Duncton Rising (49 page)

“All the more reason to take the opportunity when it comes,” commented Weeth.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” said Hamble. “I can see why you say you annoy other moles.”

“That is the lot of the confident opportunist... but silence! To my post! A mole comes!”

It was the kind of chance Weeth was evidently hoping for, another mole being brought into the cell. But watching carefully as he was, and poised though Hamble and the others were to play their parts, Weeth gave no signal and the mole, an old vagrant who had stumbled across a Newborn patrol near Caradoc and been hauled in, had little to offer in the way of help or information. Except that “there’s a lot of bloody guards about!”

The waiting went on and dusk gathered towards darkness; Rooster dozed again, though the flicking of his tail showed he was alert, but others grew impatient and had to be admonished by Hamble, who stanced quiet and still, ready to act as Weeth had told him to if the moment came.

Then, some time later, when most were beginning to give up hope, sounds of movement came from beyond the portal, and then low-voiced argument. The waiting moles saw Weeth stance up and venture almost into the portal, stare out, and grow tense. He turned and signalled quickly to Hamble, and the great mole came closer, paws fretting on the ground. Rooster’s eyes opened as if he heard the mounting commotion beyond the portal through the earth itself

“I said a mole would come who would help us out and he has!” whispered Weeth gleefully to Hamble. “Wait and watch. The moment I lower my left paw do as I have told you to. Only then. Not before and not afterwards, just —”

Weeth suddenly stopped talking and all the moles heard a rough, determined voice speaking loudly in protest from the chamber beyond. If you think I’m going through that portal, chum, you’re mistaken.”

“I warn you one last time, mole, you do not argue here, you obey!” snarled the commanding voice of a Newborn guard.

“Yes! You certainly do!” cried out Weeth loudly through the portal, his left paw rising behind him as he did his best to peer through to the tussle beyond. Then calling out sharply and very clearly he continued, “If you value your life, mole, and wish to help others, you will do exactly as I say.”

There was sudden and utter silence, just as Weeth had calculated there would be following his unexpected intervention. But he delayed only a moment before he spoke again, this time with chilling clarity.

“Talon the mole in front of you. NOW, mole, if you want to live this night through!”

As Weeth sent out this bold and brutal command he dropped his left paw rapidly and stanced back to one side. Hamble surged powerfully to his paws and ran straight at the portal, but not, as might have been expected, with a view to clambering through its impossibly narrow lower part, but to dive straight into it, front paws outstretched as he fell with a thump and gasp the length of the portal, his body squeezing into the awkward lower space, his head down. His broad rough back provided a surface across which Rooster himself, with a roar and lunge, immediately came charging, his great paws going over his friend’s broad back unconfined by slanting walls and with space enough now to move swiftly and unencumbered. With a deep and terrifying roar Rooster was through, and charging down the hapless guard who one moment had been in command of things and the next, having been taloned by the new prisoner who had just arrived, was now picked up and hurled back over the prisoner’s head by the grike mole whose reputation for violence and unpredictability was there and then made still more legendary.

Sturdy Chater, who had rounded the final corner of the long series of tunnels he had been brought down through that afternoon and evening, had been absolutely ready to take action, though its nature and direction he did not guess until that astonishing moment when a grinning mole had appeared at the portal at the far end of the guards’ chamber and commanded him to strike the guard ahead, and strike “NOW!” Chater had not hesitated for one moment, and indeed even had Weeth not so commanded him he had intended to strike somemole anyway and make a bid to escape, for the sight of so difficult a portal into the chamber told him that his last moments of liberty were upon him, and if he was going to try anything he had best get on with it.

So he had struck, and so had the most awesome and astonishing spectacle he had ever witnessed begun, as a great mole, whose name he did not then know, came flying into the portal, lay down, and an even greater one, as wild and frightening as any creature he had ever seen, followed through, picked up the taloned guard, hurled him back over Chater’s head and knocked the guards behind him flying.

Realizing that the sooner he got out of the way of the portal the better, leaving space for the others who were already charging through, Chater moved his back to a wall and raised his talons, and soon found he was fighting the Newborn guards alongside moles who were as large and fierce as any he had ever seen.

Indeed, their assault on the Newborns was ferocious and initially unstoppable, so that as new contingents of guards came charging down the tunnels leading into the chamber to see what the commotion was, they found themselves driven back by a storm of fierce talons and angry moles. Chater found himself outpaced by his new-found colleagues, and took as his task the defence of their right flank against any attack that might come down a smaller tunnel that came in on that side.

It was not long, only moments perhaps, before the chamber was filled with the screams of wounded and dying moles and the grunts of fighting ones, and Chater’s initial exhilaration at so suddenly finding his wish to escape seemingly fulfilled was replaced by the growing awareness that their victory might be short-lived, for despite making swift progress beyond the chamber they might still be trapped, with their escape to the surface hindered by the narrow tunnels through which they would have to fight their way. Chater knew enough about such situations to know that moles would die, and bloodily, and escape be thwarted if, having gained the initial surprise and impetus they lost it, whilst beyond and above them their captors re-grouped and consolidated their superior forces round the exits.

He turned from the tunnel entrance he was guarding to try to assess the situation, and saw that the first and biggest of the escaping moles was already beginning to fight his way powerfully into a huge side tunnel which, evidently, went up to the surface and which he seemed familiar with. Meanwhile the tunnel Chater had entered by lay at the end of the chamber and on its left side, and another mole like him was guarding it.

“
That’s
the way to go!” cried out Chater, for no sooner had he seen the general situation than he realized that the tunnel he had come through ought to be the one they were trying to escape by, since there had been no moles in it when he came through, and not far down it widened considerably which made it easier for numbers to advance. Even better, some distance up it were several ways out to the surface and the Newborns could not hope to guard them all.

But his cry was not heard, and he was unable to try again because at that moment a Newborn appeared at the lesser tunnel he was guarding, and tried to lunge at him. Once more Chater did not hesitate, but dodged the blow and followed it swiftly with a powerful thrust at his attacker’s snout. There was a soft squelch as his talons plunged into the target, and then a scraping rasp as he made contact with bone and teeth. With his other paw he followed up the thrust and the mole staggered back screaming, and slumped to one side, effectively blocking the tunnel with his writhing body.

“Mole, give us a paw!” a deep voice gasped behind him, and Chater turned back and saw that it was the mole who had so bravely allowed his body to be used to fill the base of the portal, now struggling to extricate himself from the narrow confines other paws had pressed him into, so that he might join his talons to the fray.

Chater immediately went to his aid, and with a mighty heave and shove and a final tug released the mole so suddenly that he himself nearly fell over.

He in his turn righted Chater and said, “My name’s Hamble; and yours?”

“Chater!” declared Chater, his mind racing with the strange sense of destiny he felt as he heard the mole speak his name, and knew at once that this surely was Hamble of Crowden,
Privet’s
Hamble.

He might indeed have said something had not a face popped in between them both and said, “Introducing Weeth to one, and as a reminder to the other! Hello! And goodbye too, if we’re not careful!” Weeth’s gaze travelled swiftly beyond them to the awesome sight of the moles of the Moors fighting alongflank Rooster and after only a moment’s pause he continued, “Mole, were you trying to tell us something before Hamble called for your help?”

“There’s a better way out by the tunnels I came down,” said Chater quickly, “and as the exits lie a good way back I reckon the Newborns may not have thought to position moles there yet; but we’d best be quick if we’re to take advantage of it.”

“Hamble, you’re the only one with strength enough to point Rooster in a new direction,” said Weeth.

Hamble had no need to be told again, and as he rushed forward, and battled his way among his friends to Rooster’s flank to redirect him Chater whispered in awe, “Rooster?
The
Rooster?
Privet’s
Rooster?”

“The same, friend!” said Weeth with a smile. “And did I hear the name Chater,
Privet’s
Chater?”

“You did.”

“Destiny walks in our shadows,” said Weeth grandly, “and we have things to talk of...”

But Hamble had already turned back and was signalling Chater forward to act as guide to the tunnels down which he had come, a task he willingly and bravely began, taloning his way past two guardmoles and leaving them for others to finish off as he led Rooster and the others quickly out of the chamber. Hamble and others fought off the guards who had been at their front, but now found themselves in the rear as their quarry turned and ran swiftly out of sight.

Perhaps nomole will ever be able to describe the extraordinary running battle that now took place as Rooster, guided by Chater, led his moles to freedom through that labyrinthine set of tunnels that the Newborns had delved in the vale to the south-east of Caer Caradoc.

Of the horror of that night there are accounts enough, and false though Stone followers may regard the Newborn sect’s methods and beliefs, none would deny that they were courageous and persistent in their pursuit of the moles who had escaped. But quite which moles died where, or by whose talons, is now impossible to say, except that all who were witnesses to the chase avow that Rooster was like a mole possessed by some dark and vengeful spirit of the night, and again and again, and again, when the Newborn guards seemed certain at last to block their way and recapture them, he summoned up the energy to charge forward one more time, and rout those at the forefront of the attack against him.

They finally reached the fresh air of the surface only after night had come, and even then had to fight their way through a cluster of guards who had been warned that they might go that particular way. By then Rooster had lost three of his friends, and the Newborns many more, and blood and the weariness that comes with killing and maiming others was on them.

It was then, in the short lull between killing one of the guards who had sought to prevent their escape from the exit and maiming another, as two more ran off into the night, before others appeared to carry on the fight, that Rooster committed that controversial act which some moles have said no true Master of the Delve should have done. He grasped one of the stricken guards in his bloodstained paw and almost incoherent with rage and the excitement of battle and escape, he thundered, “Privet? Where is she? Tell now, mole!”

The guard was raised up into the air, just as Weeth had been earlier that day, and as he refused to speak Rooster continued to roar incoherently at him and shook him so violently that Hamble was forced to stop what seemed little short of torture. Perhaps it was, or perhaps the maimed mole was already close to death, nomole can ever know. But he could only stare at Rooster, and mouth some words made inaudible by the blood that frothed at the corners of his gaping mouth, before he died, and Rooster let him fall to the ground.

“No more!” roared Hamble, buffeting his old friend, “no more killing now! It is enough, and I warned you what I would do if you ever went too far again! No more of this, we’ll climb Caradoc...”

Then with shouts and curses more Newborn guards approached, led by none other than Senior Brother Quail himself, and the Moors group, as if wishing to abide by what Hamble had said, turned and fled into the night, to begin the great climb up Caer Caradoc. A night like that in Caradoc at that season can grow deep and dark indeed if the clouds burgeon and the moon goes in. At that crucial moment the moon darkened and the stars faded, and Rooster and the others were able to make good their escape, if escape it was that was leading them up Caer Caradoc itself

So much confusion, so many doubts of what moles wanted that night, and why they acted as they did. As Rooster led the charge up the great hill Hamble found himself disinclined to follow, and at his flank Chater stayed too and Weeth, all well aware that Newborns were coming. But each alike had been made to pause before the violent and terrible death of the mole Rooster had raised up and then let fall, and now they did not want to follow him. As one they turned north into the shadows along Caer Caradoc’s edge, three running moles, not one of them wanting to raise their paws in violence for Rooster, for the Stone, for themselves, nor for anymole. Not that night, at any rate.