Winter Wood (22 page)

‘She's gone!' roared Tadgemole. ‘That's the matter! Gone in the night – aye, and I can guess in whose company,
and
with whose blessing! Is this your doing?'

Maglin looked towards the Rowdy-Dow tree. The Perch was unoccupied. Small wonder he'd slept so late, then, with no Woodpecker to herald the dawn.

‘Glim,' he said. ‘What of this?'

Glim glanced quickly over his shoulder, then turned back towards Tadgemole.

‘'Tis true,' he growled. ‘We've seen naught of Woodpecker. And we took over watch at moon-wane.'

‘And neither one of 'ee thought to wake me?'

Glim shrugged. ‘This be a new game for we, Maglin. We be archers, leastways by our reckoning. Now we're to play at lookout, it seems. Must we look out for Woodpecker too?'

‘Ha!' Tadgemole snorted in disbelief, and thumped the butt of his staff upon the hard earth. ‘A fine set of fools you are! Is this the tribe that call themselves
guardians of the forest? And do you, Steward, reckon to be the one that should lead us all? Go back to your bed, and sleep the day away. 'Tis plain you know nothing. Yet you shall know this much: my daughter has gone, stolen from me by a heathen, and I hold you to blame for it. A true leader would be able to keep his own raggle-tags in check. A true leader would know the true path for all, and hold all to it. Well, mark me – such a one may come yet. But for now I must seek my child.'

‘You'll not leave the forest!' shouted Maglin. ‘Do 'ee hear me? Go back to your hole and stay there, till I've thought on this!'

But Tadgemole had already turned to walk away. He lashed out with his staff as he did so, cracking it against the spears of Glim and Raim.

‘I'll do as I please.' Tadgemole threw the remark over his grey-cloaked shoulder. ‘Without let from you.'

Maglin was speechless. He watched the cave-dweller stride across the clearing, moving like one half his age, his staff more weapon than support. Tadgemole disappeared into the far trees, and Maglin then caught sight of something else lurking there – a flash of white among the dark winter brambles. Pegs?

The freezing air reminded him once again of his undressed state, and Maglin shook himself free of his thoughts. He turned his attention to the guards.

‘Bide there, till I'm mantled,' he said. ‘I've not finished with 'ee yet.'

The Touchstone lay heavy in his hands, the weight of
it a solid comfort somehow, when all else seemed blown to the winds. Maglin sat cross-legged at the entrance to his pod, rolling the polished orb from palm to palm as he considered his problems.

Little-Marten and Henty had gone, quit the forest, evidently, in order to be together. Should he risk chasing after them – sending others into danger that the young fools might be dragged back to safety? No. Not this time. But what if they were discovered by the Gorji, and so brought disaster down upon them all? Maglin didn't see what he could do to prevent this. Could the Stone help him? Perhaps. But Little-Marten and Henty were not his only concern. There were others.

Tadgemole, for instance. Something in that cave-dweller's manner had changed. A season ago he would never have spoken as he did now. ‘
A true leader would know the true path for all, and hold all to it. Well, such a one may come yet . . .
' What threat was hidden in those words? Did Tadgemole imagine that some new power, or leadership, was about to come his way?

And then there was the Orbis to think about, that missing piece of the Touchstone's history, ignored by him until now. Did it truly exist? Many times Pegs had tried to persuade him that the Orbis would free the Various from the lands of the Gorji, and return them safe to Elysse. But where and what was Elysse? Aye, and who or what was Pegs?

Maglin shook his head, as far away from any answer as ever. But of one thing he felt a new and growing certainty: Tadgemole and Pegs had joined together,
fallen into some alliance with one another. He saw again Tadgemole's purposeful stride, heading for the trees on the far side of the clearing, and the pale shadow of the one who waited for him there . . .

‘
. . . a true leader may come yet . . .
'

What did those words mean? Were Tadgemole and Pegs plotting some treachery against him – hoping to see him overthrown? It was possible, for Tadgemole would surely see him dead and think it no pity. And as for Pegs, who knew?

But by what power could the likes of Tadgemole ever hope to lead the Various? What could even begin to put him in such a position?

Possession of the Orbis . . .

Maglin ceased rolling the Stone from hand to hand, and looked out across the clearing. Now he saw it. Aye, now he understood. His tracker's instinct had not yet deserted him. Longseasons it had been since he had hunted these woods, a young archer in those days, but his eye was still sharp – still capable of seeing the unseen. The twitch of a leaf, the brief rustle in the undergrowth . . . such things always gave away the game that was hidden there.

And now he could sense the game that was hidden here. If Tadgemole and Pegs had indeed thrown in their lot with one another, it could likely be for but one reason: to find the Orbis. And if they should succeed in finding it, Tadgemole would certainly never hand it over to the Ickri. Yet the Orbis would be of no use to him without the Stone. So was Tadgemole planning to get his hands on the Touchstone also?

Aye, there it was – the hidden game – given away by that brief flash of white amongst the brambles.

Maglin breathed deeply through his nostrils to quell the outrage that rose within him. His first thought was to gather his company and descend upon the traitors before the day was out! But no. He would beat down his anger and say nothing – at least until he was sure of his suspicions. He would watch that pair . . . see what he could see . . . learn what he could learn. And if he should once catch them skulking together, plotting against him, then look out both.

In the meantime there was yet another matter to consider: the Stone itself.

What should he make of this thing? Here was magic, seemingly, his to hold and his to make use of. Yet he was still mistrustful of such witchi-pocus, still inclined to believe that it was all that mad hag's trickery.

Let it be put properly to the test, then, whilst my lady crone was elsewhere.

According to Maven, the Stone could tell neither the future nor the past, only what lived or existed today.

Very well. He would ask questions that only he could know the answer to. Maglin licked his finger and drew it across the Stone. ‘My father, Zorn – does he live?'

Nothing but a damp smear on the jasper globe. Maglin wiped it clean and tried again. ‘And my younger brother, Hazlin, does he live?'

Again there was naught there to see. Maglin tried a third question.

‘Hazlin's daughter, Zelma. Does she live?'

The fingermark on the surface of the Stone turned a deep blue, darkened further, then became mottled and faded away to nothing. Maglin shook his head. The Stone had answered aright, but
how
did this happen? Again he tried, and again, working his way through those that he knew and those that he had known, the living and the dead. The Stone answered and was never wrong. For those that lived a blue mark appeared, and for those that were no more – nothing.

Perhaps, then, he must trust the Stone with questions he himself did not know the answer to. Maglin thought about this for a few moments, then wet his finger.

‘Little-Marten. Does he live?'

Aye, according to the Stone, the Woodpecker had met no ill fate as yet. Henty too was still apparently alive, and this was good to learn. But what else should he ask?

Maglin knew the question he would most like to learn the answer to: shall the Various survive? But in this the Stone could not help him. Nor could it tell him whether there were those who plotted against him, nor whether the Orbis would come to his hand, nor even whether he would live this day through. Such things were for the future.

What exists and what does not . . . what exists and what does not . . .

Maven's words returned to him: ‘. . . is all that exists alive?' So could the Stone tell him about the existence of things that did not live and breathe? He would test the idea. Maglin glanced about him, and his eye fell
upon the old pecking bag wherein the mapskins were kept. He knew they were there. Could the Stone divine it also?

‘The mapskins,' he said, ‘they that guided the Ickri from the northlands – do they exist?'

And there was the mark upon the Touchstone, darkening and fading as before. So.

Maglin wiped the surface clean, and prepared to ask a far more important question.

‘The Orbis . . .' He drew his finger across the Stone. ‘Does it exist?'

Strong and clear, the blue fingermark appeared.

Maglin felt then that the world about him had changed, and he with it. He had thought himself a hunter, one with an eye to see beyond what was visible. And yet how much he had missed. How much was hidden from him still, for lack of faith.

But the Orbis was real, and if it was real then it must be joined once again with the Touchstone. It must come to him, and to no other.

Maglin's hand shook as he raised a finger to his mouth for the final time, the hardened skin rough against the tip of his tongue.

‘Elysse . . .' He paused for a moment, trying to prepare himself for what might come. ‘Does it truly exist?'

Dark as night the fingermark bloomed upon the deep-red surface of the Touchstone, and to Maglin's wondering eyes it seemed to remain there longer than before, a misted cloud that hung among the heavens of some great planet, before slowly melting away.

Maglin let out a deep breath. It was true, then. All of it true. The power of the Stone was real, the Orbis existed, and Elysse was waiting – waiting for him to bring his people home. The task was his, and although he didn't yet see how it was to be accomplished he knew that he must make it so.

Maglin lowered his head and closed his eyes – a believer at last.

‘
PEGS? ARE YOU
there?' Midge put her head around the door of the pig-barn and peered into the darkness. The outside world was crisply cold and bright, and this made the barn interior seem doubly gloomy.

She heard a brief scrabble of movement from somewhere beyond the hay-rake, and then the voice of Pegs blossomed inside her head.

Midge?

He sounded as though she'd startled him.

‘Yes, it's me. Are you alone?' Midge sidled through the doorway. The place had the faint smell of livestock about it, and she realized that Pegs might have been in here for some time. He appeared from the far shadows, shaking out his mane. And walking very stiffly, Midge thought.

‘Were you asleep?' she said. ‘You were, weren't you? Pegs, that's really dangerous! Anything could wander in here – dogs . . . or anybody. You need to be more careful.'

Aye, 'tis true. But the nights are cold in the woods, and I sleep ill. I find more warmth here, and have been glad of
it – and glad to have reason to come each day. What have you learned, though, maid? Have you news?

He looked different today, thought Midge. The brilliant sheen of him had dulled. His coat was scruffier – grey with dust from the barn. There were blackened hayseeds and bits of straw in his mane. But she liked him this way. It made him seem less other-worldly somehow, and it made this situation seem more . . . normal.

But then when he moved again she saw that his limbs were not just stiff from sleep. He was limping – quite badly – one of his forelegs barely touching the ground. His normal grace had gone, and he was obviously in pain.

‘What's the matter?' she said. ‘What's happened to you?'

When I flew down here in the morning darkness I lost my footing on the grey stone that surrounds this byre. It was icy, and I fell. I am unused to landing on such stuff.