by Kate Forsyth
He drove the prow into the muddy bank and harassed the tired and miserable Durrik out of the boat and down the path, the crippled boy leaning heavily on his friend’s shoulder. They heard the smack of oars on water and grunts of exertion behind them, then the thud of wood on earth, and both boys broke into a stumbling run once more.
They reached the shelter of the trees only a few hundred yards ahead of their pursuers. Luckily Pedrin had grown up in the meadow behind this wood, and he knew every tree and bush and rabbit hole, while the guards were in unknown territory. It took only a few seconds of panicked indecision, panting, clutching each other, glancing about wildly and hissing at each other before they half-crawled through the undergrowth and clutched at the tree in which they had built their treehouse the previous summer.
Pedrin gave Durrik a leg-up, whispering angrily, ‘Jumping Jimjinny, Durrik, muffle that bell! If they hear you a-clanging they’ll catch us for sure.’
Obediently Durrik wrapped the bell up in his cravat and shoved it in his pocket, where it made an unsightly bulge. Slowly, carefully, he crept higher and higher into the tree, reaching at last a narrow platform of old planks nailed rather haphazardly between two broad branches. He and Pedrin had sheltered here many a time from Mina and her giggling friends, or from a pack of townies looking for sport. From below, nothing could be seen but a shifting puzzle of green leaves.
Durrik pulled himself into the very centre of the platform, then took the bell out of his pocket so he could sit, his arms wrapped tightly round his legs to stop them shaking. A few seconds later Pedrin’s dirty, freckled face appeared, scowling.
‘They’re a-beating every bush mighty thoroughly,’ he whispered. ‘We got away just in time.’
They sat still, trying to control their breathing, which sounded very loud and rough in the silence. Very cautiously Pedrin peered over the edge of the platform. Below was a squad of starkin soldiers, their silver armour glinting in the sunlight. They were searching under every bush and inside every hollow log, using their fusilliers to push aside the branches. With them was a thickset man dressed in shabby leather, his skin the same colour and texture as his boots, his abundant beard heavily grizzled with grey. Pedrin felt a sickening drop of his stomach. He knew that man. It was Adken, the new chief huntsman up at the castle, a man renowned for tracking game in any conditions. Pedrin let his head droop down onto his hands. He waited to be discovered.
After a while, when nothing happened, he looked over the edge again. Adken was standing at the foot of the tree in which they hid, his big rough hand leaning on the smooth bole. He was shaking his grizzled head, shrugging a little. The starkin soldiers stood around, conferring, then their leader uttered a sharp order and they went marching off towards the river. Adken stood for a moment, looking about him, and Pedrin held as still as he could, wishing he could quieten the painful beating of his heart. Then the huntsman lifted his hand away from the tree trunk, rubbed it ruminatively against his breeches, and strolled after the soldiers, his leathery face as impassive as ever.
Pedrin found he could breathe again. He laid his head back down on his arms and tried to swallow the sob of relief in his throat. When he finally looked up it was to see Durrik rubbing at his eyes furiously with his fists. Neither boy said a word. Below all was quiet. Lizards sunned themselves on a rock, birds hopped about, pecking at the grass. Unable to look at Durrik in case his friend saw his own reddened, inflamed eyes, Pedrin got up and leant along an outflung branch, shading his eyes as he looked across the lake towards the crystal tower.
‘Liah’s eyes,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘The soldiers have taken them all prisoner, every single one. They’re a-marching them up to the castle.’
Durrik wriggled up beside him so he could see too. Together the two boys watched in mounting horror and dismay as a long line of hearthkin was pushed and prodded up the dusty road. Although they were too far away to see faces, it was clear many among their kindred were hurt, for they limped and shuffled, some with arms tied up in makeshift slings or with their heads bound with bandages. The boys watched in silence, feeling young and helpless and calamitously guilty.
‘Well, we’re in a fine pickle now,’ Pedrin whispered at last. ‘What do you suggest we do, riddler?’
Durrik shook his head.
‘No funny jokes now? No fancy rhymes?’
‘Don’t be angry, Pedrin,’ the crippled boy whispered. ‘Really, I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble. It just sort of . . . burst out of me.’
Pedrin sighed. ‘Well, what’s done is done. We’ll just have to figure out what to do now.’ He lay still, frowning, his chin resting on his fists, his jaw set grimly.
In just a few minutes the whole world had turned topsy-turvy, giving Pedrin a sick, giddy feeling. He could hardly believe what had happened. How could he be on the run, pursued by starkin soldiers, the focus of Lord Zavion’s cold white fury? Ten minutes ago the Regent had not even known he existed. Now he was baying for his blood, and everyone that Pedrin knew and loved, everyone who could have helped them, was under arrest. Pedrin was essentially a practical boy, though, and so he pushed down his shock and fear, busying his brain in thinking about what to do.
‘Can you remember what you said?’ he asked at last.
Durrik nodded. As Pedrin well knew, often to his cost, Durrik’s memory was remarkable. In a low, unhappy voice he repeated once again the strange rhyme that had been troubling his dreams for weeks.
‘Well, the first bit’s not so hard,’ Pedrin said at last. ‘The shroud and “the son of light”, that has to mean Count Zygmunt. And it means he’s going to die by the time the last starthorn blossom falls, which means by wintertime. Jumping Jimjinny, but the next bit makes no sense at all. Naught can save him “but the turning of time itself inverse”. What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘ “Inverse” means back to front or inside out,’ Durrik said.
‘Which basically means it can’t be done.’ Pedrin savagely stripped a twig of its leaves. ‘You can’t turn time back. So the count’s going to die and Lord Zavion will rule and we’re in for the chop. Great.’
‘But what about the last bit? It says “Six brought together can the cruel bane defeat.” Surely that means the curse can be broken, if six people get together and break it?’
‘Yeah, but all that stuff before it was just like “the turning of time itself inverse” bit. A whole lot of gobbledy-gook! ’Tis like saying the count can be saved when hens grow teeth. In other words, never.’
Durrik sighed. There was a long silence. Pedrin stripped a few more twigs bare, then sat up, rubbed his curly head roughly, and said, ‘Oh, well. ’Tis scrambling me brains trying to figure it out and meanwhile we’re like partridges in a wood waiting to be netted. Looks like we’re outlaws now, willy-nilly, so we’d best try and find ourselves somewhere safe to hide out while we figure what to do.’
‘But where?’
‘Well, where do outlaws and rebels always hide out? In the Perilous Forest, of course.’ He swung down from the lowest branch, wincing as he landed on his feet, still bleeding from myriad small cuts and gashes, then turned to look up at Durrik, whose frightened white face peered down at him from its halo of leaves. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The Perilous Forest? We can’t go in there. ’Tis full of hobhenkies and gibgoblins and boo-bogeys . . .’
‘And outlaws,’ Pedrin said, with false cheerfulness. ‘Diamond Joe and his men have lived there for years, it can’t be that dangerous.’
‘Which is why they call it the Perilous Forest.’
‘Well, you got a better idea? We could always turn ourselves in, of course. Though Lord Zavion looked like he was ready to have you spitted and roasted over a slow fire, and he’d probably have me carved up for sweetbreads. If we go and join the outlaws, mebbe we can persuade them to rescue your pa and me ma. You know Diamond Joe is meant to be stirring up rebellion against the starkin. Mebbe the rest of Este
lliana will join him once we tell them everything Lord Zavion’s done.’
Pedrin’s eyes began to shine as he imagined himself leading a charge against the castle, rescuing his mother and the other hearthkin, and overthrowing the Regent. Then he saw Durrik’s pale, strained face and some of the glow faded. ‘At the very least we should lie low and wait for things to blow over a bit,’ he said practically. ‘Your pa will sort everything out for us, don’t you worry.’
‘Except they’ve arrested him too,’ Durrik said dolefully. ‘They arrested everyone!’
‘They’ll have to let them go,’ Pedrin said comfortingly. ‘They had naught to do with it!’
Durrik sighed and slid down the tree, landing awkwardly with his crippled leg giving way beneath him. He would have fallen had Pedrin’s hand not been there to support him. ‘I’ve lost my crutch,’ he said sadly.
Pedrin helped him sit down, Durrik rubbing at his withered leg as if it pained him, then looked about for a stick or branch his friend could use as a crutch. It was then that he saw a brown smear on the smooth grey trunk of the tree, just where Adken had rested his hand. Pedrin looked closer and realised with a little jump of his pulse that it was a smudge of his own blood, smeared on the bark from his cut feet when he had climbed the tree. The huntsman had hidden it from the starkin soldiers.
The knowledge that the chief huntsman had deliberately deceived the soldiers so they could escape gave Pedrin a sudden surge of hope and courage. He looked about him, then bent and seized a branch with a crook in one end that Durrik could tuck under his arm. He bent it over his knee, breaking it to size. ‘Come on! Quick sticks, slow-worm.’
They made their halting way through the warm shadows of the wood, keeping as low and quiet as possible. The wood petered out not far from Pedrin’s home and the goatherd was not surprised to see two soldiers on guard outside the little cottage. ‘We’re going to need some stuff,’ Pedrin said, frowning. ‘Some grub and me fishing line and a couple of blankets. Not to mention the goats.’
‘The goats?’
‘I can’t leave them there,’ Pedrin replied curtly. ‘Ma and Mina have been arrested, remember? What if they don’t get out today or even tomorrow? Who’ll feed the goats? And Snowflake must already be bursting. She’ll need to be milked.’
‘But how are we meant to get them, with soldiers everywhere?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pedrin said. ‘I’ll have to figure summat out. Mebbe they’ll give up and go home in a while. Let’s wait and see what happens.’
But the boys waited till the sun was almost gone, getting increasingly miserable and uncomfortable as the soldiers lounged about, playing dice and drinking from a leather-bound bottle. While they had been in motion, the boys had not had time to think about what had happened in the crystal tower. Now they had nothing but time, and the thoughts were enough to make them sick and green.
‘I can’t stand it anymore,’ Pedrin cried at last, crawling out from beneath the bush and dusting himself off. ‘Snow-flake’s gonna start a-bleating the whole house down if someone doesn’t milk her soon. I’ve got to go get her.’
‘What you going to do?’ Durrik asked in a rather shaky voice.
‘You just dig in under this bush and keep quiet,’ Pedrin said. ‘I’ll get them out, don’t you worry.’ He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice free of its own quiver.
Durrik merely nodded and obeyed, and the goatherd dragged a few brambles across the bush to help keep him hidden. Then Pedrin set off on his belly through the meadow, occasionally lying in silence to listen with every muscle in his body trembling with strain. The sun beat down on his head, and insects chirped and buzzed with maddening cheerfulness. He came to the low hedge along the far side of the cottage, crept along in its shade and swarmed up the big tree that shaded the house and shed.
Pedrin crouched in its shelter for quite a while, his heart hammering so loud he was sure the soldiers must hear it. At last its thudding slowed and he was able to take a few deep breaths and steady himself. Slowly he lowered himself onto the roof. The thatch rustled and he froze, sick with apprehension. The soldiers lounging outside his front door were absorbed in their game, however, and did not hear. Very carefully, Pedrin dragged aside handfuls of the dry straw and wriggled through the gap he made, landing with a soft thump on the beams of the attic below.
Once inside the house he moved with greater confidence, knowing every dip and hollow of the earthen floor, the position of every piece of rough-hewn furniture. It was dim inside but he did not need light to move around quietly, having sneaked out to go badger-watching more nights than he could remember.
It was hard to know what to take, though, and Pedrin spent a lot of time frowning and biting his knuckle. He had a heavy, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if it might be a very long time before he again saw this dark little room, with the one big bed in the cupboard and the smoke-blackened fireplace. In the end he took just about everything that was in the larder, knowing his mother would forgive him.
There was a big wheel of cheese, a loaf of bread, a string of smoked fish and a great hank of streaky bacon, a ceramic pot of honey, a bag of flour and another of yeast, a handful of dirty potatoes with green sprouting from the top, some dried apples and a cotton bag full of raisins, and some cheese curds hung up above a bowl to catch the whey. He drank the whey to quieten the nervous rumbling of his stomach, then filled the bowl with the wet bag of curds. Even though it would take three or more months for the curds to ripen into cheese, Pedrin was too well-trained to waste it.
Pedrin stuffed it all into a pair of small saddlebags, loading a tin pail with the rest which he hung from one of the saddlebags. He then seized the blankets from the bed and rolled them up tightly, tying one to each saddlebag with some rope.
After some thought, he added a handful of thick tallow candles, his tinder and flint, a bread pan, a small frying pan and a toasting-fork, then grabbed his fishing knife, and a small whetting stone. Hanging from hooks on the back of the door were their winter capes, shiny and smooth with fat to keep out rain and snow. Wincing at every scuff of his sore feet on the ground, Pedrin made his way as quietly as he could to the door and very carefully took down the two smaller capes. One of the buckles clanked a little and once again he stood stock still, his heart banging in his ears till he thought he might faint. The soldiers did not hear, though, talking and laughing just on the other side of the door. Heady with relief, Pedrin backed away from the door, rolled up the capes tightly and attached them next to the blankets.
He stood for a while, running over what he had gathered, sure that he had forgotten something important. He could think of nothing, his mind completely blank. So he gave a little shrug, shouldered the heavy saddlebags, and climbed back up into the rafters, creeping as quietly as he could back along the beams and let himself down into the shed, which was built under the same thatched roof as the rest of the house.
Snowflake bleated happily to see him, and even Thundercloud gave a huffy sort of grunt and rolled one bad-tempered eye his way. Pedrin quietened them swiftly, hanging the saddlebags over Snowflake’s slim back and buckling them beneath her, the tin pail clanking on one side. Thundercloud was much bigger and stronger than the nanny-goat, but he would never submit to the indignity of carrying a load and so Pedrin merely unclasped his bell from his collar.
Pedrin had no idea how he and the two goats were going to sneak past the guards but as it happened he had no chance to even try to conceal himself. Thundercloud was so incensed at being locked up all afternoon that as soon as Pedrin’s hand left his collar, he shouldered him aside and stalked out into the garden. Pedrin dared not call him or whistle him and could only watch, needle-sharp anxiety twisting in his stomach.
The guards jerked upright when they saw the big black billy-goat come round the corner. Thundercloud saw them at the same moment and his narrow golden eyes gleamed. He was very displeased to have been left locked up in the stalls for so long and was eager to take
his vexation out on someone. If those men were foolish enough to stand between him and the sweet grass of the meadow, they would soon see how sharp his horns were!
The soldiers were foolish enough. With a shout they ran to intercept the big black billy-goat. Thundercloud lifted his lip, lowered his head, and charged. His horns were very sharp indeed, and the shoulders behind powerful. Both men were tossed down with little ceremony and the goats ran over them and out into the meadow, Pedrin exultant at their heels. By the time the soldiers picked themselves up again, bruised and aching, the goatherd and the two goats had disappeared into the trees.
EIGHT
The flame kindled in a scatter of hissing sparks, casting a fretful glow upon the faces of the two tired, hungry boys.
‘Are you sure no-one will see the fire?’ Durrik hunched close over the flames, his shirt folded up over his shoulders so it would not stick to the ointment Pedrin had just slathered over the half-healed welts on his back.
‘Sure I’m sure,’ Pedrin lied, feeding the flames a branch of dry leaves. The flames sank for a moment, then blazed higher, red-bright. Pedrin did not look at his friend, busying himself laying slices of bacon in his frying-pan and impaling rounds of newly baked bread and cheese upon the toasting-fork.
Durrik flinched as the wind rattled the branches of the forest looming behind them. Somewhere a night bird moaned. Although they had been on the run for three days now and had slept each night outside, still the boys couldn’t help a shiver at the sound. The darkness seemed very vast and unfriendly when there was no warm, familiar house to go home to.
Three days of being hunted through the countryside, three days with their nerves constantly stretched to breaking point. Both boys were surprised and frightened by the intensity of the search undertaken by the castle guards. Bands of soldiers had scoured the countryside on both sides of the river while precise spearheads of white-winged sisikas had soared through the sky all through the long, scrambling, running, hiding days. Neither Pedrin nor Durrik had ever expected Lord Zavion to order out the regiment of sisika riders. Only the most noble of the starkin were permitted to ride the great white birds, and the regiment was only convoked in times of dire need. The Regent must be very angry indeed.
