Chapter Twelve
He could hear the warrior’s voice below him, appealing to him to climb more slowly, but Edwin ignored it. Wistan was too slow, and in general appeared not to appreciate the urgency of their situation. When they were still not halfway up the cliff, he had asked Edwin: “Can that be a hawk just flew past us, young comrade?” What did it matter what it was? His fever had made the warrior soft, both in mind and body.
Only a little further to climb, then he at least would be over the edge and standing on firm ground. He could then run—how he longed to run!—but to where? Their destination had, for the moment, drifted beyond his recall. What was more, there had been something important to tell the warrior: he had been deceiving Wistan about something, and now it was almost time to confess. When they had started their climb, leaving the exhausted mare tied to a shrub beside the mountain path, he had resolved to make a clean breast of it once they reached the top. Yet now he was almost there, his mind held nothing but confused wisps.
He clambered over the last rocks and pulled himself up over the precipice. The land before him was bare and wind-scarred, rising gradually towards the pale peaks on the horizon. Nearby were patches of heather and mountain grass, but nothing taller than a man’s ankle. Yet strangely, there in the mid-distance, was what appeared to be a wood, its lush trees standing calmly against the battling wind. Had some god, on a whim, picked up in his fingers a section of rich forest and set it down in this inhospitable terrain?
Though out of breath from the climb, Edwin pushed himself forward into a run. For those trees, surely, were where he had to be, and once there he would remember everything. Wistan’s voice was shouting again somewhere behind him—the warrior must finally have arrived at the top—but Edwin, not glancing back, ran all the faster. He would leave his confession until those trees. Within their shelter, he would be able to remember more clearly, and they could talk without the wind’s howl.
The ground came up to meet him and knocked the breath from him. It happened so unexpectedly he was obliged to lie there a moment, quite dazed, and when he tried to spring back to his feet something soft but forceful kept him down. He realised then that Wistan’s knee was on his back, and that his hands were being tied behind him.
“You asked before why we must carry rope with us,” Wistan said. “Now you see how useful it can be.”
Edwin began to remember their exchange down on the path below. Eager to start the climb, he had been annoyed by the way the warrior was carefully transferring items from his saddle into two sacks for them to carry.
“We must hurry, warrior! Why do we need all these things?”
“Here, carry this, comrade. The she-dragon’s foe enough without us growing weak with cold and hunger to aid her.”
“But the scent will be lost! And what need do we have of rope?”
“We may need it yet, young comrade, and we won’t find it growing on branches up there.”
Now the rope had been wound around his waist as well as his wrists, so that when finally he rose to his feet, he could move forward only against the pull of his leash.
“Warrior, are you no longer my friend and teacher?”
“I’m still that and your protector too. From here you must go with less haste.”
He found he did not mind the rope. The gait it obliged him to adopt was like that of a mule, and he was reminded of a time not long ago when he had had to impersonate just such a beast, going round and round a wagon. Was he the same mule now, stubbornly pushing his way up the slope even as the rope pulled him back?
He pulled and pulled, occasionally managing several steps at a run before the rope jerked him to a halt. A voice was in his ears—a familiar voice—half-singing, half-chanting a children’s rhyme, one he knew well from when he was younger. It was comforting and disturbing in equal measure and he found if he chanted along while tugging on the rope, the voice lost something of its unsettling edge. So he chanted, at first under his breath, then with less inhibition into the wind: “Who knocked over the cup of ale? Who cut off the dragon’s tail? Who left the snake inside the pail? ’Twas your Cousin Adny.” There were further lines he did not remember, but he was surprised to find that he had but to chant along with the voice and the words would come out correctly.
The trees were near now and the warrior tugged him back again. “Slowly, young comrade. We need more than courage to enter this strange grove. Look there. Pine trees at this height’s no mystery, but aren’t those oaks and elms beside them?”
“No matter what trees grow here, warrior, or what birds fly these skies! We have little time left and must hurry!”
They entered the wood and the ground changed beneath them: there was soft moss, nettles, even ferns. The leaves above them were dense enough to form a ceiling, so that for a while they wandered in a grey half-light. Yet this was no forest, for soon they could see before them a clearing with its circle of open sky above it. The thought came to Edwin that if this was indeed the work of a god, the intention must have been to conceal with these trees whatever lay ahead. He pulled angrily at the rope, saying:
“Why dally, warrior? Can it be you’re afraid?”
“Look at this place, young comrade. Your hunter’s instincts have served us well. This must be the dragon’s lair before us now.”
“I’m the hunter of us two, warrior, and I tell you that clearing holds no dragon. We must hurry past it and beyond, for we’ve further to go!”
“Your wound, young comrade. Let me see if it remains clean.”
“Never mind my wound! I tell you the scent will be lost! Let go the rope, warrior. I’ll run on even if you will not!”
This time Wistan released him, and Edwin pushed past thistles and tangled roots. Several times he lost his balance, for trussed as he was he had no hand to put out to steady himself. But he reached the clearing without injury, and stopped at its edge to take in the sight before him.
At the centre of the clearing was a pond. It was frozen over, so a man—were he brave or foolish enough—might cross it in twenty or so strides. The smoothness of the ice’s surface was interrupted only near the far side, where the hollowed-out trunk of a dead tree burst up through it. Along the bank, not far from the ruined tree, a large ogre was crouching down on its knees and elbows at the water’s very edge, its head completely submerged. Perhaps the creature had been drinking—or searching for something beneath the surface—and had been overtaken by the sudden freeze. To a careless observer, the ogre might have been a headless corpse, decapitated as it crawled to quench its thirst.
The patch of sky above the pond cast a strange light down on the ogre, and Edwin stared at it for a while, almost expecting it to return to life, bringing up a ghastly and flushed face. Then, with a start, he realised there was a second creature in an identical posture on the far right-hand edge of the pond. And there!—yet a third, not far before him, on the near bank, half-concealed by the ferns.
Ogres usually aroused only revulsion in him, but these creatures, and the eerie melancholy of their postures, made Edwin feel a tug of pity. What had brought them to such a fate? He began to move toward them, but the rope was taut again, and he heard Wistan say close behind him:
“Do you still deny this is a dragon’s lair, comrade?”
“Not here, warrior. We must go further.”
“Yet this spot whispers to me. Even if not her lair, isn’t this a place she comes to drink and bathe?”
“I say it’s cursed, warrior, and no place to do battle with her. We’ll have only ill luck here. Look at those poor ogres. And they almost as large as the fiends you killed the other night.”
“What do you speak of, boy?”
“Don’t you see them? Look, there! And there!”
“Master Edwin, you’ve become exhausted, as I feared. Let’s rest a while. Even if this is a gloomy spot, it gives us respite from the wind.”
“How can you talk of rest, warrior? And isn’t that how those poor creatures met their fate, loitering in this bewitched place too long? Heed their warning, warrior!”
“The only warning I heed tells me to make you rest before you drive your own heart to burst.”
He felt himself tugged, and his back struck against the bark of a tree. Then the warrior was trudging around him, circling rope about his chest and shoulders till he could hardly move.
“This good tree means you no harm, young comrade.” The warrior placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why waste strength this way to uproot it? Calm yourself and rest, I say, while I study more closely this place.”
He watched Wistan picking his way through the nettles down to the pond. Reaching the water’s edge, the warrior spent several moments walking slowly back and forth, staring closely at the ground, sometimes crouching down to examine whatever caught his eye. Then he straightened, and for a long time seemed to fall into a reverie, gazing over at the trees on the far side of the pond. For Edwin, the warrior was now a near-silhouette against the frozen water. Why did he not even glance towards the ogres?
Wistan made a movement and suddenly the sword was in his hand, the arm poised and unmoving in the air. Then the weapon was returned to its scabbard and the warrior, turning from the water, came walking back towards him.
“We’re hardly the first visitors here,” he said. “Even this past hour, some party’s come this way, and it’s no she-dragon. Master Edwin, I’m glad to see you calmer.”
“Warrior, I’ve a confession to make. One that may make you slay me even as I stand trussed to this tree.”
“Speak, boy, and don’t fear me.”
“Warrior, you claimed for me the hunter’s gift, and even as you spoke of it I felt a strong pull, so let you believe I had Querig in my nostrils. But I was always deceiving you.”
Wistan came closer till he was standing right before him.
“Go on, comrade.”
“I can’t go on, warrior.”
“You’ve more to fear from your silence than my anger. Speak.”
“I can’t, warrior. When we began to climb, I knew just what to tell you. Yet now … I’m uncertain what it is I’ve kept hidden from you.”
“It’s the she-dragon’s breath, nothing more. It’s had little sway over you before, but now overpowers you. A sure sign we’re close to her.”
“I fear it’s this cursed pool bewitches me, warrior, and maybe bewitches you too, making you content to dally this way and hardly glancing at those drowned ogres. Yet I know there’s a confession I have to make and only wish I could find it.”
“Show me the way to the she-dragon’s lair and I’ll forgive whatever small lies you’ve told me.”
“But that’s just it, warrior. We rode the mare till her heart nearly burst, then climbed this steep mountainside, yet I’m not leading you at all to the she-dragon.”
Wistan had come so close Edwin could feel the warrior’s breath.
“Where could it be then, Master Edwin, you lead me?”
“It’s my mother, warrior, I remember it now. My aunt’s not my mother. My real mother was taken, and even though I was a small boy then, I was watching. And I promised her I’d one day bring her back. Now I’m nearly grown, and have you beside me, even those men would tremble to face us. I deceived you, warrior, but understand my feelings and help me now we’re so near her.”
“Your mother. You say she’s near us now?”
“Yes, warrior. But not here. Not this cursed place.”
“What do you remember of the men who took her?”
“They looked fierce, warrior, and well used to killing. Not a man in the village dared come out to face them that day.”
“Saxons or Britons?”
“They were Britons, warrior. Three men, and Steffa said they must not long before have been soldiers, for he recognised their soldiers’ ways. I wasn’t yet five years old, or else I’d have fought for her.”
“My own mother was taken, young comrade, so I understand your thoughts well. And I too was a child and weak when she was taken. These were times of war, and in my foolishness, seeing how the men slaughtered and hanged so many, I rejoiced to see the way they smiled at her, believing they meant to treat her with gentleness and favour. Perhaps it was this way for you too, Master Edwin, when you were young and still to know of men’s ways.”
“My mother was taken in peaceful times, warrior, so no great harm has met her. She’s been travelling country to country, and it may not be such a bad life. Yet she longs to return to me, and it’s true, the men who travel with her are sometimes cruel. Warrior, accept this confession, punish me later, but help me now face her captors, for it’s long years she’s waited for me.”
Wistan stared at him strangely. He seemed on the brink of saying something, but then shook his head and walked a few steps away from the tree, almost like one ashamed. Edwin had never seen the warrior wear such an air, and watched him with surprise.
“I’ll readily forgive you this deception, Master Edwin,” Wistan said eventually, turning back to face him. “And any other small lies you may have told. And soon I’ll release you from this tree and we’ll go to face whatever foe you may lead us to. But in return I ask you to make a promise.”
“Tell me, warrior.”
“Should I fall and you survive, promise me this. That you’ll carry in your heart a hatred of Britons.”
“What do you mean, warrior? Which Britons?”
“All Britons, young comrade. Even those who show you kindness.”
“I don’t understand, warrior. Must I hate a Briton who shares with me his bread? Or saves me from a foe as lately did the good Sir Gawain?”
“There are Britons who tempt our respect, even our love, I know this only too well. But there are now greater things press on us than what each may feel for another. It was Britons under Arthur slaughtered our kind. It was Britons took your mother and mine. We’ve a duty to hate every man, woman and child of their blood. So promise me this. Should I fall before I pass to you my skills, promise me you’ll tend well this hatred in your heart. And should it ever flicker or threaten to die, shield it with care till the flame takes hold again. Will you promise me this, Master Edwin?”
“Very well, warrior, I promise it. But now I hear my mother calling, and surely we’ve stayed in this gloomy place too long.”
“Let’s go to her then. But be prepared in case we come too late for her rescue.”
“What can you mean, warrior? How can that ever be, for I hear her call even now.”
“Then let’s hasten to her call. Just know one thing, young comrade. When the hour’s too late for rescue, it’s still early enough for revenge. So let me hear your promise again. Promise me you’ll hate the Briton till the day you fall from your wounds or the heaviness of your years.”
“I gladly promise it again, warrior. But release me from this tree, for I now feel clearly which way we must go.”