But here, at Duncton Wood, something different had happened than ever before and Wrekin seemed not to appreciate the fact. As far as he was concerned, all that mattered was that victory over another system had been achieved: these later deaths and troubles seemed to him relatively unimportant compared to that.
“We’ll find out, WordSpeaker, rest assured of that. I left enough guardmoles in adjacent systems to pick up information about any escapers, and that news will come in soon enough now. They’ve orders to take prisoners and get what information they can from them in whatever way seems best.”
His mouth hardened and his eyes went cold. Wrekin was a fighting mole, not a torturer, but his instincts told him that these Duncton moles were more insanely fervent than other Stone followers they had defeated, and he feared that the job of getting information from them might have to be given over to the sideem. Which meant that Weed would have a paw in it.
Wrekin said no more and Weed, who had been crouched nearby, shook his head in exaggerated disbelief.
“And that’s it, is it?”
“What more is there to say?” asked the fighter coldly. “They put up a good defence, they weakened, and we won. Now they have gone leaving a few residual problems. But they fought well, and I respect them.”
“Respect them? Hasn’t it occurred to you, Wrekin, that what has happened here in Duncton Wood is strange and ominous?”
“You see shadows in the brightest sunlight, Weed. You always have, you always will. We won, Weed. We defeated them. What more do you want?”
As Weed opened his mouth to argue further, Henbane raised a talon to stop him, turned to Wrekin, complimented him on all he had done, and told him to go and rest. But when news came in she wanted to know about it.
As Sleekit made to go after Wrekin, Henbane motioned her to stay, saying, “You should hear all things, sideem, everything. Did not the Master tell you that?” Henbane’s voice was soft as a willow’s bud, and frightening. Sleekit smiled, glanced at Weed and settled down.
“Well?” said Henbane, turning abruptly to Weed. “And did we not defeat them?”
Weed stirred, got up restlessly and stared up at the Stone, peered about the sinewy rising branches of the beech trees, and snouted at some moist leaf litter at his paws.
“I don’t like Duncton Wood,” he said, his snout twisting round as he glanced again briefly at the Stone. “Not a place for us to stay long. Strange the empty tunnels, and the trees on a hill. Never did like that. Vales are where trees should be, hills are for treeless moorland.”
He darted a glance at Henbane to see what the effect of his reminding her of moorland was. She had been raised to moorland and he knew that she missed it. As the campaign in the south had gone on these last few moleyears, she had begun to lose interest and to want to return north for a time. And, too, to see Rune again. Yes, she wanted that.
But she was silent, waiting.
Sleekit had sidled into shadow, and was still as death.
“What Wrekin is missing is the fact that there was resistance here at all,” continued Weed. “In all the long years of our progress over southern moledom, I cannot remember a better defence than the one we faced here. Nor can I remember a better retreat: total. All gone. Some drowned but many survived to plan and fight another day.”
Henbane nodded, unusually quiet. Weed was a mole she listened to, for though he did not have Wrekin’s ability to lead the guardmoles he was capable of seeing the subtler – and the more ominous – possibilities of things. He was useful to her as a listener, a sounding wall.
“This Tryfan, he seems to be a cleverer mole than any we’ve come across in many a year,” said Weed. “And judging from the way he evacuated the moles here, he must be something of a leader too.”
Henbane shrugged.
“There have been other ‘leaders’,” she said, “all dead now. He might be dead.” She stared over at the Stone, then indifferently at Sleekit, then at nothing much, a moment’s memory in her eyes. Weed knew of what well enough. Of moles, of males, of “leaders” she had known, known very well briefly, and then, having used them, made them die.
“Mmm,” muttered Henbane suddenly. “Yes. Rebels have their uses. They give the guardmoles something to do, somemole to vent their frustration on. I am not the only mole to wish to return to Whern,” she said unexpectedly.
She knows my thoughts too well, thought Weed – some of them.
“What worries me about this place is the sickly smell of faith it has” he continued, “and the unfamiliar notion it puts in moles of the Word that, for once, the nature of things is against them.”
“Tell me more, Weed,” commanded Henbane, turning to face him full on, and listening to every word he said.
“Sleekit knows,” said Weed quite suddenly, turning on the sideem and lunging close. “You know don’t you?”
The question was almost violent and for a brief moment Sleekit looked shocked, and once again she glanced at the Stone, and then away.
She smiled coldly at Weed.
“I know much that you have taught me, much that I have learnt. Duncton is not a good place for moles of the Word and I am sure that the WordSpeaker is thinking of ways in which it can be destroyed such that moles will never return here.”
It was a good enough reply, thought Weed.
He turned back to Henbane and said, “Without even realising it, we’ve lost the initiative over the Stone followers. They have made us all look powerless, and we have no prisoners to interrogate.”
“Then find some! Find some, find them,” she said violently. “I want them found.”
“We will do so,” said Weed, wondering who “they” would turn out to be. If there was one thing Henbane did not like it was to be ignored, and though this mole Tryfan could not have known it, by evacuating the system he had delivered to Henbane an insult she would not forget, or allow to go unpunished.
“See they are found, Weed, find them for me, find anymole of Duncton that I may...” she said, her voice now curiously weak, weak as only Weed was allowed to hear it.
“I will,” he whispered soothingly.
“Do so, Weed. But if they find Tryfan I want him alive, very much alive.”
Weed’s eyes smiled and his yellow teeth showed and his tongue flicked pinkly and was gone.
“But before then, find me a Duncton mole, any Duncton mole, for I would talk with him.” Her eyes were suddenly angry and bitter, her talons flexing at the humus, her mouth open. Weed decided he had better find a dispensable mole, for the first of Duncton Henbane saw would be dead from the moment she saw him.
“Leave me now,” said Henbane waving them both away.
When they had gone Henbane turned peremptorily from the Stone, and a look of astonishing sadness went over her face, and then weariness. She crouched down.
“How long?” she whispered. “Rune, how long?”
Silently, as a tear coursed down her face, she whispered, “Rune, I am weary now, longing for Whern. And you, do you wait my return?” She sighed, deeply, almost like a pup in distress. She stilled, eyes everywhere, face hardening. Mole watching? Mole to see her like this would be mole to die. She relaxed again, and stared round balefully at the Stone.
Yet as she did so, a mole watched. Weed. From shadows to the south. It was his job and he was good at it.
She seemed about to whisper again when noise came from beyond the circle of trees round the Stone: surreptitious, timid, nervous, weak. She stared, eyes narrowing, talons tensing, shoulders huge and black.
Behind her, unseen, Weed tensed too. Mole was coming. Word help the mole that disturbed Henbane’s privacy. Weed relaxed. He was about to see a mole die.
Henbane seemed to disappear into the shadows about the Stone, and yet she did not move.
The intruder from the north poked a small pink snout out of vegetation, stared up at the Stone and, still staring, came out into the open before it.
He said in a small male voice, “I knew I cou
ld get here by myself.” He looked tearful, and very nervous.
“Well done,” said Henbane heavily from the shadows, except that suddenly she was not in shadows at all, but there, seeming almost bigger than the great Stone and certainly awesome.
“Oh!” said the mole.
“Whatmole might you be?” said Henbane sweetly. A mole might well tremble before the threat in that voice.
“Of Duncton born,” said the young mole.
“You’re dirty, you’re frightened, you’re in the wrong place and I’d like very much to know how you got here, past my guardmoles.”
“I avoided them,” said the youngster. “It wasn’t easy, but I did.”
Henbane smiled, the mole relaxed, and, unseen behind them both, Weed tensed. She would kill for sure.
“What is your name?” asked Henbane, most reasonably, her talons flexing ready for a thrust.
The youngster turned to her, eyes wide and trusting now, and went to her.
“I’m Bailey,” he said.
From the moment Tryfan left them to join the evacuation from the system, Skint’s command of his small group of moles was tight and disciplined. Silence was the principle rule, obedience the next. And Skint knew that if they were to survive, then mutual trust would be needed.
After Tryfan and Spindle had left, he had set them to completing the deeper burrows that they felt they would need, using the precious time left before the grikes infiltrated the system.
Skint sent out two trusted moles as watchers, to report the moment sight or sound of the grikes was established, deputing Yarrow, an older male who had proved himself in the fighting earlier and was uninjured, and Tundry, who had been a watcher over near the river throughout the battle and had kept a cool head. The two were told that when they returned they were to try to do so silently, to test out the sounding systems in the hidden tunnels and burrows.
Meanwhile those staying behind checked they had food enough, double-checked the disguised exits and entrances, adjusted some of the sounding stones and roots in the tunnels above which would be useful indicators of the presence of alien moles, and as mid-afternoon wore on settled down and waited for the return of Yarrow and Tundry.
The sounding systems worked well: Yarrow was heard early on, and Tundry picked up only a little later, coming from a different direction. They reported they had heard and seen the arrival of moles near the Ancient Systems and after making some assessment of their numbers, and checking the Eastside out to confirm there were more there, they left well alone and returned to the Marsh End.
“Right now, we may hear nothing for hours, for days even,” said Skint, “but we will hear something eventually. As we can’t just sit here and rot we’ll investigate, and bit by bit we’ll learn what the grikes are up to. We know they’re well ordered and they like regularity, so there’ll be guards, patrols, and all the rest, and the main thing will be to find out what their positions and routines are without ever once giving away that we are in the system. Any questions?”
“What if one of us gets caught?” asked Fidler, a young watcher who had shown he was resourceful and capable of working by himself. He had been one of Skint’s recommendations.
“Get caught and you’re on your own. Don’t expect to be rescued. Say nothing. It won’t be nice, so don’t get caught.”
They looked at each other grimly. Getting caught probably meant death.
It was a full twenty-four hours before they first heard mole sounds, up on the surface. Quite loud, very confident. Two moles... no, one lingering, the other going.
Tundry went up to investigate and was soon back.
“Male, large, dim-looking,” he whispered. “Came to within a few feet of the east entrance but saw nothing.”
“Any sign of the other we heard?” asked Skint.
“Only tracks. Another male. Heading south.”
They heard the alien mole wander off.
The following dawn Fidler and Yarrow went out on patrol. They came back two hours later looking sheepish.
“We discovered a single male,” said Yarrow. “Had to kill him. He saw us.”
Skint was not pleased.
“A killed mole means there’s living moles to do the deed, and that means investigation. We’re going to have to think about that... but it will at least cause consternation – and no doubt make them increase their efforts to find living moles in the system. Covert means secret and it means discreet,” said Skint. “It means unknown, it means very silent. We are going to be the most unknown moles in moledom. Got it?”
The others nodded, grim-faced, as tough a lot of Stone followers as had ever been assembled at Duncton.
“Now we’ve had a few days of this, and we’re going to have a whole lot more. So from now on we do nothing without planning, and without thought. I’m not saying that what we’ve done so far is a disaster, but it’s not been controlled enough. You know what our objective is? Eh?”
Skint looked around them all morosely.
“Fear,” he said. “Yes, fear. Grikes have terrorised moledom for as long as I can remember, and they’ve done it two ways. First they’ve done it by brutality, second they’ve done it by fear of the Word. Well, now. Well...” Skint thought for a bit.
“We’re going to make them so afraid of Duncton that they won’t want to stay here very long. We’re going to take grikes out, one by one. We’re going to kill one or two savagely. Or make it look savage. If you’ve got to kill do it quick and painlessly, we’re not doing that any other way. But make it look savage afterwards. A few grikes are going to disappear because that’s what makes their friends worried. I know. That’s what happened on the Slopeside. And you know what else we’re going to do...”
“Bailey?” repeated Henbane, her eyes narrow, her talons lusting for the feel of his innocent flesh.
“Yes,” said Bailey. “And my sister Starling and my other sister Lorren and....”
“And?” purred Henbane.
“You haven’t said your name,” said Bailey coming even nearer.
In the shadows Weed blinked. The mole was not dead.
Henbane’s talons had retracted somewhat. The mole was unpleasantly close to her. And then the mole....
“Never do that again!” said Henbane, rearing up.
“I only touched you,” said Bailey. “Your fur’s funny.”
There was a long silence. Weed blinked again. He was sweating now, though the day was not overwarm. The tedious youngster was still alive.
And then Henbane laughed. Laughed as if she had never laughed, laughed so much that the guardmole who had failed to apprehend Bailey came running, and stared. Henbane laughed almost hysterically.
“What’s funny?” said Bailey.
She stopped as fast as she had started. She had seen the guardmole.
She said to Bailey, “Stay here and don’t move.”
She went over to the guardmole.
“Did you see this young mole pass by?”
“No, WordSpeaker. I...,” he hesitated. Henbane killed him. And Bailey stared, wide-eyed, just stared. He stared at the blood on her talons. He stared at the guardmole slumped before her. He stared at a second guardmole, who had come running and was now grey of snout and shaking with fear until he was killed too.
Then Bailey said, “I don’t like you.”
At which Henbane turned on him, angry now, that anger she had started with redoubled, trebled, quadrupling as she seemed to ripple with it and Bailey backed away from her as she slowly advanced on him, until his back was against the Stone, which rose high above him.
Watching, Weed gulped.
“Also,” said Bailey, “I don’t think the Stone likes you, it doesn’t like you at all, and it will never like you and if Starling was here I know what she’d say, I know exactly what she’d say, she’d say, she’d say...” As he spoke these last words his voice had begun to waver, and his eyes to fill with tears, and he looked from Henbane to the dead guardmoles and back again.
/> Then to watching Weed’s astonishment Bailey, trembling yet determined, came out from the shadow of the great Stone of Duncton right up to her, as if he was not in the slightest bit afraid, and he said, “Starling would tell you to go away and never, ever, ever come back. Go away!” He screamed it out, and began to cry.
At which, to Weed’s yet greater astonishment, Henbane, conqueror of moledom, daughter of Rune, WordSpeaker, Henbane of Whern stared at the youngster mole aghast, her eyes wide, and her mouth working, and she reached forward a paw and pushed or, more accurately, half lifted Bailey aside, and then turned and waved him to be still, not unkindly, but in some way that told them both it was better that he shut up now, he had said enough because because – and she raised her talons and crashed them down where Bailey had been, and stared at the humus and leaf all ripped and churned. Then she raised her talons again and brought them down, but gently, so gently, as a mother might, where Bailey had been and she lowered her snout and she too began to cry.
Nomole, nomole must see her. No one but must die. Weed acted quickly. He came out of the shadows and Henbane did not respond as normally she might: with anger at his sneakings. She ignored him, her sobs as passionate as her anger or her hatred, terrible to hear; the sobs of a pup never once allowed to cry, who cries at last.
Weed allowed no others near, but this wretched, idiotic Bailey. He stayed whimpering. Nomole else.
Then when she had stopped Weed said, “You had better rest, WordSpeaker,” his voice respectful but authoritative.
She nodded, not looking at him.
“He’s coming,” she said, meaning Bailey.
“I’m not,” said Bailey.
Weed grabbed his shoulder and hissed, “You are, youngster, yes you are,” and Bailey, very frightened suddenly because this mole’s snout twisted and made him think he was going dizzy, said, “Yes!” And as if they were two pups, Weed herded the most powerful mole in moledom, and, until a few moments before, the weakest, down into the Duncton tunnels, to a chamber well out of sight.
Duncton Quest Page 49
