Читать книгу Alan Garner Classic Collection - Alan Garner, Alan Garner - Страница 33

No one slept much all through the second, and last, night in the forest. It had been a strain on the nerves to lie inactive, yet constantly alert, for a whole day. The cold was no longer a problem, and the food of Angharad was safeguard against hunger and thirst for many days, so there had been nothing to do but wait, and think.

It was as though the night would never end: yet they could find little to talk about, wrapped in their cloaks, five dim shapes against the lighter background of the snow.

And, because of the snow, it was never quite dark, even in the forest; and although they could not approach the dwarfs’ powers of sight the children found that, as the night wore on, they could see well enough to distinguish between individual trees and the hillside.

Tension mounted with every hour. But at last Fenodyree said:

“Dawn is not far off. Are we ready?”

They climbed up the path. The marks of hoofs were still there for the dwarfs to see, but they were overlaid with many tracks: hound, svart, and others.

After a long drag uphill they came above the forest on to a bleak shelf of moorland; and out of the far side of the plateau, half a mile distant, the last two hundred feet of Shuttlingslow reared black against the paling night.

They halted, and stared, prey to their emotions at the sudden appearance of the long-sought goal. It was so very near.

“Yonder it is,” said Durathror, “but shall we ever reach it?”

They looked cautiously around. The snow lay two feet deep upon the moor. Not a tree could be seen in the gloom; only a dark line of wall, the dry stone walling of the hills, cut across the landscape. Once committed to this waste, once they had made their mark, there could be no drawing back. And after all those miles of stealth it seemed madness to walk out across such naked land. More, an actual fear of the open spaces came over them, even the dwarfs; they felt lightheaded, and weak-kneed, and longed for the security of a close horizon.

Then Gowther squared his shoulders. “Come on,” he said, “let’s be doing.” And he strode off towards Shuttlingslow.

It was a hard trek, and a stiff climb at the end of it, but both were achieved without sight of the morthbrood or any of their kind. Up they toiled, hands and feet working together on the near-perpendicular slope; up and up, till their lungs felt torn and their hearts were bursting. Thirty feet more! They had done it! In spite of all the forces ranged against them, they had done it!

They lay panting on the flat summit ridge. All about them was nothing but the air. When exultation had died, they crawled round until they were lying in a rough horseshoe, facing outwards. In this way, while keeping together, they could watch all the surrounding land except for the southern approach, which was hidden by the far end of the ridge. The crest of Shuttlingslow is only a few yards wide, and they were able to talk without raising their voices.

Fenodyree reckoned that dawn was less than half an hour away. All eyes strained to pick out Cadellin as soon as he should appear. Once Durathror thought he saw him, but it was a troll-woman striding across a hillside miles away. It grew lighter. North, south, and east, the hills rolled away, and to the west, the plain, a lake of shadow into which the night was sinking.

“Isn’t it time we were seeing him?” Colin asked. He could now see the straight track they had drawn across the plateau. The others, too, were glancing in that direction.

“The sun has not yet risen,” said Fenodyree. “He will come.”

But he did not come. And soon they could no longer pretend that it was night. There was no break in the ceiling of cloud, but the day would not be denied.

“It looks as if we’ve shot our bolt, dunner it?” said Gowther. “Do we just lie here and wait to be picked like ripe apples?”

“We must wait until the last moment,” said Fenodyree. “And wherever we go now we shall not escape the eyes of the morthbrood.”

“It looks like being a grand day, then: Friday the thirteenth and all!”

“Ay,” said Durathror. “‘Between nine and thirteen all sorrow shall be done.’”

Their spirits drained from them: their trail stood out as clearly as if it had been painted black. And there was no Cadellin.

Occasional specks moved singly or in groups across the white backcloth of hills, and, out on the plain, from the smudge that was Alderley Edge, drifted what might have been a plume of smoke, but was not.

“Now that they are astir,” said Durathror, “Cadellin must needs come quickly, or he will come too late.”

As it gained height the column of birds split into patrolling flocks, two of which headed towards Shuttlingslow. When they were a mile away it became obvious that one flock would pass to the south of the hill, and the other to the north. The northerly flock raced over the plateau, and the watchers on the hilltop wanted to close their eyes. Suspense did not last. The leader swung round in a tight circle over the line of footprints, and brought the flock slowly along the trail, close to the ground.

“Do not move!” whispered Fenodyree. “It is our only chance.”

But the muspel cloaks were not proof against keen eyes at close range. The whole flock shot skywards on the instant, and broke north, south, east, and west to din the alarm. One or two remained, at a safe height, and they cruised in beady silence. The specks in the distance slowed, changed course, and began to move in towards a common centre – Shuttlingslow. More appeared, and more still, and distant, thin voices were raised in answer to the summons, and mingled with them the whine of the mara, and a baying note, that the children had heard once before at St Mary’s Clyffe, and Fenodyree more recently in the forest. From all over the plain clouds of birds were rushing eastwards. Durathror stood up.

“Is this the end of things, cousin?”

“It may be.”

“Where is Cadellin Silverbrow?”

“I cannot think; unless it be that he is dead, or prisoner, and either way we are lost.”

“But if he’s coming from that direction,” cried Colin, pointing south, “we shouldn’t see him until he was right at the top!”

“Fool that I am! Quick! We may throw away all hope by standing here!”

Halfway along the ridge the birds attacked. In a cloud they fell, clawing and pecking, and buffeting with their wings. And their attentions were directed against Susan above all. In the first seconds of advantage they fastened upon her like leeches, and tangled thickly in her hair. And their strength was human. But before they could drag her from the hill Dyrnwyn and Widowmaker were among them.

Backwards and forwards along the crest the conflict raged, until the ground was red and black, and still they came. Not before fully a quarter of their number had been hewn from the air did they abandon the fight.

Durathror and Fenodyree leaned on their swords, heads hanging. All were torn and bleeding; but the wounds were not deep.

“It is well they broke,” panted Fenodyree, “for I was near spent.”

“Ay,” said Durathror, “it will go hard with us if they come again.”

Gowther reversed his grip on his ash stick, which he had been wielding with terrible effect, and pointed.

“And yon have not been idle, sithee. We’ll have to be thinking quick!”

The morthbrood were pouring in from all sides; only to the south-west was the land not thickly dotted with running figures. The near groups were not heading for the top of Shuttlingslow, but were moving to encircle it; and out of the valley of Wildboarclough, seven hundred feet below at the foot of the hill’s eastern slope, came a band of svarts, five hundred strong. There was no Cadellin.

“Can we stem this flood, cousin?” said Fenodyree.

Durathror shook his head.

“By weight of numbers they will conquer. But since it has come to this we must draw what teeth we may before we go down to rest. And it is how I would wish to die, for so have I lived.”

“Well, I’m not going to let them have the stone as easily as that!” cried Susan. “You stay if you like, but I’m off!”

And she started down the hill at a mad speed towards where the numbers of the morthbrood were thinnest.

“Come back, Sue!” shouted Colin.

“No!” said Gowther. “She’s the only one round here as is talking sense. Well, come on! Are you fain to let her go by herself?”

They sprang after Susan; floundering in the snow, leaping, bounding, falling, rolling, they hurtled after her, unmindful of bruises, caring nothing for safety, while the air clamoured with the shriek of birds.

Once off the escarpment their gait slackened, yet they were making every effort to hurry. The snow was knee-deep, and clogged the feet like a nightmare. Rocks, reed clumps, hummocks of grass sent them stumbling at every stride. The birds flew low but did not attack.

Over Piggford moor Susan ran, flanked by dwarfs with gleaming swords. A few stray svarts, and the loose-limbed scarecrow creatures barred the way from time to time, but they fell back at the sight of the hard blades. They preferred to join the crowd that was now sweeping round the sides of Shuttlingslow.

The moor curved down three hundred feet to a stream that Susan did not discover in time, and they all slithered into the water, and lost precious seconds there. Choking, they scrambled up the opposite hill. And that climb exhausted the last of their strength. It beat them mentally as well as physically, for it was a convex slope, and the skyline, the apparent top of the hill, was always receding. It was never far away, but they could never reach it. Soon it was nearly beyond them to climb the stone walls that blocked their path, and when they did totter to the crest, and saw that it was only a wide shelf, and that a further incline awaited them, all but Durathror collapsed as though their legs had been cut from under them.

Durathror looked behind him. Except for one or two stragglers, Piggford moor was bare. Yet the noise of the chase was loud: he heard it clearly, even through the bedlam of the milling birds. The morthbrood must have crossed the stream.

“Up!” he cried. But they were not at the top of the final rise when the pursuit came into sight. The svarts, with their snow-skimming feet, and the tireless, bobbing lyblacs had outstripped the morthbrood, and they had at their head one that was worse than all – a mara, grey and terrible. And before the mara ran the two hounds of the Morrigan, their blind heads low to the scent, and their mouths hanging red.

“Stay not for me!” shouted Durathror, facing about.

For a second Fenodyree wavered, then he nodded, and pushed the others on towards the crest of the hill.

The hounds were well ahead of the mara, and the first, drawing near, slowed to a walk, ears pricked forward.

“Ha!” cried Durathror.

The hound paused.

“Ha!”

And as it leapt he ducked, and thrust upwards with both hands to his sword, and the beast was dead before it hit the ground. But it wrenched Dyrnwyn from Durathror’s grasp in its fall, and then the other sprang. But Durathror was lightning itself in battle, and the teeth closed not on his throat, but on his forearm which he rammed between the wet jaws, and over he went, hurled on to his back by the weight of the monster. And while they wrestled the mara strode by unheedingly.

Durathror fumbled for the dagger at his waist: he found it, and the end was quick.

But he could do nothing to save the others. Already the mara towered over them. Bravely, rashly, Fenodyree launched himself upon it, but Widowmaker flew from his hands in a shower of sparks at the first blow, and, leaning down from its twenty feet of grim might, the troll grasped Susan by the wrist, and plucked her from the ground.

The scream that cut the air then stopped svarts and lyblacs in their tracks, and even the birds were hushed. Durathror hid his face, and groaned; tears flooded his cheeks. Again the piteous cry, but weaker now. And again. Shouting wildly, mad with grief, he rose, and snatched for his sword. But the sight that met him brought him straight to his knees. For, limp, in the snow, just as she had fallen, was Susan. Beside her was the mara, and it was shrinking! Like a statue of butter in a furnace heat it writhed and wasted. Its contours melted into formlessness as it dwindled. No sound did it utter again, save a drawn-out moan as movement finally ceased. And there on the moor-top stood a rough lump of rock.

Half-unconscious, Susan knew little of the mara’s fate. As the spiral-patterned clouds and flashing lights withdrew from before her eyes she could only stare at Angharad’s bracelet, dented and misshapen from the grip of the stone-cold hand that had fastened upon her wrist.

“Are you all reet, lass?”

“What did you do?”

“I’m not hurt. It was the bracelet, I think. What’s happened?”

The svarts and the lyblacs were in confusion, and, for the moment, lacked the united courage to advance. Durathror was quick to seize the chance. He faced the crowd, and spoke in a voice for all to hear.

“See how the invincible perish! If such is the fate of the mara, how shall you endure our wrath? Let him who loves not life seek to follow further!”

The mob slunk back. But now the morthbrood were at hand, and they were not to be so promptly awed. He knew he had won only a breathing space – just long enough to prevent their being overrun while Susan gathered her strength.

And then Durathror saw what he had lost all hope of seeing: a lone man on the top of Shuttlingslow, two miles away. And as he looked he saw the fall figure leave the crest, and begin to descend.

Durathror joined the others; they, too, had seen.

“But I dunner think yon bunch have,” said Gowther. “Now, how are we going to hold out while he gets here?”

“It is an hour’s journey over this ground,” said Fenodyree.

The morthbrood were conferring with the svarts: there was much shouting, and waving of hands. The svarts were not keen to risk the mara’s end, while the morthbrood did not want to take the brunt of the dwarfs’ swordsmanship themselves. The Morrigan, in her black robes, was screaming furiously.

“Cowards! Liars! They are but five! Take them! Take them now!”

Fenodyree did not wait for more.

“Come,” he said. “We cannot hold them if she is here. We must seek where we may make a stand against them.”

A hundred yards was all they had, and as soon as they moved, the morthbrood surged after them. From the beginning there was little promise of escape, but when they crossed over the top of the hill, and came to a deeply sunk, walled lane, and saw warlocks streaming along it from both sides, they realised finally that this was the end of all pursuits, and, though it may seem strange, they were glad. The long struggle was nearly over, either way: a heavy load of responsibility was lifted from their hearts.

“We shall run while we can!” cried Fenodyree; and he jumped down into the lane and pulled himself over the wall on the other side. “Look for a place for swords!”

But they had no choice. Lyblacs, armed with staves, thronged the side of the valley below them.

“A circle!” shouted Gowther. “Colin! Susan! Into th’ middle!”

And so they took their stand: and all evil closed upon them.

“They are not to die, yet!” cried the Morrigan. “Who takes a life shall answer with his own!”

Back to back the dwarfs and Gowther fought, silently, and desperately. And in between crouched the children. The bestial shouts, the grunts and squeals of dying svarts, echoed from valley to valley. Fenodyree and Durathror wove a net of light with their swords as they slashed, and parried, and thrust. And when Gowther swung his stick skulls split and bones cracked. Their one hope was to survive until the wizard came, but where an enemy fell there was always another to take his place; and another, and another, and another, and another.

They fought themselves to a standstill. Gowther’s stick was knocked from his hands, but he bent and took up a svart-hammer in either hand, and from that moment the slaughter increased. Following his example, the weaponless children snatched themselves weapons, and entered into the fight.

And thus for a while the battle ran their way. But it was the last flare of a guttering candle before the night swamps all. The end came suddenly. A svart-hammer crashed home above Fenodyree’s elbow, and the bone snapped with the noise of a whiplash. His sword-arm hanging useless, Fenodyree was a broken wall, and soon the enemy would pour through the breach. Durathror acted. He pushed out his free hand behind him while keeping his eyes fixed on his work.

“The stone! Give me the stone!”

Without questioning, Susan ducked behind Gowther, took off the chain bracelet, and locked it about Durathror’s wrist. As she did so, a dozen pairs of hands clutched her, and dragged her backwards: but too late. Durathror sprang into the air. Valham enfolded him, and he turned towards Shuttlingslow in a last attempt to save the stone.

And the birds fell upon him like black hail. He disappeared from sight as though into a thunder cloud. The lightning of his sword flashed through the smoke of birds, and the earth grew dark with their bodies; but there were also white eagle feathers, with blood upon them, and their number grew.

The battle on the ground was done: all eyes were upon that in the air. Nothing of Durathror could be seen as the cloud moved slowly away, but few birds were dropping now.

Lower down the hillside a round knoll stood out from the slope, topped by a thin beech wood; and on its crown a tall pillar of gritstone jutted to the sky like a pointing finger. Clulow was its name.

Over this mound the last blow was struck. A white object fluttered out of the base of the mass, hovered for a moment, pitched forward, and crashed through the trees, and lay still.

Down rushed the lyblacs and svarts, howling. At the noise, the figure stirred. Durathror raised his head. Then he hauled himself upright against a grey trunk, steadied himself, and began to walk up the hill. He lurched and stumbled from tree to tree. His mail shirt was ripped half from his back, and Valham hung in ribbons. Often he would stand, swaying on his feet, and it seemed that he must fall backwards, but always he would stagger on, bent almost double, more wound than dwarf, and, at the last, leaning his full weight upon his sword.

So Durathror came to the pillar of stone. He put his back against it, and unclasped his belt. Loosening it, he threw it round the column, and buckled it tightly under his arms so that he should not fall. When this was done, he grasped Dyrnwyn in both hands, and waited.

For ten yards around, the hilltop was bare of trees, and at the edge of the circle the svarts halted, none wanting to be the first to cross the open ground and meet that sword. But it was only for a moment.

“There is the stone!” cried Shape-shifter from behind. “Take it!”

“Gondemar!” thundered Durathror.

Where he found the strength is a mystery and a great wonder. But such was his fury that none could withstand him, not even Arthog, lord of the svart-alfar, that was as big as a man. In the thick of the press he came against Durathror, and Durathror brought his sword round in an arc. The svart parried with his hammer, but Dyrnwyn clove through the stone, and Arthog’s head leaped from his shoulders. But no sword can shear through stone unpunished, and at the next stroke the blade snapped halfway to the hilt. Yet still Durathror fought, and none who faced him drew breath again; and the time came when the svarts and lyblacs fell back to the trees to regain their strength and to prepare a last assault.

Durathror sagged in his harness, and the stump of Dyrnwyn hung by his side. His head dropped forward on to his chest, and a silence lay upon the hill.