Duncton Stone

by William Horwood

  “The journeymole Radish got here all right then?” said Weeth.

  “Aye, he did, and told us all he could: of the disposition of Newborn forces south of Duncton as he saw it; of Duncton itself; and of your expedition to Banbury.”

  A cloud crossed Weeth’s face. “Not good, Maple, not good at all; that Quail...”

  Weeth began to talk of his experiences and would have continued had not Maple stopped him, told him it was best Ystwelyn heard it all as well, and ordered him to eat and rest.

  “We’re not rushing out of Bourton after Newborns tonight. We can wait a little on your report.”

  “But you’ll not be hanging about?”

  Maple shook his head grimly. “We’ll be going either on the morrow, or the day after that, depending on what you report of Arvon’s movements.”

  “He’s going south to wait near Duncton,”

  “Ah, then it’s as I thought.”

  Weeth nodded, glad to be with Maple again.

  “You’ve aged, if I may say so,” he said. “Your face is more lined; your snout’s a shade thinner; but...”

  “But what?” No other mole spoke to Maple like this and he rather liked it. “I’ve missed you, mole!” he said impulsively. “Now... but what...?”

  “You’re more angry.”

  “I’ve had the reports of what Quail and his underlings have been doing to moles that cross his path.”

  “I’ve seen him recently,” said Weeth. “He’s changed since we saw him in Caer Caradoc. He’s grown... foul.”

  Maple held up a paw. “Keep it until Ystwelyn’s here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Attending to followers nearby. And seeing if he can get Stow to persuade Rooster to show his snout in so busy a place as this.”

  Weeth yawned. “Too hungry to eat. Sleep...”

  “Sleep and eat and then talk.”

  Weeth grinned suddenly, impishly. “Good to be back, sir,” he said quietly, his eyes tired but wrinkling with contentment. “I’ve things to say, things which will take time to say. But not so long they’ll delay our campaigning.”

  “Sleep now, mole,” said Maple gently, nodding towards the portal that led into the tiny chamber that was his own sleeping place. “Like when we were travelling to Cannock from the Wenlock Edge.”

  Weeth remembered those harried days, which seemed so long ago now. Maple was referring to the way that when they needed rest they made a single shallow scrape and one watched while the other slept, the second lying in the warmth left by the first.

  “Ystwelyn will be coming, and others with him, and we’ll be conferring. Listen in if you’re awake, but don’t worry if you sleep on.”

  Weeth nodded, wearily.

  “Go on, sleep now,” Maple ordered; and with darkness falling, Weeth ducked through the portal and stretched out into the comfortable space, and slept.

  Night, and the growl of voices, sometimes singly, sometimes together in debate. Weeth shifted to hear the better though still half asleep. A series of reports, of the kind Maple liked moles to make before he made up his own mind. A listener was Maple, and after that a decider.

  A Welsh voice spoke, deep and authoritative: Ystwelyn. Then a female’s: unknown to Weeth, who drifted back to sleep. He woke once more to the sharper, thinner accents of a mole from the northern Welsh Marches... Furrow, he decided. He shifted again and peered out from the blackness of the sleeping cell on to the murkily-lit scene in the bigger chamber which Maple was using for a council of commanders.

  Suddenly he felt fully awake and popped his head through the portal, Weeth-like, and said, “Greetings friends, colleagues, and fellow enemies of the Newborn!”

  Those who had not known Weeth before, knew him now.

  He grinned and grimaced, went to those he knew and greeted them, winked at Maple and Ystwelyn, put his paws briefly round Furrow, and expressed enormous surprise to see Myrtle, Furrow’s mate.

  “Didn’t recognize your voice!” he said. “I must be weakening for something!”

  After a quick glance at Maple to be sure that laughter was in order, those who had not meet Weeth before joined in the welcome, and for some moments more the gathering was all talk and good cheer.

  Then Maple shifted and coughed, Weeth fell in dutifully at his left flank, and the meeting came to order once more; a little lighter in mood, yet somehow more purposeful, as if Weeth’s return confirmed once and for all that matters in moledom had reached a head.

  “We were reporting, Weeth, on how we see things; where we’re at.”

  “I heard,” he said. “Action imminent, it seems.”

  “Imminent indeed,” said Maple, turning to one of the commanders and nodding at him to continue. There were perhaps eight or nine there, including the senior commanders Whindrell, and Runnel, Stow’s second-in-command; along with a few more like Furrow, and the atmosphere was close and warm. The contributions continued, one after another so that all had their say. They were varied: some long and complex, others short and to the point, but all tended the same way, wherever the moles came from, whatever their recent experience. As a day of close hot weather leads towards a storm, so matters in moledom were leading that way too.

  At last all had spoken but for Weeth, to whom all now turned expectantly. Maple signalled for him to speak, which he did in his rapid graphic way, dwelling only briefly on the ground he sensed had been covered already by journey-mole Radish, and concentrating instead on those areas where he had information Arvon had revealed to him alone for just such a council as this.

  “Arvon’s view is that the most important discovery we made from our little chats with the Newborns who came our way is this: most senior Brother Commanders have been summoned for council at Banbury with Quail, We know that Taunt of Rollright was there, for example, though that we might expect, considering Rollright’s so close. Much more interesting is the fact that Brother Commanders Sapient and Turling were there.”

  “Of Avebury and Buckland? Both of them?”

  It was one of the junior commanders who spoke, but he expressed the surprise and excitement of them all.

  Weeth nodded slowly, looking round with narrowing eyes as he made sure that what he said was understood by all, and its significance sinking in.

  “Yes, Avebury and Buckland are – or were when I left – without their proper leaders. No doubt both Sapient and Turling have left capable deputies in charge, but they can’t be greatly experienced since we understood that all senior commanders from the systems south of Duncton were summoned to Banbury.”

  There was a feeling of exultant disbelief in the chamber.

  “It agrees with those other reports,” said Ystwelyn.

  “And my own observations near Nuneham,” said a younger commander, who had reported the northern movement of Newborn forces at about the time Quail must have been arriving in Banbury.

  Allmole turned expectantly to Maple, but he chose to say nothing more than, “Anymole with questions for our friend Weeth?”

  There were a few, mainly to clarify what little was known of Thorne, and to find out anything more Weeth might know about the strength of Quail’s forces and of the southern commanders’ presence.

  “I can’t say much more than I have,” said Weeth finally, “but I will add that Arvon was impressed by some of the patrols and encampments of Newborns that Squilver commands. We know little of him, but for what we saw at Cannock, and stories of his subsequent ousting by Thorne, but the mole seems to know how to command forces, and position them. And they seem loyal to him. He is not the tyrannical type like Sapient, but a mole would not expect Quail to have such as Squilver as Supreme Commander.”

  They all nodded.

  “And Thripp?” asked one of them finally. “Any news of him?”

  Weeth shrugged. “Nothing. I know nothing, and nor does anymole that we of Arvon’s force interrogated. That was one of the things he went on to discover, that and information of Thorne.”

  “And to
delay him, perhaps,” said Ystwelyn quietly.

  There was silence at this new thought until Maple looked expectantly at the Siabod mole and indicated that he might continue.

  “Well,” said Ystwelyn slowly, “Arvon does nothing without careful thought. I’ve been wondering why he did not confide in Weeth here what his further intentions were after they parted, except to say that he would eventually make his way back to be on paw near Duncton.

  “We all know Weeth can be relied on, so it was not lack of trust. No, I think it was because he saw no reason to burden Weeth with secrets which might come out if he was caught and interrogated. Secrets which were well worth the keeping. We can only guess at what they were. Well, now, nomole is better than Arvon at using small forces to good effect: one of his moles is worth twenty of any other commander’s. Even my own.” He grinned ruefully at this blunt admission of his brother’s superiority in that kind of campaigning. “He’ll have an eye out for news of Thripp, that’s certain. But, no doubt, Quail has him well under guard – assuming he’s still alive. No, what I think Arvon’s about is making a strike of some kind against Thorne, enough to hold him back. He’ll be aware of the dangers of Thorne taking over from Quail, just as we are. He’s gaining us time, and he’ll know that’s how I’ll interpret it.”

  After another moment’s silence Maple said, “You have all spoken well and to the point, and I think we see the way things must go.”

  He paused and looked about, the decision finally made. The chamber was in absolute silence, the moles’ faces lit only by the faintest of light from the night sky that came in at its two surface entrances.

  “We shall advance on southern moledom. We shall, subject only to intelligence that indicates that Avebury and Buckland are better protected than we think, occupy those systems in force. Avebury, as you all know, is one of the Ancient Systems, and its place in followers’ hearts is secure. We cannot say how many followers are still alive there, but we do know that some of them at least have survived up near Seven Barrows where Duncton’s own Fieldfare is a refugee.

  “I would be surprised if, when we take Avebury, we do not find followers ready to emerge from hiding or from the pretence that they are Newborn. We shall therefore treat that system gently. No bloody campaigning until we are sure it is Newborns we fight. No kill first and ask questions after. You know my views on that. We shall be liberating Avebury, no more, no less, and with news of its liberation a great wave of sympathy will go before us and we shall advance upon Duncton in its wake.”

  Maple spoke slowly, looking from one to another as he did so, his eyes growing more serious.

  “But Buckland – that is a different thing. The system is accursed. It was a place of torture and death in the distant days of moles of the Word, as we know from the grim record of the Duncton Chronicles. Well, the Newborns chose to take the place over and make it their own, and we have reports enough of the horrors committed there, second only, I suspect, to what in time may emerge from the evil that I believe is Wildenhope.*

  * At this point, nomole was yet aware of the full truth of Wildenhope, and the foul use made of its tunnels by the Newborn Inquisitors and the hierarchy. Snyde’s records were yet to be issued, and few Newborns had spoken out. Maple, right though he proved to be, was speaking on the basis of rumours then current. The truth, when it emerged, was far worse.

  “We shall destroy Buckland and we shall do it in the name of the Stone. Aye, in vengeful and dark spirit shall we do it. For there shall be an example set, that one. But hear me well, each one of you. Only in Buckland shall we destroy all we see, only there. For we wish to end these wars, not renew them. We shall crush the Newborn spirit, if so foul a thing can be called by so positive a name. We shall crush it, and lay its filthy body bare, and allmole shall know what we have done. As our liberation of Avebury shall lift the hearts of those who believe in freedom and tolerance, so shall our annihilation of Buckland cast down for ever the Newborn spectre, down into the darkness from where it came, down into the muck and filth across which moles must sometimes go, but in which they do not wish to rest and wallow if they are to reach the Stone’s Light.”

  Maple’s voice had risen just a little, and he himself had reared up in the dark and seemed to look down upon them all. They had never known him so fearsome, and perhaps only Weeth and Ystwelyn had ever even guessed that it was this power of controlled anger, of purpose, and of ruthless intent, that made Maple the great warrior he was. Like a storm that only hints at its powers by roaring and shifting in the topmost branches of the highest trees in a wood, Maple was now showing what would happen when he came down to earth, and it seemed that already its surface trembled before his coming.

  “We shall leave tomorrow, in the afternoon,” he said, and the others were barely able to refrain from cheering. “In the morning Ystwelyn and I shall wish to speak to all other commanders and their immediate subordinates, to tell them what our decisions are, and what the dispositions of our campaign will be. I would hope that by then our good friend Rooster will be with us, for many of us, myself especially, would like to feel that he approves of what we are doing. Such an affirmation will start us off well. So somemole here please send out for Stow, who has been trying to track him down. Aye, Runnel, you do it, Rooster has a liking for you, though Stone knows why!”

  There was general laughter, deep and generous, but dangerous too. It would have made a Newborn tremble through and through.

  “You others, assemble those who need to be briefed and have them ready hereabout by mid-morning.”

  “Aye, sir!” cried out many a voice as the Council began to break up, and its members to go out into the night.

  “No, Ystwelyn, you stay with me a moment more... and you Weeth, you stay as well. Good, yes, so... you others, thank you all.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The others left, their pawsteps fading away along with their excited and purposeful voices. The chamber felt suddenly empty, and Maple, Ystwelyn and Weeth stanced without a word until the others’ pawsteps retreated finally on to the surface and were heard no more.

  “Well then,” muttered Maple, almost to himself, “decision made. And yet...”

  Ystwelyn laughed and said, “Don’t try and tell me you have doubts, Maple. Not after that speech.”

  Maple grinned. “Doubts? None at all. We shall take Avebury and free it; we shall crush Buckland; and then we shall advance on Duncton. And we shall do it all before Longest Night. Which is all very well, but I feel something’s missing in all of this and I think that you, good Weeth, know what it is.”

  “I? Weeth?” said Weeth conspiratorially, as if talking about some other mole.

  “That ‘special thing’,” reminded Maple. “Remember?”

  “Ah, yes. So the journeymole Radish reported my comment to you. Never trust a journeymole!” He laughed, a little uneasily.

  “I would have reminded you anyway, mole,” said Maple.

  “I know, I know,” said Weeth, suddenly serious. “Let’s move to the surface. It’s too hot and close for comfort in here and I would see the stars...”

  The two bigger moles followed him, all climbing up through tunnels in silence, glad to breathe in the cooler night air, and see the spread of shining stars above their heads.

  Three of Ystwelyn’s Siabod guardmoles moved protectively about, acknowledging the presence of their most senior commanders with a guttural “Sir!” in the night, watchful, caring, proud. They were moles who had been with Ystwelyn from the beginning, and though they acknowledged Maple as their ultimate superior, it was Ystwelyn they served, and Siabodian, his home language, they spoke amongst themselves.

  To them Ystwelyn was their greatest leader, come out of the fastness of dark Siabod to serve the greater cause. One day, and it was one they often dreamed of, he would lead them all back, their task in moledom fulfilled, the Stone’s demands of them met, and they would feel the rough grass of Moel Siabod beneath their paws once more, and tell the grea
test tale of their lives, and hear once more the deep rhythmic songs of their homeland, ancient in origin, ever changing in melody and word to meet the need of moment and occasion, and express the passions of their Siabodian hearts.

  “You promised to teach me some Siabodian one day,” said Maple softly, when they had found a place to stance down and talk once more.

  “He’s no teacher, mole!” said the rasping voice of one of the guards from out of the darkness. He brought some food and placed it near them. “Ystwelyn’s a commander, a warrior, and not much of a one for talk. If you want to learn Siabodian, sir, I’ll teach you!”

  Maple laughed. He knew the mole well, had often stanced down in some dangerous place with Newborns nearby and felt the security the guardmole’s presence gave him.

  “I’ll remember that, Curig,” he said.

  “And I’ll not forget, sir. It is true...?”

  He glanced at Ystwelyn in the darkness, uncertain perhaps whether he had taken his familiarity too far.

  “Aye, it’s true, Curig: we’re off on the morrow, Buckland way. We’ll be giving a briefing in the morning. Now...”

  “Aye, sir!” said Curig, smiling briefly and retreating to a respectful distance.

  “Make me feel safe, your moles do. Always have.”

  “They’d die for you,” said Ystwelyn.

  “For you first, mole,” said Weeth matter-of-factly.

  “No mole, not for me. For Maple. It’s me they love, but the one I serve whom they serve first.”

  Maple sighed and they all ate the food, thinking sombre thoughts of the morrow, and the coming campaign, and fearing that some moles would not see the Wolds again.

  “Now,” said Maple at last. “What’s on your mind, Weeth?”

  “I do not want to be apart from you again, sir, that’s on my mind. I did not enjoy it. I fretted. I worried for you.”