The Haven

by Graham Diamond

  Des felt helpless, treated as though he were a pawn in a game of chess. “Once more I ask you to send someone else,” he said. “I want to stand beside my men when the battle comes —”

  “The choice is not yours to make,” snapped Elon. “A soldier’s duty is to obey orders.”

  Des stood back and bowed his head. As much as he disliked the idea of forging through the forest while his men were fighting and dying, there was nothing he could do.

  Sean sighed, then shook his head slowly. “You send them all to their deaths,” he said sadly.

  The Elder glanced at his general. “I, alone, shoulder the responsibility,” he said. “It is on my hands and my hands alone.”

  “We can make it,” said Nigel.

  Elon looked up at him and smiled weakly. “With Desmond in charge, perhaps.”

  “I thought I was to be in charge.”

  Elon shook his head. “Desmond will be in full command. Your role will be that of counselor. You are to obey his authority in all matters, is that understood?” Nigel lowered his gaze and nodded. Better Des than someone else, he thought.

  “I have allowed this mission only because our situation is so serious,” Elon said. “And it must be carried out under strict military supervision. Once you enter Deep-Forest there will be no one to help you. No man, no bird. You’ll be on your own.”

  Des looked up, resigned to the task. “How many men can I take?”

  “How many will you need?”

  The soldier thought for a moment. Too many would slow them down, he knew. If they were to have a chance they needed speed, the ability to cover great distance in the shortest time. But he must have enough men to make a good stand, should they be attacked. Good men, with good experience. He wiped his brow with his hand, then spoke. “Besides Lawrence, Nigel, and myself, I’ll need eight others.”

  Elon readily agreed. “You’re in command,” he said. “Choose whomever you like.” Sean started to protest again but an angry glance from Elon stopped him. “There’s one more thing, though,” the Elder said. “If the way becomes hopeless, if you fear becoming lost, turn back and return as quickly as you can.”

  “I understand,” Des said. “Our route will be carefully mapped. We won’t become lost, but if the dangers seem overwhelming we’ll head for home.”

  “Good,” said Elon, forcing a smile, “but I don’t want you to be hasty, either. Your success could be vital. If Nigel is right, and new lands can be found, I want you to keep going until you find them.”

  Des nodded; he understood. “I have much to prepare,” he said. “May Lord Nigel and I take our leave?”

  Elon nodded. The two men turned to go.

  “A question,” said Vandor, looking to Nigel. The young Lord turned and faced him.

  “From which direction will you enter the forest?” he asked. “You know you must stay clear of the southern wood, where the dogs are massing.”

  Nigel stood tall, his eyes beaming. “The Northern Forest will be our route,” he said without hesitation. “The way of Ciru.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wolves, the other Dwellers believe, are in many respects like men. They are clannish, keeping their own council, are cunning and highly intelligent. Both are mistrusted, both are feared, both are hated. And also like men, wolves are often blamed for deeds which in truth were not of their doing. For a wolf to hear this comparison would be no less than insult, for like many species of Dwellers they are proud and noble, seeing themselves alone as civilized in a world of barbarity. Yet these were strange times in the world, unsettled and changing. And it took a bold and courageous leader to understand all this, and know what must be done.

  The Counsel had traveled long days and nights. Summoned with urgency, it was with urgency he had come. His own lair was far from this place but he knew the way well, having been here many times before. Why he had been sent for he did not know; but that something was wrong, he was certain. He had sensed it everywhere throughout the forest, even among the lesser species, heard it in whispers, seen it in their uneasy faces. Some had shivered and run from his sight, a most unusual occurrence. Why? He was not hunting or tracking, merely making his way, alone, to the Pack of Dinjar, king of the wolves. Why had they fled?

  Of some Dwellers, weasel and fox, rabbit and stoat, he would expect as much. But of the rest, no. Something had frightened them out of their wits. And strangest of all were the jackals; they wailed, in their strange way, the news of his travels — as if it were of great importance. It was all quite mysterious. Perhaps Dinjar could explain it, indeed perhaps it was because of all this commotion that he was called. Hector shook his head in puzzlement. Never had he known anything quite like it.

  *

  The home of the Pack was stretched across a rolling meadow. Along the ridges of the hills sentries stood on watch, peering out into the forest, ready for danger. They were large animals, powerful and muscular, with sharp features and keen eyes that slanted up at the corners. There was no beast they feared, no dog, no man. But on that night they were concerned with neither. Dinjar had bade them keep a careful eye, for tonight he would stay deep within his cave on the side of the hill and hold council with Hector. Under no circumstances was he to be disturbed.

  So as the Pack fed on fresh deer under the moon and stars, their thoughts and eyes glanced to the cave and the unusual meeting going on within.

  Hector sat impassive, gnawing at his bone, running his tongue across his lips. His gray fur glinted even in the shadows; his eyes studied the red wolf who paced nervously before him. Dinjar had hardly touched his own supper. He stood forlornly beside the mouth of his cave, gazing at the silvery moon. He wagged his tail incessantly and dug at the earth with his paws. Hector saw all this, understood it, yet still said nothing.

  Dinjar turned and shook his fur. Dark beady eyes stared at the Counsel. “Well?” he said, impatiently. “Which way shall I go?”

  Hector pushed the bone aside; he licked his paws. “Then there is no doubt?”

  Dinjar shook his head. “None whatsoever.”

  The Counsel sighed. So it had come at last, the day all wolves had feared and dreaded. “Perhaps this is some sort of trick? Perhaps —”

  The king cut him off curtly. “No trick, no ruse. There is no longer any question. Even the birds have noticed.”

  Hector leaned back against the moss on the wall and growled. There was little birds ever overlooked, he knew. If they had seen it, it must be so. Give them credit for at least that.

  Dinjar lowered his eyes. There was a sense of pleading in his voice as he spoke. “You know I wouldn’t consider such a thing if there were any other way, any other way at all. But there isn’t. I’m going to break the Treaty, no matter what comes.” The words trailed off in a whine.

  Hector sat in deep silence, eyes following a beetle that was crawling at the edge of the bone. “This matter requires most careful consideration, my Lord,” he said at length. “Every possibility must be considered and weighed before any decision can be made.”

  Dinjar snarled, scratching again at the dirt. “I’ve done just that,” he snapped. “Tormented myself for days. Considered this alternative, considered that alternative. But it all comes out the same: break the Treaty. But if you have a better scheme, tell me. What’s your advice? That’s why I summoned you.”

  Hector drew a deep breath, letting the words roll from his tongue. “Is a viper’s poison less deadly than a night-bird’s bite?” he said. “You walk a fine line, my Lord. A very fine line. I caution you to tread softly. The wrong decision could bring disaster down upon our heads.” “So you tell me to tread softly,” said the King bitterly. “I know the risks. You speak as though I were a cub making his way from his mother for the first time. Speak your mind, Hector. Don’t dally. If I’m a fool, say it. If I am wrong, tell me.”

  “You cannot be wrong. You are King.”

  “Ah, I see. How simple. A King cannot be wrong. Is that all I need to know? Our tribe looms
on the brink of catastrophe and you tell me I cannot be wrong because I am the King. But what if I were not King, Hector. What would you say to me then?”

  “I would warn you that the cure may prove as fatal as the sickness you try to cure. Once the Treaty is broken, the dogs will use it as an excuse. They’ll raid our lands, kidnap our females —”

  “They need no excuse,” said Dinjar. “This is their shining hour of glory. This is their chance to humble us, make us bow before them.”

  Hector stared into his King’s eyes. “If you break the Treaty it will be your head they demand,” he said.

  Dinjar laughed aloud, a deep resonant laugh that turned many an ear of the Pack outside. “Oh, my good friend, Hector! We argue for nothing. The dogs will break the Treaty themselves now, anyway. They no longer need to maintain peace with us. They can now face two wars, even three, at the same time.”

  “But they do still need us,” protested Hector. “The Treaty allows access over our lands.!”

  “But they won’t need us for that anymore. Don’t you see? They’ll take away from us all we have. The Treaty was fine as long as they could use us.” Here Dinjar spoke slower, his voice a snarl. “But they won’t need us any longer. Treaty or no Treaty.”

  Hector was forced to agree; he could not do otherwise. The Treaty was merely a sham, had always been. The two species hated each other. It was a convenience that both had found to their advantage, so they both respected its terms. At least it had allowed wolves to live free; without it ... But if all he had learned were true, that the dogs did gather in the Southern Forest, such freedom would be lost. For wolves, although equal in combat, were far too few to even dream, much less hope, of defeating these hordes of dogs.

  “Their power will be awesome,” reminded Dinjar.

  “Yet as long as they still lust for man’s Valley their legions will be more than occupied. They still won’t want to fight us.”

  Dinjar shook his head. “I wish it were so,” he said. “But now, with this new and terrible alliance — I don’t know. With such an army they can conquer the Valley before the end of summer.”

  Hector was taken aback. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “Do — do you really believe that?” he asked. Never before had he seen his King show so little respect for the powers of the other enemy: man.

  “I do, Counsel. Even with their fire-weapon, men will be no match for such a force. And the Prophesy will indeed be fulfilled. Dog will be master of the world.”

  “And after they defeat men,” said Hector, glumly, “they’ll turn on us.”

  “We’ve always known it, my friend. As few as we are, we’re still the only species who might conceivably pose a threat to them. And that is a chance they will not dare to take. Our cubs will be slaughtered like sheep, our females enslaved, our Hunters murdered. Those few who escape will be scattered forever across the forests, helpless and doomed to extinction.”

  Hector made no attempt to speak. There was a rumble of thunder from low clouds in the south. The wolf twitched his nose and sank his snout gloomily against his chest. Dinjar’s words had moved him deeply, that was obvious. And there was little use in pretending; the picture he had painted was true. Their kingdom would scatter to the winds.

  “Now do you understand why I plan what I do?” asked the King.

  Hector nodded. His eyes were blank and dulled. “Is there no alternative?” he asked, knowing there was not.

  The red-furred King smiled wryly. “There is,” he said sarcastically. “We can humble ourselves before this — Master. Beg for mercy, plead to join their crusade in return for our lives.”

  “Never!” barked Hector, nostrils flaring. “Such lives would not be worth living!”

  Dinjar smiled. The Treaty itself was humiliating enough, being forced upon them as it was. And anything more would be intolerable, ultimate disgrace. He had reacted with the very same repulsion when the possibility had first crossed his mind.

  Hector shook his head slowly and sadly. “But what you suggest is equally distressing,” he said, “as well as being fraught with danger. At least we know dogs, have lived with their ways, understand their treachery. What do we know of — men?”

  The thought was spoken with a mixture of both fear and respect.

  The King reminded his Counsel of an ancient proverb, one well known in the wood: “Those who slay my enemy deserve my friendship.”

  Unimpressed, Hector countered with a proverb of his own, equally well known, equally true: “And if my enemies war among themselves,” he recited, “then truly shall I rejoice!”

  Dinjar turned his head to the side, hiding his eyes from Hector’s stare. It was painful for this proud King to realize that no longer could his tribe rely solely upon itself for its own protection. “Don’t you think I know that?” he barked. “I know what devils men are. I know they would see us all killed if they could. Yet I must put aside this knowledge and offer them our help, not because I like it, but because I fear the Master and his hordes more.”

  “Your point is well given,” said Hector, “and well received.” It was said that men were killers of all Dwellers, save the birds, yet they were not as cruel, nor as ruthless. “So,” he said at last, “it seems you have picked the lesser of two very great evils.”

  “I am a wolf!” snapped Dinjar. “I made a decision based on what is best for wolves. Men would kill us, if they could, but they will see that because of the terrible threat against them it will be to their advantage to use us.”

  Hector smiled. “While we use them.”

  “And why not? We are both in danger — frightful danger. Is it wrong for us to do so?”

  “Not wrong. Just strange.”

  “Then so be it,” growled Dinjar. “Together we may have a chance. Alone, each is doomed.”

  “Ah, but you overlook one thing.”

  Dinjar cocked his head to the side, glaring at his Counsel.

  “You assume that men will listen to what we offer,” continued the gray wolf. “But surely you know they will suspect us of treachery, even believe that we spy upon them. We offer them peace, a truce, yes. But we are cousins to the dogs. We know it; they know it. They will not trust us. And I would not blame them. They see little difference between dog and wolf, or any other Dweller for that matter.”

  Dinjar listened restlessly. This was an aspect he had not given any thought. Why indeed should men trust him? If the roles were reversed, if an emissary of men had come to the wolves, would he not harbor these very same mistrusts? Never had there been peaceful contact between the two, and now perhaps it was too late to start.

  Dinjar sighed; he shook his head sadly. “But we have to try,” he said at length. “Men must be convinced we come in good faith. We have to find some way to do it, and quickly. Already the enemy gathers in great numbers; time is of the essence.”

  Hector looked up at him. “I agree, Lord. But how?”

  The King stepped close to his friend and put his long snout beside his Counsel’s ear, and whispered. “The very existence of our tribe could be at stake. Our lives might depend on the outcome of this meeting. And we cannot let it slip by. There has to be some way to make men believe in our sincerity. Help me, Hector, help me to find it.”

  Hector listened, then began to pace back and forth along the mouth of the cave. Dinjar was right; he was convinced of that now. For good or ill, there was no other way. But the question remained: how to make men understand? In all his time as Counsel he had never faced a problem like it.

  Dinjar sat nervously as Hector strode before him, his tail beating restlessly against the gravelly dirt. Outside, the thunderclouds rumbled closer; a heavy downpour began. Wolves began to scramble for shelter beneath the branches of the trees. From high up in a tall oak, a tiny sparrow sought shelter on a lower branch. Dinjar chuckled at the sight of the twittering, wet bird. Hector noticed it also. And just then his eyes brightened, his jaw dropped.

  Dinjar stared at him.

  “I have
it!” cried the Counsel, joyfully. “There is a way, a better way than if we were to approach the men ourselves. At least it won’t shut the door.”

  “Well, stop gibbering and moaning like a jackal and tell me!” barked the King.

  “A bird,” panted Hector. “Let our message be carried by a bird!”

  “Of course,” growled the King. “Why didn’t I think of it? The answer was right in front of us all the time. Men will listen to the words of a bird. They always do, don’t they?”

  Hector nodded. “Only the Fates know why, but they trust them completely. But we must choose our messenger well,” he cautioned. “It will have to be someone they already have had dealings with before, a bird they would have complete confidence in.”

  Dinjar smiled coyly, a smile written across his face. “And I know just the one! The falcon, Cath. He has been many times to the Valley, speaks in their tongue like one of their own. And his nest is close.”

  The King peeked his head out of the cave and barked.

  From the tussocks on the side, a soaking-wet Hunter came panting into the cave. He lowered his head, stretched out his front paws and bowed, wolf-fashion. “My Lord?”

  “I need you to do an errand,” said Dinjar. “I want you to seek out the falcon nest across the meadow and bring me Lord Cath, their leader. And bring him at once.”

  The Hunter nodded, grinning. “Right away, my Lord. I’ll tear the feathers from his body if he gives the slightest resistance.”

  “No, you dolt! He Is a Lord and is to be treated like one. Don’t lay a paw on him, understand? If a single feather is ruffled I’ll tear out your throat!”

  The Hunter gulped. What was going on here? Since when did his King pay such respect to mere birds? Of course these questions were not asked aloud. “As you command, Lord,” he answered. “I’ll fetch him right away.”

  As he turned to go, Hector stopped him. His eyes stared intently at the Hunter. “This task is urgent,” he said. “You must find this Cath quickly and persuade him to come. We need him to deliver an important message for us.”