The Snarling of Wolves

by Vivian French

  “Atchoo!” Soot was up his nose. “ATCHOO!”

  Marcus rubbed at his face, unaware that he was plastered in thick black soot from head to foot. Cautiously he crept to the edge of the roof, and looked down.

  “Wow!” he said. “WOW!”

  From his vantage point the prince could see not only the full extent of the kingdom of Gorebreath, but all the way to Dreghorn. Squinching up his eyes he almost believed he could see the twinkling lights of Dreghorn Palace; swinging round he could clearly see the dark rim of the forest edging the border of the Five Kingdoms, and the mountain peaks that lay beyond. “It’s all so SMALL,” he breathed. “The way everyone carries on you’d think we were part of some mighty empire … but we’re not. Father ought to come up here. It might do him good.”

  Thinking about his father reminded Marcus that he needed to find a way down as soon as possible, and he began moving carefully round the roof. At the far end a massive beech tree spread its branches tantalizingly close; it was a tree Marcus knew well from his younger days, when climbing trees had been a way of escaping lessons … but could he reach it?

  “Only one way to find out,” he told himself. He took a deep breath, and jumped. There was a heart-stopping moment when his fingers slipped away from the smooth bark and he fell another couple of metres – but then was brought to an abrupt and jolting halt.

  “OUCH!” Wondering if there was any skin left on his hands, Marcus clung on to the saving branch and gave himself a moment to recover his breath, and check his arms and legs to see if he had done himself any irreparable damage. Everything seemed to be in place and working, so with a grateful glance up at the tree he scrambled his way down to the ground. There he discovered that his right knee was horribly sore and his right hand was dripping blood; fishing in his pocket, he found a grimy handkerchief and did his best to wind it round his hand, grimacing with pain as he did so. Once this was done he set off for the back of the palace as fast as his aching leg would allow.

  “Hope everyone’s in bed,” he muttered as he came round the corner and reached the kitchen door. “The lights are all off… Now, where’s that key?”

  Years of sweet-talking the Gorebreath Palace cook had left Marcus in possession of a good deal of useful information about the internal workings of the building; his adventures had often necessitated secretive arrivals and departures at times when his parents were safely tucked up in bed, and he knew that a spare key was usually kept under the doormat. Much to his relief it was there, and a moment later he was tiptoeing down the corridor towards the less-frequented regions of the palace. The marble corridors took Marcus through to a thinly carpeted passageway, and this led in turn to a dimly-lit stone-flagged walkway ending in a flight of steep stone steps, with a heavy iron-bound door at the bottom. There was no guard at this time of night; the door was strong enough to withstand any attack from the inside, and the old furniture and rubbish had always been peaceful occupants. Attack from the outside had never been a problem; in the entire history of Gorebreath not one revolutionary had ever made an attempt to storm the palace and rescue the heaps of ancient mattresses and broken chairs.

  Marcus studied the door. Grasping the enormous iron handle, he did his best to turn it, but it remained immovable. Bending down to the keyhole, he tried to peer through; was there a tiny light glimmering in the distance? Rubbing his eye, he looked again, and was sure he was right.

  “Gracie!” he called, “Gracie! Are you there?”

  “Marcus?” The voice was a long way away, but a moment later there were hurrying footsteps. “Marcus?” Now the voice was right on the other side of the door. “How did you get here? I thought you were locked in your room!”

  Marcus grinned. “I escaped. And we’ve got to get you and Gubble out – he is there, isn’t he?”

  “He’s asleep. Marlon’s here too. He gave me your message.” There was a tiny pause. “It cheered me up a lot.”

  “Good. I meant it,” Marcus said gruffly, and then, “How did Marlon get in? Is there a window? Could you get through it?”

  There was a sigh. “It’s tiny. Even Marlon had trouble squeezing through.”

  “Trouble? MOI?” Marlon was evidently on Gracie’s shoulder. “Piece of cake, kiddo. Piece of cake. But that door’s one solid piece of work. You need the key.”

  “But where is it?” Marcus asked. “Who’s got it? Did the guard take it away?”

  “Yup.” The bat sounded surprisingly cheerful. “Hang on in there, kid. Had an idea. I’m coming round soon as.”

  Marcus did as he was told, and after a couple of minutes he saw a small familiar figure flitting down the steps towards him.

  “Wooeee! Cool disguise, kid! Even yer mother wouldn’t know you done up like that!” Marlon sounded admiring, but Marcus was puzzled.

  “Disguise? I’m not disguised!”

  “Could have fooled me,” the bat said. “Take a look at yourself!”

  Marcus glanced down. “Oh! You mean the soot! I had to climb a chimney to get out.”

  “Could be useful if anyone sees you,” Marlon told him. “Although if it’s night-time, they won’t. What’s with the war wound?”

  “I got scratched falling into a tree. Marlon, how are we going to get Gracie out of here? Where does the guard keep the key?”

  Marlon tapped his nose with his wing. “Trust old Marlon. Happened to be checking this place out when Mr Briggs went home. Saw him put the key in his pocket.”

  “In his pocket?” Marcus leant against the wall. “Where is he now? Does he live here?”

  “Back on duty at six in the morning.” The bat wheeled up the stairs and back again. “Heard him muttering – mutters a lot, does Briggsy. Lack of company, if you ask me.”

  “So do we have to wait until then? Can’t we find him, and steal the—”

  “No dice.” Marlon was very definite. “Listen to your Uncle Marlon. He’ll be here at six, plus brekkie for the prisoners. That’ll be your chance, kiddo.”

  It took another five minutes to convince Marcus that this was their best plan; Gracie was consulted through the keyhole, and it was her decision that finally saw him settling down in the small guardroom that provided Mr Briggs with somewhere to spend his days when he wasn’t occupied with furniture. There was not much more than an empty fireplace and a large armchair, but Marcus was so tired after the events of the day that it was not long before his eyes had closed and he was fast asleep. Marlon nodded approval, and made his way back to the dungeon, where Gubble was peacefully snoring. Gracie was sitting by a guttering candle, patiently waiting for information.

  “Wotcher, kid. You best get some sleep too,” Marlon told her. “Keep away from the door, mind. Remember, you’ve heard nothing. When Briggsy comes in with brekkie, act casual.”

  Gracie smiled. “He’s not a bad man,” she said. “But he’s a bit nervous of Gubble. He thinks Gubble’s going to bite him.”

  Marlon, imagining the substantial form of Mr Briggs in flight, sniggered. “No harm done if he’s nervy. Now, tuck yourself up, and I’ll wake you when Briggsy’s on his way.”

  “Thank you.” Gracie yawned, then gave the bat a shy sideways look. “Is … is Marcus OK? I heard you say something about a war wound, but I couldn’t hear what had happened to him.”

  “Fell into a tree,” Marlon told her. “And he’s covered in soot from his bonce to his toes. Needs to get his chimneys swept, if you ask me. But that’s royalty for you. As long as the fires burn, no need to check the chimneys.” With which philosophical thought the bat swooped across the dungeon and vanished through the slit of a window, leaving Gracie to wonder about Marcus until she too fell asleep.

  While Marcus was climbing chimneys, Foyce was planning her own escape. Queen Bluebell’s arrival had distracted the thoughts of the Ancient Crones in the most satisfactory way; Foyce had been able to remove another brick from the top of the window, and was certain that she could squeeze through if circumstances allowed. These consisted of two
things; the first was to catch a moment when the house was performing one of its acrobatic tricks and spinning her window down to ground level, and the second was to be rid of the terrible feeling of lethargy that swept over her each time she leant out through the gap she had made. She tried again and again, but each time she was sent reeling back into her room with her head spinning and an urgent desire to lie down. Frustration overcame her, and she pulled at her hair and screamed … and the scream became a thin wail of pent-up fury that echoed into the moonlit forest.

  Alf woke with a jump, wondering what had disturbed him. Bluebell, Edna and Elsie were discussing the last details of Gracie’s dress and heard nothing. Val, who had been having a day in bed, was working on the loom in Room Seventeen and singing so loudly she was oblivious to any other noise. Alf assumed it was her falsetto that had woken him and, with a grin, went back to sleep.

  Jukk, lurking on the edge of the forest, heard the cry clearly, and within minutes he was leaping the fence and standing beneath Foyce’s window.

  “My love!” he called. “My love! What ails you?”

  The tears in Foyce’s eyes as she stood by the window were, for the first time, genuine. “I want to escape,” she whimpered. “I want to be free!”

  “And you shall be,” Jukk promised. “Just say the word, and I will carry you away—”

  “No!” Foyce, with a huge effort, pulled herself together. “No. Do as I’ve asked you, and that will set me free. Tomorrow, at the tournament. You know what you must do.”

  “You have my promise, sweet lady. It will be done. But have you no word of love for me, your devoted slave? Not one word?”

  Foyce smiled sweetly. “My hero,” she cooed. “My heart is yours for ever.”

  Had Jukk known that his sweet lady’s heart was colder than ice and harder than iron, he might not have bowed so deeply, or blown so many kisses. Foyce, gritting her teeth, waved and nodded in reply, but as her lover turned away to vanish in amongst the trees a thoughtful look crossed her face.

  “Now … how can I find a way to get out of here in time for the tournament? Maybe—”

  The sound of voices outside her room made her stop, and listen. The crones and the queen were chatting amiably as they made their way to bed; Foyce’s lip curled as she heard that Gracie’s blue silk dress was finished, and considered a triumph.

  “I’ll take it with me tomorrow morning,” Bluebell boomed. “And you say I can travel on your path? Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it!”

  “Would you like to go straight to Gorebreath?” Elsie asked. “Or to Wadingburn?”

  “Hm … Gorebreath, I think. If I go to Wadingburn I’ll get entangled in too many whys and hows and what-have-you-been-doing type questions. Plenty of time for that once the tournament is over…” Bluebell’s voice gradually faded as she moved away along the corridor.

  Foyce stood very still. So the path was going to take the queen directly to Gorebreath? In the past she had been able to run like the wind, but it was a long time since she’d had her freedom, and it was possible that the lack of exercise would slow her down. Was there a way she too could use the path? She had seen it leaping away from the House many times, and had watched it returning and curling up against the wall of the House after its journeyings were over. She also knew that it had strong opinions, and could be highly unreliable; she had overheard stories of various expeditions that had been curtailed or ruined by the path’s decision to take a direction of its own.

  But I still have to find a way of leaving the House, Foyce thought. A way to break the Power.

  A vision of the Web came into her mind, and she wondered, as she had so often done before, how it could be destroyed … knowing, even as she considered one wild idea after another, that she was incapable of doing such a thing. The Web was too powerful and – although Foyce would not admit it, even to herself – it frightened her. When she touched it her fingers burned, and shivers ran up and down her spine. What was worse, her thoughts, normally crystal clear, slid one into another in an alarming jumble before dissolving into a numbing fog of nothingness that was more terrifying than any pain.

  Biting her lip, she walked back to the window. A small rustling outside caught her attention, and she looked down, every sense alert. The leaves of the laurel bush below were trembling, and a small dark shape was slowly crawling out … a shape she recognized.

  “Billy!”

  “Miss Gracie…?” The tiny voice was hopeful.

  Foyce had a flash of inspiration. Concentrating on keeping her voice soft and gentle, she whispered, “Yes, Billy! It’s me, Gracie! You poor, poor little bat… Just fly a little higher, and I’ll catch you and look after you … and you’ll be safe…”

  Billy, confused after his long sleep, did as he was told. Up he flew, wobbling as he went. Up and—

  “GOTCHER!” Foyce had him in her hands, and she was squeezing him in glee at her triumph … squeezing until Billy was unable to breathe.

  “Mum!” he squeaked as his world went dark – and Foyce realized what she was doing.

  “Oh no,” she snarled. “We don’t want you dead. Not yet. You’re going to be SO useful, little bat…” With a fiendish smile, she opened the lid of a small box, dropped the gasping Billy inside and shut the lid. “Just wait there until the morning. Tomorrow will be a special day, little bat. A very, VERY special day…”

  Another ear had heard Foyce’s cry of frustration. Agony Clawbone had taken to wandering night after night through the trees that surrounded the House, her terror of human dwelling places overcome by the hope that she might one day catch a glimpse of Foyce. At first Keel had remonstrated with her, reminding her of Jukk’s orders, but after she had promised she would make no attempt to contact her daughter he left her to her own devices. He had believed Gracie’s promise that Mange Undershaft was no longer a threat and, still smarting from Jukk’s claim to Foyce, had taken himself off to another part of the forest to think mournful thoughts about unrequited love.

  Agony drew as close to the House as she dared, and watched. She saw Jukk arrive, and trembled as she hid from his view; she heard his declaration of love and, at last, saw Foyce’s face.

  “But she’s beautiful!” Agony breathed. “SO beautiful!” It was all she could do not to rush out and claim her daughter as her own, but she forced herself to stay where she was.

  And then Foyce spoke. Her words to Jukk were honey-sweet, but Agony could hear the cold-blooded calculation underneath, and her heart chilled. Her father’s daughter, she thought. But – and she straightened herself – she’s my daughter too. There might still be a little hope. She could change… She stayed where she was, her eyes never leaving the window; when Billy was caught she gave a muffled cry of distress, but she did not move until Foyce had finally blown out her candle, and the window was dark. Only then did Agony slip into her wolf shape, and find a dry spot sheltered by a beech tree. There she curled up, and dozed for the rest of the night … one ear always open.

  Gracie woke early to find Gubble missing. Alarmed, she sat up on her sofa and called for him.

  “Ug,” said a voice and, squinting into the half-light, Gracie saw that the troll had managed to pile up a selection of chairs and tables in front of the door. Gubble, looking far from comfortable, was balanced precariously on the top.

  “Gubble! What are you doing?” she asked.

  Gubble gave a toothless grin. “Man come with breakfast. Gubble jump – Gracie and Gubble escape.” His grin grew wider. “Clever Gubble?”

  “Erm…” Gracie tried to think of a kind way of pointing out that Mr Briggs would now be unable to open the door. She also had reservations about the wisdom of the troll jumping on him. Even though Mr Briggs was more than substantial in build, Gubble was solid through and through. There would be little of the jailer left undamaged, and it would undoubtedly cause problems.

  Before she could think of a solution, Marlon flew in through the window.

  “You a
wake, kiddo? We’ve got—” Noticing Gubble’s tower, Marlon stopped mid-sentence. “What—”

  There was a rattling at the door. Mr Briggs, unsure what he should provide for breakfast, had arrived sooner than expected to check on his prisoners and to ask if they would prefer eggs or porridge. The rattle was enough to shake the tottering tower; chairs and tables fell with a mighty crash, Gubble in the midst of them. Mr Briggs opened the door to find the troll lying flat on the stone floor surrounded by broken furniture. Gracie was crouched beside him. His head had rolled away, and she was carefully putting it back.

  “’Ello, ’ello, ’ello,” Mr Briggs said. “What have we got here, then?”

  Gracie looked up, tears in her eyes. “Oh, Mr Briggs! I think he’s really badly hurt!”

  Mr Briggs was not a hard man. When he had accepted the position of head jailer he had not expected to have to do more than rearrange furniture, and attempt the occasional spot of light dusting. When Gracie and Gubble had been unceremoniously thrown through the door by several burly guards he had been astonished, but being a man who knew his duty he had buckled on his jailer’s belt – complete with truncheon – and taken responsibility for his charges. Now one of them appeared to be headless and dead, and the other was crying. What was worse, the one who was crying was young and pretty, and Mr Briggs was already worried about the suitability of his dungeon for young and pretty girls.

  He bent over Gubble. “Beg pardon, Miss, but I’d say he was a goner.”

  “It’s OK,” Gracie said. “He’s still alive. His head falls off quite often, but he banged it a lot last night, and now he’s done it again, and—”