal war-cry: Twentynine Bigshot Row! Twentynine Bigshot Row! The wind was becoming warm, even hot – he was nearing the lower end at last – and still the chair plunged onward, ever accelerating. He hurtled out at the lower end, the keen point of the heavy Spear aimed straight and true at the Dragon’s heart. Unfortunately, though, in those far-off, archaic, pre-politically-correct days of yore, the Dwarves who made the tunnel had totally failed to consider the possible needs of wheelchair-users: there was a short flight of steps at the bottom, and the chair tumbled over, and Elbo was thrown out, and the Dragon ate him.

THE END.

 

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There was a burst of laughter. Swin, who had been quietly giggling for some time, sank to his knees in the road, doubled up, fell sideways, rolled down the bank into a ditch and lay there, helplessly weeping. Even Mr. Proudfoot brightened noticeably. Walt dodged the thumps and compliments that were thrown at him, blushed a little and went to give Swin a hand. In due course the company went on, their spirits undampened by the next chilly blast and drench of rain. When the shower had passed over, Fortinbras reminded Swin of his undertaking. ‘Your mind’s refreshed now, I hope?’
     ‘Fair enough,’ said Swin, ‘but I can’t go on with anything after what we’ve just heard. Every story I know has vanished clean out of my head!’
     ‘Tell us about your harp,’ suggested Fortinbras.
     ‘What about my harp?’
     ‘Isn’t it an elvish harp? Lucky for you the thief at the inn didn’t take it as well as your money.’
     ‘No, lucky for him. But there’s no story to it. It’s not elvish. The Dwarves of the Caves made it. Their pedlars sometimes go the rounds, selling their artefacts. As soon as I saw this I knew I had to have it. Cost me ten head of cattle too, which was about all I had.’
     ‘Your sword, then,’ said Mr. Bavour after a short pause. ‘Every good sword has a story attached to it.’
     ‘This one hasn’t – but it’s true that…’
     ‘Yes? Has it a name?’
     Swin drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it aloft. The long bright blade flashed in a glance of watery sunshine.
     ‘This is Heathogrim,’ Swin said. His voice was deep and full. ‘It was wrought by the Dwarves of Tingrod, like my harp, and it has served me well over the years. It is not old, though, and it has no story attached…unless…’ A second time he hesitated.
     ‘It looks just like an elvish sword,’ said Fortinbras tentatively. ‘Those patterns on the blade – I’ve seen drawings and tracings, just like them, in the library at Kingsbridge. Twined leaf-branches and serpents. Aren’t those elvish?’
     Heathogrim slid back into its sheath. ‘You are right: it is a copy. It’s a copy of Lydagnir which my father bore, and that was a true elvish blade. He lent it to the Dwarves for copying, but by the time they brought it back he was dead.’

     The Punchkins said not a word. The ponies steadily clip-clopped on, up the winding road.
     ‘He whom I have mentioned,’ continued Swin after a while, ‘Guma Guthreo’s son, my uncle, is a respected man; and he enjoys the trust of Ides, Queen of the Knife. But little love is lost between him and me. I never trouble myself particularly about money, but I reckon he farms the revenue that comes of his Wardenship with more skill than he farms the fields and studs of Garholt. He would give me no horse for this journey. Why then, you ask, do I bear his name? Because the name of my true father was never discovered. He was one of the distressed arrivals I’ve told you of – he turned up one winter’s night, starved and sick and half out of his wits; Guthreo’s folk took him in and my mother nursed him. He had scars of burning. Later the tale of the Usurpation reached us, and it seemed likely that this was one of the King’s retainers who had escaped the treachery and the fury of the Dragon. He got better in the spring, and he besought my grandfather that he might be accepted as a member of the household, and my grandfather gave consent; but my father would not or could not ever tell anything of his past. When they questioned him, he gave signs of such horror that all in pity forbore. Then he fell in love with my mother. She had already fallen in love with him, for he was noble in speech and deed and countenance; and at midsummer they were married. But the next winter happened to be a very hard one. Food ran short, and the strange knight, my father, was still weak. Thus he sickened and died.
     ‘Then the Dwarves of Tingrod brought back the sword and the copy. It was made by Frag son of Frar. And my uncle Athelstan received the original, Lydagnir, for my father had willed it so, they having become friends; and my grandsire paid the Dwarves in wheat and money and cattle, and bought the copy fairly. And later it was said that he had shown some kind of foresight in doing so, for it was in that same new year, shortly before I had given my first cry in this harsh world, that the Elvish Lady came. Athelstan took Lydagnir when he went with her, so we were left with Heathogrim as a memorial of my father. Then when I was eighteen Guthreo died. He bequeathed the copy to me, as was my right, but that displeased my other uncle, Guma, who was the heir of Garholt and expected that all things should come to him. Ever since then he has disliked me. I guess that a treasure may easily overmaster any man, whether it’s lying on the ground or hanging on the wall – hide it who will.
     ‘While Guthreo lived Guma treated me half-decently, but since he died I’ve had nothing but hard work and scanty reward – and far more kicks than ha’pence. The wedding-invitation came, and there weren’t many tears shed over my going. He gave me a little silver, and I’m sure he was glad to see the back of me. And thus you see me now, an orphan and a lordless man, venturing forth to seek my fortune! At least, I really hope that Melohtar will have some employment for me after the wedding-feast’s over.’
     ‘But you could be anyone!’ exclaimed Fortinbras. ‘Your father could have been – didn’t we hear that one of the three princes, the youngest, disappeared in that burning and was never found?’
     ‘Yes,’ put in Clemo Bavour with a smile. ‘Some of us know the history of the Northern Realm, even if we’re a bit clueless about current affairs! Didn’t the Queen have red hair? She was Niamas of the Falagwaith whom King Olostur wedded. It caused a stir and an upset in Thandor, that the King should have fancied an outlandish woman: but the people came to love her, and they called her Culuriel. And none of the three sons had red hair, but we know that such hereditary signs can leap –’
     ‘Please,’ said Swin in a louder voice, interrupting Mr. Bavour with a hand upraised. ‘No more of that, my friend, and you, gentle Punchkins all, if you have any regard for me!’ He sighed, and then went on in a more measured tone. ‘I do not deny that the chance you speak of has occurred to me. My mother spoke thus also before she died. Now it may be true, but it is more likely not; for life is chancy and erratic. The best way to find out, I suppose, would be to question Athelstan, if he still lives; or at least to find the sword Lydagnir; and there must be folk alive in Ruminas, or perhaps written books such as they use there, that could tell us whom it belonged to. But now, do think, all of you. Consider. Suppose I proved to be of the line of Kedral: what would that avail me?’
     ‘Nothing, or less than nothing,’ answered Mr. Yarnal promptly. ‘A young churl who appeared at Oresgal’s court, claiming the throne as his birthright – if he was lucky, he’d get laughter and a good whipping. If he wasn’t lucky – supposing, now, that the sword-copy was recognised, or that the colour of his hair was to be taken, just for one moment, as a real clue – he’d be stamped on like a beetle. Look, my lads, Swin has honoured us with his confidence. We must now all bind ourselves with a solemn vow of silence on this matter. We must not ever speak or whisper a word about Swin’s possible lineage. When the time is ripe, let him be the first to speak of it. This I swear. Do you so swear?’
     ‘I do so swear,’ answered Clemo Bavour.
     ‘I also do so swear,’ said the other five, one after another, in the formal deliberate manner of the Punchkins.
     Swin bowed his head.
     They had reached the highest point of the road between Tregg and Ruminas. It now ran down among the gleaming, tumbled rocks, reappearing and dwindling among the lower ledges and the sparse woodland of the lower hills. Then a great plain stretched ahead, dull and dreary in hue; a thin skein of distant colours, a silvery straw interwoven with faint russets and browns, suggested cultivated land. Above, the sun stood at noon and the sky was vast. Huge grey clouds, edged with silver, moved slowly against the pure spring blue. 
     ‘It’s not the end of our journey,’ said Fortinbras as he gazed into the distance.
     ‘You mean the city?’ said Mr. Bavour: ‘You have a foreboding?’
     ‘It’s been coming to me for days,’ he answered. ‘You know the way songs come? They bring words for what you find you already knew.’
     ‘You’ve been making up a song?’ said Swin cheerfully. ‘Let’s have it.’
     ‘Sorry, it’s not finished yet.’
     In the afternoon of the next day he announced that his song was ready at last, and on being asked for it by all the company, recited or chanted, on a simple three-note line, the following:

The hedge and lawn are grey with dew.
The dawn is grey with hint of blue.
Beyond my path and garden-gate
The woods of early springtime wait.
They hint, they promise, they compel,
But what they mean I cannot tell.

And so I leave my first abode
To ask the quiet lane and road,
The woody hills, the river-plain
Beyond the edge of Kingsdemesne:
Old wizardry do ye recall,
Some other power, or none at all?

Now moors are wild and frightening
But still, each day, comes on the spring.
Though Staffal and the Elves are gone,
A spell of promise draws me on
Through mist and rainfall, bog and sedge,
To some new gate and garden-hedge.

The company all smiled and applauded; they had enjoyed the composition but found it unusually personal, and so they did not know what to say about it. They now saw that the road in front of them passed under a broad arch formed by the meeting of boughs of tall trees – and beyond this arch the wall of the City was visible at last, stretched out like a length of string, faintly pink, with a suggestion of grey towers and red rooftops, and the glint of a tiny golden-coloured dome. On the travellers’ right side a dark fir-wood had marched nearer and nearer, and now thrust out a thin spur or butt-end, which the straight road intersected. The Punchkins began to urge their ponies forward, thinking to canter gaily through this entrance to the safe realm of the City: for such it appeared to be. But Swin laid a hand on Mr. Yarnal’s bridle.
     ‘I don’t like the looks of that wood,’ he said. And Fortinbras’s pony had his head up: he was casting glances at the ugly trees. ‘Warily, now, friends,’ said Swin. ‘Get your bows ready.’
     Without halting the Punchkins checked their weapons. The party continued forward. Swin’s tension increased. Suddenly he dashed away from the road, and scoured round on the left, moving in a wide half-circle towards the trees. The others noticed how swiftly and easily he ran, despite having walked thirty to thirty-five miles a day for the last few weeks. They saw him come back to the road, stooping a little with sword in hand. He stood upright, and at the same moment several dark figures emerged from the trees and came to stand around him. They were holding mansize bows; drawn. Also at the same moment the Punchkins heard a thudding of hooves, and looking round, behind them and to the right, saw several horsemen ride out of the trees and gallop across the short expanse of heath. In that brief moment flight would have been possible, but hardly of any use for riders on ponies.
     The Punchkins grouped themselves more closely and continued to ride forward. Swin came back along the road towards them, followed by the archers. The horsemen, who had reached the road, closed in behind. More Men emerged from the trees. Fortinbras glanced around and counted: ‘Fifteen.’
     Swin came back to his friends, turned, faced the archers and spoke to them. ‘Greetings!’ he said.
     ‘And good day to you, sir, and, er, gentlemen,’ said the leader of the waylaying party. He stood among a group of five hard-faced Men, all of them holding bent bows with steel-pointed arrows ready to fly from the string. He was a tall Man, long-haired and black-bearded. He wore leather clothes and a hunter’s hat with a red feather; he doffed this hat and swept it before his knees in an exaggerated courtly bow. He surveyed the Punchkins with a smile, his eyes glittering beneath bushy black brows. ‘Pray, what are you? Dwarves, Elves or some other?’
     ‘We are Punchkins from the Demesne and Tregg,’ said Clemo mildly. ‘And how may we assist you?’
     ‘No assistance is required, good sir, but if you would partake of refreshment with us in our camp? I am Ayarg, these are my companions and our hospitality is famous throughout this kingdom. All possessions of worth that you have with you may be entrusted to us, at once, for safe-keeping.’ His irony was flashy and ostentatious, his speech as clear as an actor’s. ‘When you have reached our camp we will gladly take messages for you: you will be able to assure your friends of your safety, and we may well include tokens in the sending – such things as will leave your people in no doubt that the messages are genuine.’
     One of the horseman leaned over the side of the cart and began to rummage among the sacks and bundles. Fortinbras, who was nearest, looked up at him angrily and drew his small sword. The other Punchkins all froze.
     ‘But what about me?’ said Swin, attempting to draw the attention back to himself. ‘I’m only a poor man who…’
     His attempt had failed. ‘You come here, my lad,’ said Ayarg. Fortinbras flushed to the roots of his curly hair, and obeyed. ‘Now. Off your pony. Or your friends will all instantly die. Come to me.’ He ruffled Fortinbras’s hair. ‘What a good-looking chap! I bet you’ve a sweetheart back home, haven’t you? And an engagement-ring? Have you got a pretty little ring? I think I could find it if I looked – don’t you?’
     ‘Enough.’ This time Swin spoke in a tone of command. ‘I’ve a couple of things to say! The first is, that my people do not like your sort: we bind them in wicker cages and then drown them in the mud. The second is, look out for yourself, sodomite, for I’m Swin Guma’s son, and this is Heathogrim!’
     He sprang, and all five of the bowmen loosed off at him. So fast was his movement that two of the arrows missed completely; he caught two more on his buckler, which flickered as he wielded it, and the fifth shaft glanced off his helmet. Heathogrim swept round and the smiling head of Ayarg was smitten from his shoulders. Swin landed, crouched and whirled as he recovered, stabbed, leapt aside and sprang again. Blood splashed and spattered all round like a shower of rain. Meanwhile the Punchkins were all hard at work, emitting a desperate but deadly spray of arrows. Fortinbras, Aldred and Tim had been taught by veterans who had defeated the invasions of Asuldo. Mr. Proudfoot had fought in that war himself. Over a longer distance, no doubt, the contest would soon have gone against them; but here at close quarters, following the advantage of Swin’s first assault, their speed and precision made up for their enemies’ numbers and strength. Within a few seconds the three survivors of his attack were squirming on the road, pierced with many white-feathered shafts. The Man whom Fortinbras had threatened swung out at Mr. Proudfoot with his sword. Egwise ducked and the sword caught Mr. Yarnal on the side of his neck, knocking him out of the cart. Three arrows hit the Man in the face, two of them happening to pierce his eyes. A pony reared up, neighing shrilly, and another arrow hit one of the horses. The horsemen charged forward, upsetting the cart. A bandit brought his sword down on Clemo, hitting his shoulder, severing his arm. Swin jumped onto the side of the cart, even as it was overturning, and from there onto the back of one of the horses, whose rider suddenly saw Heathogrim’s crimson point start forth from his belly. Swin shoved him out of the saddle and the Punchkins shot him twice more. Yet another shot horse reared up with a terrible scream, wildly beating the air before falling down on top of its rider. Then the space around the cart was quiet. The twanging of the bows ceased and the fighting Punchkins searched desperately for more arrows. Swin, on his captured horse, was charging at the remnants of the foe, his face lit up with a terrifying joy. One bandit stayed to shoot at Swin; the others were fleeing; the shooter missed Swin and was brutally ridden down. Another of the fliers tripped and fell, Fortinbras’s last shaft protruding from his back. The rest of them had reached the trees. Without delay Swin wheeled round and came galloping back.
     The fight had lasted hardly a minute. Tim was on his knees, unwounded but spewing forth his horror. Caradoc Yarnal’s body was lying sprawled in the road, his face immersed in a scarlet puddle. All of the other Punchkins were hurt – Clemo by far the worst. They had shirts of dwarf-mail, very fine close-meshed ring-mail generally capable of keeping out arrows; despite this Waltrot had been shot through the side of his belly and another grim black shaft stuck out from Clemo’s breast. Waltrot disregarded his wound and tried to help Aldred and Fortinbras, who had propped Clemo up against the overturned cart and bound a cloth pad against his mutilated shoulder. But the cloth was already drenched and oozing, and Clemo was green in the face. As he coughed feebly, more blood trickled from his mouth.
     Swin’s mouth tightened. He got off the horse and then began – not to heal Clemo by means of some wonderful barbarian remedy, as the others had perhaps been hoping, but to dispatch their fallen foes. A rough shake, a thumbing-up of the eyelid, and then a heaving-up of the left arm and a strong thrust, deep into the armpit. The Punchkins, despite their grief and concern for Clemo, found their attention drawn to the grisly ritual. Three times had Heathgrim’s length emerged red and dripping, and Swin was about to plunge it into a fourth body, when –
     ‘Stop.’
     The voice was hardly more than a whisper, but strangely powerful. Swin looked up from his task and met Clemo’s eyes a second time. Clemo murmured something else, but his voice now failed to carry. Roughly dragging the passive enemy, Swin came up to Clemo and knelt down before him.
     ‘No more killing,’ whispered Clemo.
     ‘Why not?’ asked Swin. On his face, irritation and bafflement contended with the great respect, and even love, that he had for Clemo Bavour. ‘He’s a common thief. He deserves hanging.’
     ‘Deserves it!’ replied Clemo with the ghost of a smile. ‘I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death… Don’t be too eager to deal out death in judgement.’
     ‘Eager?’ retorted Swin: ‘eager?’ He shook his head like a horse teased by flies. ‘I am not eager to punish, I just – When we need to deal with folk like this at Garholt, we always hang them! That is our law and custom!’
     They looked at the captive. He was short, beardless and flaxen-haired. There was a sickly sheen on his pale, yellowish skin. His eyes were shut; he was breathing fast, with his mouth open, and making snuffling noises through his nose; and a very unpleasant smell came from him. He was evidently in the extremity of fear.
     Mr. Bavour winced and made a grimace. His hand, the only one, came up and touched the arrow sticking out of his chest. His blood-soaked clothes were getting stiff, and the mail-rings were dull brown.
     ‘Pity,’ he whispered.
     ‘But why? Why?’ demanded Swin.
     ‘Have pity. Be…merciful,’ said Clemo Bavour with his last breath. His eyelids slipped down and his head fell sideways. He was dead.
     ‘Black bogs take you, villain!’ cried Swin in a choked voice of fury, giving the youth a kick on the thigh that lifted him off the ground and flipped him right over. Swin threw back his head, bared his teeth and burst into tears. The Punchkins also wept. Mr. Proudfoot rose from the place where he had been lying stunned. He had loosed off three shafts, but had taken no part in the battle after the cart overturned. For a while the companions busied themselves, attending to one another and the ponies, weeping many tears, saying few words. Aldred had been shot through the hand and had taken a long, shallow sword-stroke, down through the side-seam of his mail. Waltrot grimly showed his own arrow: this, when Tim had plucked out its feathers, could be drawn onwards and extracted, and the wound bound up. Fortinbras’s cheek was cut wide open, revealing all his teeth on that side. Tim must rummage through his pack to find a needle and thread, which he then squeamishly handed to Swin. The latter had been binding the captive, piling up the bodies beside the road, slaughtering the severely wounded beasts and then righting the cart. He looked at the needle and thread. ‘Water,’ he ordered. Tim filled his helmet with water from their water-cask. Swin carefully washed his hands. Fortinbras was lying in the grass. Swin took his head between his knees, clamped it securely, cleaned the flaps with wine and then sewed them up with a dozen firm stitches. Fortinbras’s body writhed and his fingers and toes clenched and unclenched while this was being done. ‘Thank you,’ he said when it was over.
     Evening was drawing in. Tim and Egwise had tended the bodies of the two fallen companions. They lay now with faces clean, hair combed and hands crossed upon their breasts. ‘Well now,’ said Swin, ‘fire or burial?’
     ‘Fire, I think,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, ‘as we’ve got no spades. Let’s see what wood we can find. No, Swin, you take a rest now. Stay with our friends.’
     He led Fortinbras and Tim off to the wood. Tim had a hatchet. Swin, who was now feeling tired, drew a mug of wine and offered it to Waltrot. Waltrot was shivering with cold. They sat down besides Clemo and Caradoc. They heard the blows of the hatchet. Presently the other three began to build the pyre.
     The night was blue, the stars shining out in full glory, and the pyre was finished at last. The two dead Punchkins were laid upon it and their weapons and their enemies’ weapons were arranged around them. The two badly-wounded companions were helped to come near the pile. Fortinbras stood ready with the lamp, ready to cast a light into the kindling; the glow showed up the Company’s pale faces and sad hollow eyes, while behind their backs the shadows leaped and flickered mockingly.
     ‘Is this wise, do you think, Swin?’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘We don’t want more enemies coming.’
     ‘No,’ said Swin, ‘we’ve nothing to fear now. I’m sure they’ve all gone.’
     ‘Well,’ said Mr. Proudfoot; but there was a pause. ‘Does no-one want to say anything to our friends?’
     ‘Goodbye, Mr. Yarnal, dear master,’ groaned Waltrot.
     ‘Goodbye, Mr. Bavour!’ said Tim, bursting into tears again. ‘I don’t know how I’ll come back to Bavorton without you!’
     A few other farewells, clumsy and embarrassed, were said. Punchkins are always awkward at funerals. They don’t know quite what they believe about death and they are too much afraid of making fools of themselves. But then Swin began quietly to chant a dirge of his own people, in the language of the Tribes. Although the others did not understand it, the deep rolling syllables seemed to express and to assuage a little of their grief. Fortinbras unshielded the lamp and set fire to the dry twigs. They flared up, and presently the flames began to mount. Swin continued with his song. The bright ruddy glow seemed strangely fitting: the faces of Caradoc and Clemo were lapped in warmth, as if they were sleeping soundly in this their last brief resting-place. The companions cried again, more freely and easily now, although Fortinbras’s injured face was contorted as he wept. Then the thick wood-smoke rose up into the starry sky – the wind had dropped – and the sound of their weeping was mingled with louder crackling. The two small bodies disappeared into the heart of the bale-fire.

 

 

 

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Continue to Chapter Five