Bookweird (9 page)

An hour later, before the moon rose, Norman and Malcolm slipped across the bridge in darkness toward the shimmering evening windows of Edgeweir. Behind these glass panes, families ate hot dinners, and travelling companions supped together before retiring to more or less clean beds. Inviting though these warm
windows shone, they were not for the boy and his stoat companion. It was not yet safe to show their faces, and might never be safe for Norman to show his. A young stoat might pass unrecognized among the market stalls and the inn tables of a Borders settlement, but a human boy would be a spectacle worth crowding round, a tale worth telling neighbour and stranger alike, until the rumour of him arrived in wolf ears. No, warm mead and warm beds would have to wait until they had reached lands safer than this.

Instead they spent the night a small cave in the woods behind the settlement. They covered themselves with leaves and huddled up together as they had for many nights before. Norman lay awake long after the little stoat was snoring quietly away in deep slumber. He felt safer tonight, if only a little, on this side of the river. He worried a bit less about being woken by the vengeance howls of pursuing wolves, but it left space in his mind to trouble over the other thing, the deeper concern that had haunted him since his arrival here in the world of Undergrowth. How many days ago was it now? He was losing track. This made it worse. He was beginning to worry—not just about how to get back, but about whether he could
ever
get back to his real home.

 

The Other Brother

E
ven fear made slow progress in waking Norman up. There was a noise out there outside his sleep, but he was so tired. It made him sick to even think of opening his eyes. He wanted to just call out, “Who's there?” But he knew he couldn't. It wasn't safe. There was no knowing what was lurking in the bushes, and something
was
lurking in the bushes. Norman was sure of it now. There was that movement when he first opened his eyes, and a slight rustling of leaves while he half fell back asleep, dismissing it as a bird or a squirrel. But you could not dismiss birds or squirrels. In Undergrowth, birds or squirrels could slit your throat. There was nothing for it but to wake up properly and rub the sleep out of his eyes. That would mean disturbing Malcolm, who was still snoring quietly and quickly in the crook of his elbow. Norman shifted his weight slowly, hoping to rouse his little friend gently. The whisper froze him where he lay.

“If you value your life, unhand that young stoat.”

There was no need or desire to rub his eyes now. They were wide open, staring up into the branches of the oak tree that overhung their camp nest. There stood two stoats, perfectly still, their feet apart to brace themselves, their red cloaks swept over their shoulders and their bows drawn. Norman stared at the unwavering
points of their arrows. There was no doubt about their intended target. If those arrows were loosed, Norman would never have to worry about wiping sleep from his eyes.

“No…” He wanted to add “it's not what it seems,” but the stoats interrupted him.

“‘No' what? You fancy an eyeful of arrow, do you?”

Norman gulped, and thought quickly before he said another word.

“I'm a friend of the stoats. This is Malcolm.”

His captors were not so quick to respond this time. “A friend of the stoats indeed. Never a friend of your sort have I seen,” the younger stoat on the left declared. His voice was even and unhurried, without a trace of fear or panic. He seemed confident that he would be able to dispatch Norman with little trouble.

The other stoat chipped in, “Some foul beast out of the North, are you? A mongrel monster, half bear, half wolf, perhaps?” Norman heard the impatience in his voice.

“No, I'm a man, a boy human. Ask Malcolm here.”

Norman shifted again gently. It was as much as he dared to move, lest he provoke a reaction from the archers, but Malcolm only shifted in his sleep and smacked his lips as if enjoying a dream meal.

“Have you drugged the lad?” the lead stoat barked. “Is he poisoned?”

The older stoat squinted as if taking his final aim.

“No, I swear,” Norman gasped, his voice breaking with desperation. “He's just tired. We've travelled a long way. Please just ask him. His name is Malcolm.”

The lead archer seemed to think for a moment. His eyes never left Norman and his bow never wavered, but he let out a low whistle that rose and dipped, like a secret call. Duncan's scouts had used the same signal as they called to each other through the woods.

Malcolm's tiny ears pricked up instantly. He leapt upright and alert upon Norman's chest, into a stance ready for action, more awake already than Norman was even after five minutes staring
down an arrow shaft. “What ho?” the boy stoat cried. His bright eyes immediately picked out the figures in the trees.

“Well, I never,” Malcolm exclaimed, not startled but pleased. “I thought we'd be days before we found fellow stoat. Lower your arrows, lads. He may be an ugly beast, but he's
my
ugly beast. You'd like him in a fight. He can hurl huge crow-mangling boulders without the least strain, and he's only a boy yet.”

But the archers remained immobile, not yet ready to believe that this huge, unheard-of creature was friend to stoat.

“What's your name, boy?” the young leader asked Malcolm. “Where do you hail from? Where are you heading?”

“I'm Malcolm. You can learn the rest when you put those arrows back in their quivers.”

“Best you step away from the beast, boy. Perhaps you don't know the danger you are in.” The arrows did not look like their next likely resting place was a quiver. “You say your name is Malcolm?”

Norman answered for him. “Yes, Malcolm,” he said, with a calmness that belied his fear. “He is Malcolm, son of Duncan, son of Malcolm Sharp Sword, Lord of Lochwarren and last of the Mustelid kings.”

Malcolm himself turned and gaped at Norman. True, they were in a spot, but they had agreed to conceal the young prince's identity.

“Malcolm,” Norman continued, for he had recognized the red cloak and the gold emblem of a stoat guardant, “meet your uncle Cuilean. The other gentleman who would like to poke out my eye must be James.”

 

It took a few more minutes of explanations for James and Cuilean to finally relent and lower their weapons. They settled down in the dell to hear the whole story, but not before James had been sent to the village below to fetch breakfast. Malcolm narrated their journey over a breakfast of muffins and warm raisin bread. It was the best meal Norman had enjoyed in Undergrowth. That
morning he would not have traded it even for his mother's pancakes.

As the little stoat told the story, Cuilean's eyes darted occasionally to the boy human beside him for confirmation.

“Is it true?” he asked finally, when he heard the story of their attack on Scalded Rock. “You freed the prisoners at the mine?”

Norman only nodded, but Malcolm emphasized the totality of their victory: “And stole the season's treasure. There's enough there to buy three swords for every stoat who wants to take up arms with us.”

Cuilean looked pensive and spoke lowly, as if to himself. “Yes, a great victory, a fine victory.” Then, recovering his nobility, he patted his nephew on the shoulder. “I expect no less from your father. He was always meant to be a great warrior. I look forward to seeing him again and fighting alongside him.”

Little Malcolm beamed with pride.

All morning they talked, telling each other their plans. Norman was mostly silent, correcting Malcolm when he exaggerated a little on his abilities as a seer or warrior. Cuilean regarded the human boy with curiosity rather than hostility now, but he addressed no questions directly to him, which was all right with Norman. He didn't really want to have to explain how he had read it all in a book.

James looked up, startled, when he heard the tale of Simon Whiteclaw's last battle.

“He was one of ours once,” he murmured. “A captain in the Mustelid navy, before he went a-pirating. I always knew at heart he was a good man. He would have fought bravely.”

It shouldn't have surprised Norman to see the three stoats cross themselves silently in Christian fashion, but it did.

“Your adventure at Scalded Rock obliges us to alter our own plans. We were heading that way ourselves,” Cuilean said when the whole story of their attack and escape had been told. “We had a sneak attack planned, entering the highlands via the South Wolflands through Queen Millie's Pass. Queen Millie's Pass probably remains a secret, but with the fall of Scalded Rock, all South Wolflands will
be roused. Your three wolf hunters will not be the last to follow your trail. Your ruse at the river where it emerges from the mountains makes it difficult for us. You were close to Queen Millie's Pass then, very close. You might have found it yourself, had it been on your map.”

Norman withdrew the chart from inside his pyjamas, and laid it out for the stoats. “It only shows one pass on the western edge of the mountains.” He pointed to the pass at the north end of the range, just above Scalded Rock.

“Winding Gap,” said Cuilean. “You would have passed through it with Duncan. That is likely where you fought the ravens. No, no stoat would be so foolish as to mark Millie's Pass on a chart. The wolves may have our lands for the moment, but they will never have our secrets.” He smiled and winked at his nephew.

“What will we do now, then?” the young stoat asked.

“We'll double back a little, trace the southern edge of the Glace Mountains and enter the highlands on one of the more travelled routes. These we'll have to put away.” He indicated the red cloak that he wore around his shoulders. “We will have to travel in disguise again. The rats have had the run of these lands since the wolves moved in. They are no friend to stoats. Nor, I doubt, to hairless human boys,” he added with a chuckle.

“And where are we heading?” Malcolm asked. “Where will we meet Father? In Rivernest?”

Cuilean became cagey, casting a quick glance at Norman. “There's no reason to decide at this moment. I have contacts in the highlands. We'll send out messengers. Your father has seized the initiative. We shall see what we can do to support him.”

And that was all they would get out of him. Perhaps Cuilean had thought better about being totally candid with his nephew and the strange human beast. He did not mention their final destination, nor did he reveal the target of his own preempted surprise attack.

The sun was already high in the sky when they set off. James and Cuilean had made some muttered plans that they did not
share with the boys. Norman didn't bother trying to find out. He knew already that he would have to earn Cuilean's trust, just as he had earned Duncan's. Mostly he was just relieved to have an adult about again, someone else to make the difficult decisions. They travelled through the forest once more, not seeing anyone. Norman walked alone while Malcolm chatted with his new-found uncle. It was late in the afternoon when they first spotted the plumes of blue-grey smoke rising from the chimneys of another border village.

“This is Tintern,” announced Cuilean with a half smile. “I'm told it was once a pleasant place. James, can I ask you to escort young Malcolm to the Feather and Whistle? Try not to be seen, and order a meal up to our room. We shall keep out of sight as much as we can. Tell them the boy is ill. Mention bramble fever or something if anyone asks. That should keep the curious away. In the meantime, I'll find somewhere to hide our large friend here.”

Malcolm protested. He did not want to be separated from his human friend, but Norman prevailed on him. “It will be good for you—a comfortable bed, a hot meal. You're not healed yet completely.” It was the thought of hot mead and lingonberry pies that finally swayed him.

“I'll see if they have a few dozen extra pies for you, shall I?” the youngster joked as they parted company.

Cuilean and Norman walked in silence after this. An uneasy feeling filled Norman's gut as they walked. Maybe they were getting rid of him now. Travelling in disguise through the more populous parts of Undergrowth would not be easy. Cuilean wouldn't have ignored the problem. Maybe Norman would not have the opportunity to win the other brother's trust.

When Cuilean did speak, he was the gentle and thoughtful brother Norman had read about in the beginning of this book.

“Young Malcolm says that you have been carrying him for days.”

“Yes,” Norman answered sheepishly, “but he was no trouble. He's not very heavy.”

“Still, you have been a good friend. I know what it means to have a good friend in a strange land. I thank you for that.”

Norman did not know how to answer.

“And is it true that you are a seer?” Cuilean asked after another long silence.

Norman wondered what to answer. “I see certain things. Not everything, not everything I want.”

“When we left Lochwarren,” Cuilean began hesitantly, “our father gave us each a gift.”

Norman nodded but said nothing.

“The gifts were messages. If I knew what gift, I would know better how to conduct this war.”

Norman answered the unasked question. “I can't see what your gift was. And…I don't know which of you two is meant to be King.”

Cuilean laughed, as if relieved. “You are wise for your size,” he said cheerfully. “There is a saying in the Five Cities, ‘Big of skull, small of thought.' You prove it wrong.”

He stopped at the crest of the hill and nodded toward the valley below.

“We are here now,” the stoat announced cheerfully.