“I spent five years labouring in this cave, and as many weeks scouring every gallery and path in Fundindelve, but without success. I can only think that that knave of a farmer was a greedier and more cunning rogue than he appeared, and that, as he followed me from here, laden as he was with wealth, his eyes fell upon the stone, and he slyly took it without a word. Perhaps he thought it was merely a pretty bauble, or he may even have seen me replace it after I had tethered his horse with sleep while he crammed his pockets here.
“Seldom have I need to visit these quarters, and it was a hundred years before I next came this way and found that the stone had gone. First I searched here; then I went out into the world to seek the farmer or his family. But, of course, by this time he was dead, and I could not trace his descendants; and although my quest was discreet the morthbrood came to hear of it, and they were not long in guessing the truth. Throughout the region of the plain they coursed, and even to the bleak uplands of the east, towards Ragnarok, but neither they nor the ferreting svarts found what they sought. Nor, for that matter, did I.
“Should Firefrost come into Nastrond’s hand my danger would be great indeed; for although he is powerless against the magic it contains, if he could destroy the stone then the magic, too, would die away.
“Firefrost was an ancient spellstone of great strength before the present magic was sealed within, and it would not readily suffer destruction; so while the light shines here I know that somewhere the stone still lives, and there is hope.
“There you have the story of my troubles, and, I trust, the answer to your questions. Now you must return to your home, for the hour is late and your friends will be anxious – and they may have ample cause for worry if we cannot solve this evening’s problems soon!”
They went back into the Cave of the Sleepers, and from there climbed upwards by tunnels and vast caverns till the way was blocked by a pair of iron gates, behind which the tunnel ended in a sheer rock wall. The wizard touched the gates with his staff, and slowly they swung open.
“These were wrought by dwarfs to guard their treasures from the thievish burrowings of svarts, but without magic they would be of little use against what seeks to enter now.”
So saying, Cadellin laid his hand upon the wall, and a dark gap appeared in the blue rock, through which the night air flowed, cold and dew-laden.
It looked very black outside, and the memory of their recent fear made Colin and Susan unwilling to leave the light and safety of Fundindelve; but, keeping close to the wizard, they stepped through the gap, and stood once more beneath the trees on the hillside.
The gates and the opening closed behind them with a sound that made the earth shake, and as they grew used to the moonlight the children saw that they were standing before the tooth of rock that they had striven to reach as they floundered in the depths of the beech wood, with svart-claws grasping at their heels.
Away to the left they could make out the shape of the ridge above the dell.
“That’s where the svarts attacked us,” said Colin, pointing.
“You do not surprise me!” laughed the wizard. “Saddlebole was ever a svart-warren; a good place to watch the sun set, indeed!”
They walked up the path to Stormy Point. All was quiet: just the grey rocks, and the moonlight. When they passed the dark slit of the Devil’s Grave, Colin and Susan instinctively huddled closer to the wizard, but nothing stirred within the blackness of the cave.
“Do svarts live in all the mines?” asked Susan.
“They do. They have their own warrens, but when men dug here they followed, hoping that Fundindelve would be revealed; and when the men departed they swarmed freely. Therefore you must keep away from the mines now, at all cost.”
Cadellin took the children from Stormy Point along a broad track that cut straight through the wood as far as the open fields, where it turned sharply to twist along the meadow border skirting the woodland. This, the wizard said, was once an elf-road, and some of the old magic still lingered. Svarts would not set foot on it, and the morthbrood would do so only if hard pressed, and then they could not bear to walk there for long. He told the children to use this road if they had need to visit him, and not to stray from it: for parts of the wood were evil, and very dangerous. “But then,” he said, “you have already found that to be true!” It would be wiser, he thought, to stay away from the wood altogether, and on no account must they go out of doors once the sun had set.
The track came to an end by the side of The Wizard Inn, and they had gone barely a hundred yards from there when they heard the sound of hoofs, and round the corner ahead of them came the shape of a horse and cart, oil lamps flickering on either side.
“It’s Gowther!”
“Do not speak of me!” said Cadellin.
“Oh, but …” began Susan. “But …”
But they were alone.
“Wey back!” called Gowther to Prince. “Hallo theer! Dunner you think it’s a bit late to be looking for wizards? It’s gone eleven o’clock, tha knows.”
“Oh, we’re sorry, Gowther,” said Colin. “We didn’t mean to be late, but we were lost, and stuck in a bog, and it took us a long time to find the road again.”
He thought that this half-lie would be more readily accepted than the truth, and Cadellin obviously wanted to keep his existence a secret.
“Eh well, we’ll say no more about it then; but think on you’re more careful in future, for with all them mine holes lying around, Bess was for having police and fire brigade out to look for you.
“Now up you come: if you’ve been traipsing round in Holywell bog you’ll be wanting a bath, I reckon.”
On reaching the farm Colin and Susan wasted no time in dragging off their muddy clothes and climbing into a steaming bath-tub. From there they went straight to bed, and Bess, who had been fussing and clucking round like a hen with chicks, brought them bowls of hot, salted bread and milk.
The children were too tired to think, let alone talk, much about their experience, and as they drowsily snuggled down between the sheets all seemed to grow confused and vague: it was impossible to keep awake. Colin slid into a muddled world of express trains, and black birds, and bracken, and tunnels, and dead leaves, and horses.
“Oh gosh,” he yawned, “which is which? Are there wizards and goblins? Or are we still at home? Must ask Sue about … about … oh … knights … ask Mum … don’t believe in farmers … farm – no … witches … and … things … oh …”
He began, very quietly, to snore.
On the crest of the Riddings, staring down upon the farmhouse as it lay bathed in gossamer moonlight, was a dark figure, tall and gaunt; and on its shoulder crouched an ugly bird.
The next day was cool and showery. The children slept late, and it was turned nine o’clock when they came down for breakfast.
“I thought it best to let you have a lie in this morning,” said Bess. “You looked dead beat last neet; ay, and you’re a bit pale now. Happen you’d do better to take things easy today, and not go gallivanting over the Edge.”
“Oh, I think we’ve seen enough of the Edge for a day or two,” said Susan. “It was rather tiring.”
Breakfast was hardly over when a lorry arrived from Alderley station with the children’s bicycles and trunks, and Colin and Susan immediately set about the task of unpacking their belongings.