The curtness of his speech told them more than the words. He was pale beneath his nut-brown skin, and even Gowther felt in no need of further explanation.
After they had skirted the Parkhouse and its outbuildings the wood declined into timbered parkland, which thinned to open fields, and under the last cluster of trees, the dwarfs halted to consider the next move. To their right was the Congleton road, bordered by a stone wall. On their side of the wall a belt of woodland followed the road, and the open ground between where they were crouching and this thicker cover was sparsely dotted with trees. A flock of birds wheeled overhead. No human figures were to be seen; the intermittent buzz of traffic on the road was the only noise beyond the wind.
“Where may our way lead now?” said Durathror.
“It’s a deal too exposed for me,” said Gowther. “And if we carry on we come to Monks’ Heath, which is a sight worse. But howd on a minute: let’s have a look round. It’s a while since I was round here. I wish them birds would give it a rest!” He scanned the country before them. “It’d be better if we could reach them trees by the wall; ay, yon’s the best road. Sithee; they go reet down the wall, and bend across to Dumville’s plantation, and that’ll take us round the edge of Monks’ Heath to Bag brook. From there we may – we may – be able to nip across to the game coverts by Marlheath at Capesthorne. It’s these next two hundred yards as is going to be the biggest snag. But happen if we keep an eye open for birds we con pick our time and dodge about a bit till we’re theer.”
And that is what they did. Choosing a moment when the sky was clear, they darted towards the road like frantic ants, weaving from tree to tree in bursts of speed that amazed Gowther: he had not run like this for thirty years. But they reached the strip of woodland before the next patrol flew by.
The trees left the road almost at right angles and continued across the fields as what Gowther called Dumville’s plantation. For most of its length it was very narrow, only a matter of feet in places, but it gave splendid cover from the air. After half a mile the wood swung right and headed south once more: it curved over the brow of a low hill, and from there a good view of the surrounding country was obtained.
“It’s well-wooded, at any rate,” said Susan.
“But it will appear bare to you for most of our journey,” laughed Fenodyree. “Things are not as they were: in the elder days ours would have been an easier task. There were true forests then.”
“I wonder who yon is on Sodger’s Hump,” said Gowther.
They all looked. A mile away, above the crossroads on Monks’ Heath, a grassy hill stood out above the land. It was like a smaller Shuttlingslow – or a tumulus. It had the tumulus’s air of mystery; it was subtly different from the surrounding country; it knew more than the fields in which it had its roots. And this uneasy mood was heightened by a group of Scots pines that crowned the summit. They leaned towards each other, as though sharing secrets. And outlined among the trees was a man on horseback. Little detail would be seen at that distance, but the children thought that he was probably wearing a cloak, and possibly a hat. He sat completely motionless.
“I … cannot tell who he is,” said Durathror, after much peering. “There is that about him that strikes a chord of memory. What think you, cousin?”
Fenodyree shook his head.
“It could, and could not, be one I know. It would be strange to find him here. It is almost certain to be a warlock guarding the crossroad.”
But, for some time after, the dwarfs were withdrawn, and pensive.
The trees dropped to the Macclesfield road in the hollow where it crossed Bag brook, and, dividing his attention between birds and traffic, Fenodyree was kept busy for a good ten minutes while he shepherded the others to the opposite side of the road and under the bridge arch. This accomplished, the dwarfs, for the first time since the disappearance of Harry Wardle, put away their swords.
“I begin to have hope of this quest,” said Fenodyree. “We are well clear of Radnor, and I think the morthbrood have lost the trail.”
“Ay, but I hope we dunner have to stay under this bridge all day, patting ourselves on the back,” said Gowther. “I wouldner say as this mud is over fresh, would you?”
“We shall move at once!” said Fenodyree.
“Here is what we shall attempt. North of Shuttlingslow lies Macclesfield forest, as wild a region as any on the hills; but men have covered much of it with spruce and fir. Do you know it?”
“Ay,” said Gowther. “It starts above Langley reservoirs. I dunner reckon much to it, though – mile after mile of trees on parade; it inner natural.”
“That is the place: a dungeon of trees. But their sad ranks grow thickly, and there is little chance of finding aught that hides within. The forest will keep us till Friday’s dawn, when we shall climb over the last mile of the moorland to Shuttlingslow.”
“As easy as that?” said Gowther.
“If we can gain the forest,” said Durathror.
Fenodyree’s plan was to head south for a few miles before turning east, and to travel, wherever possible, through woods. The intervening stretches of country, he hoped, would be crossed by following the lines of streams. Ignoring discomfort, the advantages of this plan were many. Along the streams, alder and willow were certain to be found, linked by lesser growth, reeds, rushes, and straggling elder. Moving lower than the adjacent fields would make for greater stealth, since there would be no danger of being outlined against the sky. And, in the last resort, it would be possible to lie close under the bank if caught in the open by the approach of birds. Also, running water kills scent, which might be important, for there were still two of the hounds of the Morrigan left alive.
All this Fenodyree explained; his plan was accepted without dissent, and they now began the most arduous part of their journey, falling into a pattern of movement that was to govern them for slow, exhausting miles. They had to keep together as a body, yet move and act as individuals, each responsible for finding, and gaining, cover before birds were overhead, and pushing on as soon as the sky was clear. Desperate scrambles, long periods of inactivity, mud, sand, water, ice, malicious brambles; one mile an hour was good progress.
The brook led them south-west, towards the left of Sodger’s Hump, and inevitably crossing under the Congleton road, which was not at all to anybody’s liking. However, a few yards short of the bridge, though still dangerously close, a tributary joined Bag brook. It flowed in an acute angle from the left, from the direction of the Capesthorne game covert. This meant that they were almost doubling back on their tracks, but it promised to be such an accommodating route that no one regretted the lost ground or wasted energies: it was worth all that to be travelling in exactly the right line – an experience that was to prove all too rare. Not long after turning up this smaller brook they saw the first hikers on the fringe of Dumville’s plantation.
The brook came from a valley of birch scrub and dead bracken; this was an improvement on bare fields, but ahead towered a sanctuary of larches, and the crawl seemed endless.
“By the ribbons of Frimla!” said Durathror when they were beneath the laced branches. “It is good to drop that coward’s gait and walk on two legs.”
“I only hope the birds are deaf,” said Susan.
The ground was covered inches deep with dead larch twigs and small branches. It was impossible not to tread on them, and with five pairs of feet on the move, dwarfs and humans passed through that wood with a sound like a distant forest fire.
From the larches they crossed a small area of scrub to a plantation of firs – specimens of Gowther’s despised “trees on parade”. But these trees were well grown, and there were few low branches. The floor was mute; no sun cut through the green roof: here twilight lay hidden at noon. Everybody was more at ease than at any time since leaving Highmost Redmanhey.
“It’s