StarMan (25 page)

Faraday sighed and rubbed her stomach. She felt nauseous again and knew that she should try to force down some food. But even the delicacies that the magical saddlebags could offer didn't interest her.

Perhaps later, when the sun was higher and the first seedlings planted out for the day, she would eat.

The wind pushed beneath her blankets, cold and insistent, and Faraday finally opened her eyes. She blinked then frowned, puzzled. Before her sat, as expected, rows of tiny seedlings, but beyond them . . .

beyond them stood scuffed brown leather boots encasing a sturdy pair of ankles, and even sturdier legs that disappeared into a brown worsted country dress.

Faraday sat up and looked at the peasant woman's face. Briefly she thought she was a stranger, then she recognised the woman. "Goodwife Renkin! What? How . . ." Her voice trailed off. Goodwife Renkin? Here?

"My Lady," the Goodwife exclaimed, her face split by a great smile, her eyes shining, her hands clutching among her skirts. "Oh, my Lady! Please, let me stay with you, don't send me away. I'd do anything to help, really I would!"

"Goodwife Renkin," Faraday said again, uselessly, as the Goodwife leaned down to help her rise. As she stood, Faraday looked at the plain behind the Goodwife . . . and realised that the sound of the morning which filled the air was not just the noise of the donkeys grazing or of the tiny seedlings humming.

At the Goodwife's back stood a forest. Great trees, a hundred paces high, reached towards the sun, their branches reaching out fifty paces or more so they embraced the limbs of their sisters. Beneath them the tough grasses of the Tarantaise and southern Arcness plains had given way to low fragrant shrubs and flowered walks dappled with the golden light that filtered through the forest canopy.

And they hummed - a tune Faraday later recognised as the lullaby the Goodwife taught them. It was a breathtaking sound for, although not particularly loud, it was rich and vibrant, full of shadows and cadences, each tree adding her own distinctive voice that nevertheless harmonised perfectly with those of her neighbours and with the sound of the forest. Faraday could feel it vibrating through her body.

What would it be like when they finally burst into song?

The Goodwife looked at Faraday's face, then at the trees. "Don't they make a pleasant sound, m'Lady? They sound like a sea of minstrels, yes they do." One of her booted feet tapped in time with the trees.

Faraday wrenched her eyes away from the forest. "A sea of minstrels, Goodwife?" She took a deep breath of happiness. "Then why don't we call this new forest Minstrelsea? It needs a name, and that will do as well as any other and better than most." She paused. "Goodwife, what
are
you doing here?"

"I have come to help," the Goodwife said quietly, her country burr totally gone, and Faraday, looking deep into the Goodwife's eyes, beheld the eyes of the Mother.

OBrother-Leader GilbertArtor appeared many more times to Gilbert as he hustled Moryson northwards from Nor, and each time Gilbert's eyes grew a little darker with fanaticism, his mouth a little slacker with ecstasy, and his will hardened. He would do anything,
anything,
to ensure that Artor and the Seneschal regained their rightful place in Achar.

Moryson followed placidly behind Gilbert on a horse the man had grudgingly bought him.

Even though Moryson generally remained quiet and uncomplaining, his presence often irritated Gilbert. Occasionally, but only very occasionally, Moryson would let slip a tart comment that reminded Gilbert too vividly of the days when he had been only a second adviser to the Brother-Leader, and Moryson the trusted friend of forty years' standing. Didn't Moryson realise that Gilbert was in charge now? That Gilbert led the Seneschal? That Gilbert stood at Artor's right hand?

But even more annoying were Moryson's occasional absences. The first time Gilbert noticed that Moryson was missing he entered a fugue of anxiety. The man's horse was there, but not the old man.

Had Moryson fallen down a badger's burrow and broken a frail leg? Had he been snatched by one of the flying filth that Gilbert expected to descend on them any moment? Had he lain down to die among the tall grass and neglected to mention it to Gilbert, several dozen paces ahead? For an hour or more Gilbert searched, calling Moryson's name, his face running with sweat. What would Artor think if he lost the fool? At the moment, Moryson was his only follower, and Gilbert, much as he disliked the old man, could hardly afford to lose him.

But just when Gilbert thought that he had vanished altogether, he turned around to see Moryson hobbling across the plain towards him, his face a mask of contrition.

"It's my bowels, Gilbert," Moryson hastily explained. "I am an old man and sometimes my bowels can dribble fluids for hours. Ah, is that my horse behind you?"

Gilbert turned away, his face green, and didn't ask again when Moryson disappeared - usually at night, but once or twice during the day as well. He was disgusted by the old man's weakness. Artor grant me continued health throughout my life, he prayed, whenever Moryson stumbled back into camp, his face pale and damp.

For some time they moved north, and then north-east, as Artor directed. They found another Brother, a displaced Plough-Keeper, ten days after they started on their divine crusade. He was huddled among the grass, crouched as low as he could get, terrified by the approaching horsemen.

Gilbert squared his shoulders and spoke in as authoritative a manner as he could manage. "Get up, man. What is your name? Where are you from?"

The Plough-Keeper, a thin man of middle-age, peered out from underneath his arm, but did not uncurl himself from his protective ball. "My name is Finnis, good master, and I am but a poor sheep-herder travelling this plain to market."

Gilbert's lip curled. "Well, good Finnis, where are your sheep? And what is that fuzzy patch I see at the crown of your head - not a tonsure growing out, is it?"

Finnis hurriedly buried his head as far as he could under his arm and gave a muffled squeak.

Gilbert kicked his horse closer. "Get up, Finnis, and behold your Brother-Leader."

Very slowly Finnis looked out from beneath his arm. "Brother-Leader?"

"Brother-Leader Gilbert, man. Now
stand up\"

Finnis almost tripped in his haste to stand. "But. . . but. . . I thought..."

"Well, you thought wrong, you simpleton. The Seneschal has never endured darker days than these, but with the grace and strength of Artor we will walk through them. Surely you know my name...Gilbert?

Once adviser to Brother-Leader Jay me?"

Finnis thought hard, staring at the man before him. He was not dressed like a Brother, but then Finnis was only too well aware that to dress like a member of the Seneschal in these days was foolishness personified. Gilbert? Yes, Finnis remembered that name being on some of the orders he had received from the Tower of the Seneschal. He looked behind Gilbert to the old man, huddled despondently on his horse.

"And Brother Moryson," Gilbert said. "My adviser." Until I find better.

Moryson's eyes glinted, but he said nothing.

"What happened to Brother-Leader Jayme?" Finnis asked Gilbert.

Gilbert's face assumed an expression of pious sadness. "Murdered by the foul feathered creatures that block out the sun over the Tower of the Seneschal, Brother Finnis. He died screaming Artor's name."

That was a nice touch, Gilbert thought, not realising how true it was. "I am Artor's anointed," he made the sign of the Plough, "and I will keep you safe and shall rebuild the Seneschal to its former glory."

Finnis felt the first faint stirrings of hope and he bobbed his head deferentially at Gilbert. "Will you tell me what to do, Brother-Leader Gilbert?"

"Gladly, Brother Finnis, but not until we stop for evening camp. For the moment you can scramble up behind Moryson."

After that day Gilbert's band grew until, as they approached northern Tarantaise, it numbered eight displaced Brothers of the Seneschal besides himself and Moryson. After they had stumbled across Finnis, they found a Brother every day or two — Gilbert thought Artor must have directed their steps his way, and the Brothers confirmed this by telling him that Artor had appeared in their dreams. Most were displaced Plough-Keepers who had been ejected by their local village after Axis' army had swung south through Arcness and Tarantaise.

"How is it that the people have accepted the Forbidden so easily?" they asked one after the other as they told Gilbert their story, and Gilbert always replied, "Because of the foul enchantments the creatures fling their way. But do not worry, Artor will save them yet."

Gilbert did not have enough coin to buy every Brother a horse, and compromised by purchasing a cheap horse and can in Tare. He sent Moryson, well-cloaked, inside the town, reasoning that if the man was caught then it would be little loss. But Moryson re-emerged from the town's gates after several hours driving a splintered but serviceable cart pulled by a sway-backed mare who looked as old and sad as the old Brother; and who, Gilbert was disgusted to discover, suffered from much the same bowel condition as Moryson himself.

From that point on they moved faster, Gilbert riding ahead on his horse, Moryson driving the cart with the band of Brothers clinging to its tray.

At the end of the first week of Frost-month they drove past the Silent Woman Woods; they stayed well to the south, for none of the Brothers wanted to go too close. Only Artor knew what demons had re-inhabited the Woods in recent months.

"I penetrated deep within those Woods some years past," Gilbert told the Brothers, for once reining his horse back to the

cart so he could talk to them. "Not only did I enter; but I led the BattleAxe and two Axe-Wielders, too terrified to lead themselves. They were assaulted by foul creatures who leaped at them from beneath the very earth, but I fought clear, and saved them from a gruesome death. For what purpose, I know not," Gilbert sighed melodramatically, "for the BattleAxe has gone on to betray not only the Seneschal, but Artor himself."

The Brothers jouncing along in the cart gazed at Gilbert admiringly.

"I discovered great secrets in the Keep at the centre of the Woods," Gilbert continued, "but at the same time the BattleAxe released into an unsuspecting world two demons who lived there in the guise of Brothers of the Seneschal. I could not stop him, although I tried valiantly. I think that Achar's descent into hell started from the moment those fiends were released."

There were gasps of horror, but Moryson grinned beneath the hood of his cloak.

"/ am not afraid of the trees," Gilbert said, "and when Artor tells me the time is right, I shall unleash on them such a storm of righteous anger that they will topple before me. The Plough will win through, and tear the tree stumps out of the earth."

But even Gilbert fell silent in two days' time when they spied the newly planted forest in front of them.

"That wasn't there before," he whispered, "I am sure of it! No-one has ever mentioned
thisl"

Moryson pulled the grateful mare to a halt and stared ahead. They had topped a small rise and before them, perhaps a few hundred paces away, sprawled Faraday's forest. It spread across the horizon for over a league, and- all could see that it stretched thick and healthy for many more leagues to the north.

Far to the north Moryson could just see the Barrows rising out of the centre of the forest, a blue flame beckoning.

His companions stared at the forest, eyes and mouths hanging open.

Not even the Silent Woman Woods had trees as tall, as thick, as
powerful
as these. Birds fluttered among branches, and as they watched, a brown and black badger, common to these plains, emerged from its burrow and bounded the fifty or so paces into the tree line.

It had gone home.

"It's disgusting!" Finnis whispered.

One of the Brothers made the sign of the Plough, and the others hastily copied him.

"It hums'."Gilbert croaked.

And indeed the forest did hum. Not loudly, and not even with a discernible tune - not at this distance -

but all could feel fragments of melody vibrating through their flesh.

"Its name," Moryson abruptly said, blinking, "is Minstrelsea."

The horse lifted her tired head and whickered, her ears flickering forward.

"I don't give an Artor's curse what its name is!" Gilbert cried, too scared to wonder how Moryson knew its name. "Back! Back before it traps us! Moryson, turn the horse about. We'll camp in the hollow behind this rise, out of sight of this demon-spawned aberration."

That night, Gilbert summoned Artor for his band. He had not done so previously, preferring to relay Artor's words secondhand, but he knew that after the horror of the forest they would need the comforting presence of Artor Himself. And it would impress on the men Gilbert's own place at Artor's side.

No wonder, he thought, as he knelt in prayer, his Brothers ranged in a semi-circle behind him, that Artor had warned him about Faraday. Was she responsible for this? Had she planted this...he tried to remember what Moryson had called it...this Minstrelsea? When had
she
been corrupted? Gilbert recalled the looks that had passed between Axis and Faraday across the campfires of the Axe-Wielders so long ago.

Perhaps Axis had befouled her with his own corruption way back then.

Well, no matter. Artor would see that Gilbert's commitment would not waver. If Artor wanted this forest destroyed, then so be it.

If Artor wanted Faraday destroyed, so be it.

His head bowed, Gilbert humbly begged Artor's presence. He reached out
with his
prayers, and summoned
the god to his
side.

He felt it through his body first, the rhythmic thumping of the ploughshare through the earth. Then the laboured, maddened snorts of the fury-eyed red bulls reached his ears, and Gilbert lifted his head and flung his arms wide in exultation.

Behind him, the Brothers cowered to the ground in terror. To one side Moryson fought to keep his fear under control, burying his face in his hands.