Winter Wood (5 page)

BA-BETTS, QUEEN
of the Ickri, was dressed in her favourite white gown, her hair neatly combed and tied back, her face powdered and painted. Very peaceful, she looked, resting in the Gondla, her wicker chair, beneath the sycamores. The little wooded glade that they'd chosen for her was silent and secluded, yet open to the skies. The birds would see her soon enough.

Aye, it was a good place, thought Maglin, nicely suited its purpose. And Doolie had done her work well. The old queen looked better in death than she had in life. He glanced about at the quiet gathering, noting who was present and who was not. The entire Ickri tribe had turned out, as so they should, to listen in respectful silence to Crozer's speech. Just behind Crozer stood the other two Elders, Ardel of the Naiad and Damsk of the Wisp, tribespeople to accompany them. He noticed Maven-the-Green lurking among the bushes, and that surprised him a little, for what had Ba-betts been to the mad old hag? Of the winged horse, Pegs, there was no sign.

Crozer's voice droned away in the background, but Maglin was only half listening. His thoughts were more concerned with the immediate predicament of the tribes than with the Ickri Elder's lengthy tribute to Ba-betts. There was the future to consider, and a new responsibility to bear, the weight of which lay heavy upon his shoulders. With no heir to succeed Ba-betts, her line was over. And without rightful King or Queen, a Steward must now govern instead. There had been but one choice. From this day on, he, Maglin, was ruler of the Ickri.

He had expected nothing less, though he knew well that the Elders would have picked another if they could. But as senior figure the Stewardship must fall to himself, and so now Steward he was, Keeper of the Stone – King in all but name, and all forest-dwellers should recognize his authority.

Aye, but who among them would? The woodlanders grew reckless in their hunger, and each now looked to his own. The Ickri hunters and Naiad farmers might listen to him for a while longer, but the fisher-folk of the Wisp lived largely by their own code and were seldom seen between dawn and dusk. There were few here today to mourn the Queen. And the cave-dwellers – the Tinklers and Troggles – they were rarely seen at all. Maglin doubted they would consider him their master, for although he was coming into power, yet that power was waning. Starvation brought rebellion, and with little to offer his people he could do little to hold them. The time had surely come for all to leave. He would talk to the heads of each tribe
on the matter – beginning this very day with the one most likely to give him trouble: Tadgemole, leader of the cave-dwellers.

He must impress upon all the growing danger from the Gorji, and the urgent need of a plan. A full season and more the secret of the Various had been known to the Gorji childer. There was no reason to trust it was a secret still. And if that secret was out, then what hope was there that they could continue to live here in peace, or defend themselves from attack? How soon before full-grown giants came – and in what manner would they come? Not in friendly curiosity, that was certain. No, they would come to destroy, as was ever their way, to hunt down all that was unlike themselves. Maglin saw them in his troubled dreams, crowds of roaring men, ascending the hill with hounds and shovels, beating down the barrier of brambles that had protected the little people for so long. Aye, there was much to think on.

‘From seed we come, and to seed we go' – Crozer was drawing towards the end of his speech – ‘. . . as we ever did, and ever shall. Let the birds now take of her, corben and magpie, as we take of them, corben and magpie. And so may she feed her people still, we who yet remain.'

‘So.' The low muttered response from the crowd. A few moments more of silence, and the tribespeople began to separate and move quietly away through the trees.

Maglin walked over to where the half-dozen archers of the Guard stood, ranged in a semi-circle behind the
Queen's wicker chair. He spoke directly to Ictor, their captain – and sensed the animosity that lay between them. Ictor was brother to Scurl, the treacherous archer that Maglin had banished from the forest. Scurl was now presumed dead, along with his crew, and Maglin was well aware of Ictor's resentment towards him – and towards the Gorji child who had played such a part in Scurl's downfall.

‘I hold 'ee under my command now,' he said. ‘The Guard shall have first vigil, as is right and proper, and for as long as 'ee will. Shoot whatever might come for her, be it bird, or fitch, or rat. There be little enough in these woods that we can afford to cast aught aside. All to be shared at Basket-time, mind.'

Ictor stared him in the eye, a long and deliberate pause. Eventually he said, ‘Just as 'ee command, Steward. I be in the right fettle for shooting a rat.'

The insult was plainly intended, and Maglin decided that this time he would not let it pass. Ictor had made several such remarks of late – slyly threatening, insolent, challenging. It was almost as though he sought punishment. Very well, then. Perhaps it was time to bring this captain down a rank or two. Aye, a spell as a lowly tunnel guard might help curb his tongue . . .

Royal Clearing lay silent and deserted below, as Little-Marten surveyed the scene from his high Perch in the Rowdy-Dow tree. The glade that had been chosen as the last resting place of Ba-betts was beyond his vision, hidden away in the bordering woodland, but he had
caught some movement among the bare winter treetops and guessed that the tribute must now be over. Aye, and so it was, for there went one or two of the East Wood archers, Glim and Raim, returning to their work. Soon Maglin would come to give him orders, and then he hoped to say his piece.

Little-Marten shivered beneath his bindle-wrap, frozen hands tucked into his armpits for comfort. The day was bright, but none the warmer for that, and he was looking forward to drumming out Queen's Herald, if only to get his blood moving. The clavensticks would be cold as ice, but their sound would carry well on such a still day. Crisp and clear in the winter air, the hard rattle of the woodpecker.
Drrr-drrr . . . drrrrrr . . . drr
 . . .

He closed his eyes for a moment and ran through the rhythms of Queen's Herald in his head.
Drrr . . . drr-drrr . . .

Crack!
Little-Marten sat up with a jerk as something thwhacked against the dead trunk of the Rowdy-Dow tree.

‘Be you
awake
, Woodpecker?'

‘Aye!' Little-Marten looked down to see Maglin there, ready to hit the tree trunk with his spear again if necessary.

‘Aye, you are now,' said Maglin. ‘Sound Queen's Herald, then, to mark her passing. 'Twill be the last time.' The old warrior began to walk on.

‘Maglin!' Little-Marten somehow found the courage to call out. ‘Have 'ee . . . have 'ee spoken yet?'

‘Spoken?' Maglin turned to scowl up at him, shading his eyes against the bright light. His thinning
hair looked greyer than ever in the winter sunshine, the creases on his face deeper and more numerous. ‘Spoken o' what?'

‘To Tadgemole. About . . . Henty.'

‘Ah. The Tinkler maid. You've still a mind to wed, then? I said that I'd ask for 'ee, didn't I, come the turn of the season, and if Tadgemole were still against it. As I take it he be.'

‘Aye. He'll have none o' me.'

‘Hm. And what of your own father? What does Fletcher Marten say?'

‘He'll not stand in our way.'

‘Oh? And be those his words or your own?'

Little-Marten said nothing.

‘Well, I'll tell 'ee this, Woodpecker. The day that an Ickri weds a Tinkler, then both'll be wedded to trouble, that's certain. Such a thing have never happened yet, and there's good reason for it; the two don't mix. Now there's my say. But now that I be Steward 'tis also my say to grant leave or no. And if Tadgemole will agree to it, then I shall also. Though I think 'ee a pair o' young fools, I can't see it'll bring hurt to any but yourselves. I've to speak with Tadgemole directly on other matters, and I'll put in a word for 'ee. Now that's all I can promise. To your work, then.'

‘Aye. And . . . and thank 'ee, Maglin.'

‘Hmf.'

Maglin left Royal Clearing and followed the narrow woodland pathway that led down towards the caves.
The dry rattle of the woodpecker sounded among the treetops, Little-Marten drumming out Queen's Herald for the final time. The lad was too thin, thought Maglin, his wrists no thicker than the clavensticks that he wielded. Ah, but they were all too thin nowadays, lads and maids and stewards alike.

What a cuckoo's errand this was. He was astonished at himself for agreeing to do it. Still, there it was. He had been flattered that Little-Marten and the Tinkler maid had come to him and begged him to plead their cause, and obviously thought him so powerful and wise that he could successfully do so. He found that he had a soft spot for the Woodpecker, honest little fool that he was, and the maid seemed properly respectful. But to wed! An Ickri and a Tinkler! Such a thing was unheard of, and he was not surprised that the idea had been turned down. Yet what did these things matter, when all tribes were likely to perish?

Maglin climbed awkwardly up the bank of loose shale that fronted the main cave. He waited for a moment until he had caught his breath, and then shouted, ‘Ho there! Are any of 'ee about?'

He peered into the gloom. Now that he was here he felt foolish, and was in half a mind to turn on his heel without waiting for a response. The cave-dwellers were no friends of his – less so now than they had ever been – and he began to wonder what business he had being here at all. But then he saw movement at the back of the cave. A figure crept forward, some old Troggle-dame, bearing an armful of sticks by the seem of it.

‘What do 'ee want?'

‘I've come to talk with Tadgemole. Tell him that Maglin is here for him.'

‘Maglin?' The scraggy creature shuffled a little closer, squinting into the light. ‘Be you a heathen?'

‘A heathen? I'll give 'ee . . . just you get back there and bring Tadgemole to me.'

‘Goppo!' The old dame turned and faded back into the darkness. ‘Gop! Shift thee bones, and goo and find Tadgemole. Tell 'un there be one o' they heathens at the wind-'ole. Come to see 'un.'

Maglin took a deep breath, but held his tongue. This was becoming ever more ridiculous.

Eventually, just when Maglin felt that his patience was being made mockery of, Tadgemole appeared. The leader of the cave-dwellers was dressed in grey, as always, and, again as always, he carried that air about him of one who thinks himself a little above all others.

‘Maglin.' His greeting was cool, suspicious even.

‘Tadgemole. I find you hale and well, then?'

‘You do.'

‘Only I thought perhaps to see thee abroad today. For the Queen's passing.'

‘She was not my Queen, Maglin.'

‘'Twould have been a respect, though. Did she bring thee any harm?'

‘No. Nor any good.'

It was a poor beginning. Maglin understood that he was not to be invited further into the cave, for Tadgemole took a step forward and stood at the entrance with his arms folded. It was almost as though he were barring the way. Maglin could see others of
the cave-dwellers now, a little knot of them gathering in the far shadows. He thought he recognized Henty among them.

‘Yet you came to the muster of the tribes, Tadgemole, this summer last when Pegs were missing. And you allowed two of your own to join in searching for him.'

‘I thought that a matter of importance. A matter that might affect the safety of us all.'

Maglin let it drop. He was here to talk about the future of the tribes, not to argue. But first he would tackle that other business.

‘You've a daughter,' he said, glancing over Tadgemole's shoulder. ‘Henty. 'Tis her wish to be joined to Little-Marten, of the Ickri tribe. And he to her.'

‘Ah. And you are here to forbid it. Now that you are King, you think to have a say in these affairs, whether they concern you or not. I wonder that you bring word in person over such a trifle, Maglin. A lowling might have served as well.'

‘I am Steward, not King, and I am here to grant leave, not to forbid it.'

‘Steward or King, Maglin, you seek to rule – and to be one that may grant leave or not, at your whim. Well in this, at least, I have some say. And I do
not
grant such leave. Whilst I breathe, my daughter shall not be given to an Ickri heathen.'

‘Tread warily, Tadgemole.' Maglin felt his temper rising. ‘I'll not be ridden far by one of your kind.'

‘One of
my
kind? You come to this dwelling with a
spear in your fist, granting
leave
that the highest of mine may be gifted to the lowest of yours – and you think it a fair match?'

‘Aye – I think it a fair match!' Maglin's blood was up now. ‘The Woodpecker may never make an archer, nor even a fletcher like his father, but he've a position and a skill.'

‘I know full well what his position is, Maglin, and where his skill lies. His
position
was to come crawling to us upon his knees, as a seeker of refuge in our dwelling when his own were like to hunt him down. His
skill
was to entwine himself about my daughter, when my eyes were elsewhere. I was fool enough to take him in, and my daughter was fool enough to listen to his wiles. As to being an archer – he could be ruler of the Ickri, for all I'd care, and my answer would be the same. He would still be an Ickri. And I'll tell you this,
Steward
: if I see that young squab lurking about this place again, I'll not answer for his skin.'

‘You think to threaten one o' mine?' Maglin shook his spear in Tadgemole's face. ‘An Ickri? Then why any Ickri should want aught to do with a
Tinkler's
spalpeen is beyond my grasping. 'Tis Little-Marten that's the fool – and I a bigger one for hearing him out. And a bigger one yet to think of mixing our blood with yourn! Look out for your own, then – and to your own skins. We s'll do the same and reckon ourselves the better for it! I came here to talk o' more important things, Tadgemole, but I s'll waste no more time on 'ee. You'll not see me here again, nor the Woodpecker neither.'