Bookweird (6 page)

Duncan came to Norman just after nightfall. He looked preoccupied, as if he had been wrestling with a decision and still wasn't sure what he'd decided. He stood by Norman for a minute before finally speaking.

“Can you read a map, lad?” he asked finally. He spoke in a subdued voice that was far from his normal commanding tone.

Norman nodded. Again the stoat was silent for a few moments before asking, “Is it true what the boy says, that you're only a kit, not even a juvenile?”

Norman wasn't sure how to answer. Duncan knew he was not an adult. He had told him his age when they met, but perhaps years meant something different to stoats and other animals.

“It's true that I'm not fully grown. I'm still a kid to my kind. I really shouldn't be away from home alone.”

Duncan rubbed his sleek head as if trying to fathom this. “And so why are you out of the nest, then?”

Norman really didn't know what to say. “I'm trying to get back home, but I got lost.”

“Well lost too, I imagine. There's none of your kind in these parts. Likely home is beyond one of the barriers—sea, snow or desert.”

If this was a question, Norman ignored it. He merely said, “Yes.”

The stoat's muzzle twitched, as if he was chewing on food as well as on a problem. “So a map would help, I imagine.”

Norman found himself anxious to ease the animal's obvious discomfort with this conversation. “It might, yes—a map would help.”

Duncan thought for yet another moment then appeared to suddenly make up his mind. “You might as well have this, then.” He drew a piece of folded parchment from his cloak and held it out to Norman. Norman took it tentatively. “There are no giant lands on this chart, but perhaps this will give you some idea how to get back to your own folk.”

Norman opened the parchment and peered at it intently. It was a very good map of this corner of Undergrowth.

“I'd take you with us, lad, but you'd sink one of our boats.” There was real regret in his voice.

Norman was about to say that he could swim or walk beside the river, but he'd just found their location on the map. Duncan leapt beside him onto the log. The stoat pointed out Scalded Rock on the map with a short dagger. “We'll commandeer the mine's boats here tomorrow and head back toward Rivernest.” His sword followed the snaking dark line of a river into the mountains. “Here the river goes straight through the mountains. There's hardly any daylight to be had through that gorge.”

“The gap,” Norman murmured, remembering what he'd heard whispered through a log the night before.

“Aye. The water tunnels right through the rock. Even if you could follow that far, you'd never squeeze through that channel.”

Norman could see that this was true.

“But if you should not find your way home, the boy would be glad to see you again. When Lochwarren is ours again, you're welcome there. I dare say we could manage some accommodation. It'll be a few months yet, but if you see the red flag and my black ensign in the highland towers again, you'll know that Lochwarren is mine.”

Norman was so relieved to hear he still had this option that he ignored Duncan's assumption that he was the heir.

“You should be on your path in the morning before the attack,” Duncan continued. “You'll want to be well out of the way when the fighting starts.”

“You don't want my help tomorrow?” Norman asked. “You don't want me to cause a diversion?”

Duncan regarded him sharply. “Aye, you are a seer, then…or a listener, perhaps. That was before I knew you were just a boy.”

“Ah,” said Norman, finally understanding. Malcolm had spoken to his father about it. “I wouldn't be in the battle. You'd want me away from it to cause a diversion.”

“That was the idea,” Duncan replied cautiously.

“Will the battle plan work without the diversion?” Norman asked.

Duncan stroked his furry chin and considered the question. “It can still work, but it would be a surer thing with a little time.”

“I'd like to help, then,” Norman said, surprised by his bravery. “For this.” He held out the map. “And for your family.”

Duncan regarded him curiously. “You're no warrior, Strong Arm, I see that. What's your interest in this fight?”

Norman didn't have to think before answering. “The stoats are the rightful kings of the highlands.”

“Aye. So, seer, what do you know of this fight? Will I be King before it's over?”

“I'm sure that the stoats will win.” Norman had read enough Undergrowth books to know that they usually ended well. “But it won't be easy, and I can't say who will be King.”

“You can't?” Duncan murmured thoughtfully, perhaps skeptically.

Norman had noticed that Duncan didn't like to talk about his brother's claim to the throne. Young Malcolm had been surprised to learn that his uncle was alive. Norman wondered if anybody else knew.

“Well,” said Duncan finally, affecting the cheerfulness of a good leader. “Since the seer predicts success in this fight, I don't see why he cannot help. Let me tell you what I would have you do, and once you've heard me out you can say whether you are still willing.”

 

Scalded Rock Mine

A
t the edge of the woods above Scalded Rock, Norman watched and waited. The camp and the narrow trickle of water behind it seemed deserted. A battered and dull wolf flag swung desultorily from a flagpole. At the quay on the narrow river, three merchant ships bobbed in the shallow water. These were the only movements, until, as the sun emerged from behind the black sand of the Obsidian Desert, there was finally some sign of life in the camp. A long, high whistle sounded. Duncan had told him this was the signal for the change of shifts, and sure enough there was movement at the mine's mouth.

From this distance, Norman could make out only shapes. The taller ones would be foxes—guards and supervisors. They took up positions at the head and tail of a long, slow line of labourers trailing out of the mine. Thankfully, there was no sign of wolves. The three wolf overlords of the mine were off somewhere hunting, as Simon Whiteclaw had predicted.

Normally foxes would have nothing to do with wolves, but wolves were no miners, and these foxes extracted good profit from the partnership. The long line of small, bent figures hobbled after their fox masters, crawling as slowly out of the mine as the sun crawled into the sky. These were the stoat workers, rounded up and
brought here to do the dirty work. They were the last of the generation that could remember a stoat king. They were the ones who had been too injured to flee or too stubborn to give up their homes. Even after the defeat at Tista Kirk and the fall of Castle Lochwarren, these proud farmers and hunters had stayed at their farmsteads vowing to fight for their homes to the last. This was their reward: enslavement, forced to work for their conquerors.

Norman watched their sluggish march toward the barracks and heard the clink of the chains that held their feet. They looked utterly defeated. His heart sank. These poor creatures were supposed to form the heart of Duncan's avenging army? Duncan was a great leader, but the fox overseers of Scalded Rock had worked their slaves to the brink of death. The thought stiffened Norman's resolve. All the more reason to rescue them, all the more reason to do what he had promised to do. Any minute now he would be called into action.

“Do you see them?” he whispered.

Malcolm, perched quietly on Norman's shoulder, took the tiny spyglass from his eye and shook his head. “If I could see them, then they wouldn't be doing their job. But they're in there, all right.”

Norman felt a nervous churning in his stomach. It would all begin soon. For the umpteenth time he checked around him for his “weapons”: the sheet of tin they had stolen from one of the mine's abandoned outbuildings and the wooden stick were both where they had been sixty seconds earlier, lying secure against the tree.

“I should be down there,” Malcolm muttered between his teeth. “Not one of 'em is stealthier than me. I could be in that prison in a flash. Before they blinked, those guards'd feel my dagger at their throats.” This didn't sound like empty bravado. Malcolm was aching to be down there with the marauding party.

“Your father wanted you here with me. I tried the spyglass. It's too small for my eyes. He said you were the best lookout he had.”

Malcolm did not reply but growled an angry, frustrated growl that exposed his long fangs. Perhaps he too suspected that his father had an ulterior motive for keeping him out of the fight.

Down below at the mine, the night shift had crossed the dusty square from the mouth of the mine to the compound that housed the barracks. The guards halted the column outside it. The long whistle sounded again, summoning the day shift to its drudgery. The animals that crawled from the barracks looked hardly more rested than the returning night shift. Norman wondered if they gave their returning friends any sign of what was going on inside the barracks. It was impossible for him to tell from this distance, but surely if Duncan's men had infiltrated the barracks there would be some sign of it. Surely the miners would walk taller knowing that today they would fight for their freedom. Their slow tramp across the square gave away nothing. Even over at the quay everything seemed quiet. The merchant ships floated calmly at anchor. There was no sign of the river pirates there either.

“What do you see?” he asked Malcolm anxiously.

Malcolm responded with his usual sarcasm. “I see stoats, you big oaf.”

As the day shift trudged out of the compound and marched to the mine face, the night shift lined up at the doors to the three dormitory buildings. A fox at each door unshackled the exhausted miners. They looked like they were ready to drop. Norman prayed that they would find the energy to fight and run when the time came. He watched until the last stoat dragged himself inside and the barrack doors were bolted shut.

“Are they at the mine yet?” he asked Malcolm.

“The first stoats are just goin' in. Any minute now, it'll be time.”

These next few minutes seemed to take forever. Norman didn't even know he was holding his breath until he finally had to exhale. Malcolm, nervous and fidgety on his shoulder, was too preoccupied to mock him.

“They're all in the tunnel now. Start yer count.”

Norman counted the seconds under his breath, like he would in a schoolyard game. “One steamboat, two steamboat, three steamboat…”

At fifty steamboats, he bent down to pick up the rusty sheet of tin.

Malcolm was counting along with him now, though he surely had no idea what a steamboat might be—“…fifty-eight steamboats, fifty-nine steamboats, sixty steamboats. Okay, it's time.”

Norman took a deep breath and held the tin sheet up in one arm. He was too nervous to swing with all his strength, but even a light blow with the stick was enough to make a clang resound through the valley. Two fox guards scurried out of the barracks. They peered around but didn't spot Norman and Duncan in the trees.

“They've heard you,” Malcolm twittered excitedly. “Don't stop now!”

So Norman hit the tin sheet again, harder this time, following it up with another and another in a steady beat. Thump, thump—bang; thump, thump—bang; thump, thump—bang; thump, thump—bang. This apparently was his most valuable skill for this battle: making noise.

More foxes had emerged from the mine buildings. They were pointing to the forest edge.

“You've got their attention now,” Malcolm said eagerly. “The vermin are pouring out of the barracks.”

“What about the mine?” Norman asked.

“Keep going,” Malcolm urged, “and holler something. Don't your people have any war cries?”

Norman continued his rhythmic banging and shouted the only thing that seemed to go with drumming.

“We will, we will rock you!” he bellowed. “We will, we will rock you!”

Malcolm chuckled to himself. “You should see 'em now—they're all out of the mine. The boss seems to be trying to get them to form up in ranks. Good luck. Cowardly droolers. Who ever knew a fox that was up to a fair fight?”

Norman had now switched to a cheer his soccer team chanted before games: “We're number one, not two, not three, not four.
We're goin' to win, not lose, not tie the score. We're number one, number one. Let's go, Duncan!”

As if on cue, a great shout was heard down below. Norman looked down to see a great swarm of stoats rush from the mine. Within moments the stoats from the barracks were unleashed too. There were no shackles to be seen. Gates seemed to have been magically unlocked. The two parties rushed unimpeded toward the small huddled group of foxes. Now Norman could see Duncan at the head of the night shift, his sword held high. At the head of the day shift, he saw the distinctive markings of Simon Whiteclaw. The two groups converged on the cowering foxes like the sharp-toothed jaws of a single giant angry stoat.

The enslaved miners no longer looked beaten and weary. Only their weapons made them distinguishable from Duncan's rescue party. The workers held their picks above their heads as they charged. The rescuers brandished their swords. Both looked utterly fearsome. The foxes retreated slowly backward as the charge came.

Above them Norman continued through his meagre repertoire of war chants. “You've got to fight, for your right, to paaaarty!” he screamed. Malcolm seemed to take no notice of the words. He delighted in the effect. Though faced with an onslaught of vengeful stoats, the foxes made no move to flee to the woods. They knew the danger in front of them, but could only guess at what horde of fearsome beasts awaited them in the woods. Norman could see them eyeing the vast desert behind them as the best available escape route. Some of the more cowardly ran in this direction even before the stoats were on them. Duncan's archers sent a few arrows their way to hasten their flight.

“I'm gonna knock you out. Mama said knock you out!” Norman bellowed, so excited that he was just shouting whatever came into his head. He was gripping the stick so hard now that his hand was almost numb.

A great roar came up from the valley floor below. The two pincers of the stoat advance had closed on the retreating foxes. The long battle hisses of the stoats drowned out everything but the
high-pitched yelps of wounded foxes. The mine guards put up a feeble fight, overwhelmed by the stoat numbers. But they knew exactly how much their captives had to be vengeful for, and they could not expect mercy from them now. Whenever a fox got a chance, he limped away from the melee. The attackers let them go. The goal of this battle was not bloodshed, but victory.

“Look,” Malcolm shouted excitedly, pointing toward the ships still at anchor at the river dock. “The flag! The flag of the stoat kings flies again!”

This was the signal to disengage. Duncan's men had secured the boats. The time had come for them to make their escape. Duncan's men continued to take the fight to the foxes, while the miners disengaged and rushed in small groups to the boats. If the foxes noticed, they could do nothing. When the miners were all safely onboard, Duncan's men too began to slowly edge backward toward the river. A few more foxes took this opportunity to flee, but a few braver creatures now saw what was happening and fought back. Foxes who would not fight to keep their slaves suddenly found anger when the ships were threatened—ships laden with diamonds, their precious diamonds.

A trumpet clarion came from the boats.

“That's the signal. It's time,” Norman said solemnly as he put down his makeshift cymbal and drumstick.

Malcolm was unusually silent.

“Come on, Malcolm. I'll carry you down to the edge of the valley. It will be a shorter distance for you to run.”

The little stoat nodded silently. His intelligent little eyes looked moist and clouded. Norman tried to remember if he had ever heard of a stoat or weasel crying in the Undergrowth books. He knew that if Malcolm cried, he would not be able to hold back his own tears.

“I'll see you in Lochwarren soon,” he tried bravely as he stepped slowly down the slope closer to the battlefield. “Your father has promised to build me a barn. We'll go swimming together in the loch, like we said.”

“I still don't believe that creatures like you can swim,” Malcolm answered, trying to cheer himself up with a joke, but neither of them laughed. They walked on in silence now until they were level with the battlefield.

“You better stop here,” Malcolm warned. “You're to be well away before the foxes start their hunt.”

“Goodbye, Malcolm,” Norman said quietly, putting his friend down gently on the ground.

“Thank you, Norman Strong Arm,” Malcolm said. Norman took three steps, then turned and saluted the boy. “Take care and keep to the map,” Malcolm added, “and trust only stoat folk and their kin.” It was the same advice his father had given.

“Look after yourself,” Norman called. The stoat bobbed his head to nod and turned. In a flash he was bounding his way to the boats, skirting the battlefield. Within a few minutes he would be safely on board. Norman vowed to watch him until he was securely on deck.

From the boats another trumpet sounded, faster and more urgent than the first clarion. There was no plan for a second trumpet signal. Out in the open, on the stretch of desert between the woods and the river, Malcolm stopped and looked up. Something unexpected had happened. Norman peered around fruitlessly for the cause of the alarm. Out on the plain, Malcolm still stood frozen. Perhaps he understood the trumpet's code better than Norman. While Norman watched his friend's indecision, the cause for alarm finally became clear. Three dark shapes burst from the forest nearer the river. Too large, too fast to be foxes, they could only be…“Wolves,” Norman gasped to himself. Instinctively he backed farther into the woods.

The remaining stoat fighters hastened their retreat. The wolves were tearing directly toward them, and the foxes, chastened by the appearance of their wolf masters, began to fight back more fiercely. The stoat skirmishers would make it to the boats in time. Already one ship had lifted anchor and was moving slowly down the river on the current. Those fighting the rearguard had but a little distance to
run, and their retreat would be covered by archer fire from the mast tops. It was Malcolm who was in trouble.