For Adam, Ellen & Katherine

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Epigraph

1. The Elves of Sinadon

2. The Well

3. Atlendor

4. The Brollachan

5. “To a Woman yt was Dumpe”

6. Old Evil

7. Old Magic

8. Shining Tor

9. The Horsemen of Donn

10. Lord of the Herlathing

11. The Dale of Goyt

12. The Mere

13. The Bodach

14. The Wild Hunt

15. Errwood

16. The Howl of Ossar

17. The Witch-brand

18. The Dolorous Blow

19. The Children of Danu

20. The Last Ride

Notes

Praise

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

MAP

“And for to passe the tyme thys book shal be plesaunte to rede in, but for to gyve fayth and byleve that al is trewe that is conteyned herein, yet be at your lyberté.”

WILLIAM CAXTON

31 JULY 1485

CHAPTER 1
THE ELVES OF SINADON

It was bleak on Mottram road under the Edge, the wooded hill of Alderley. Trees roared high in the darkness. If any people had cause to be out in the night, they kept their heads deep in their collars, and their faces screwed blindly against the Pennine wind. And it was as well they did, for among the trees something was happening that was not meant for human eyes.

From a rib of the Edge a shaft of blue light cut the darkness. It came from a narrow opening in a high, tooth-shaped rock, and within the opening was a pair of iron gates thrown wide, and beyond them a tunnel. Shadows moved on the trees as a strange procession entered through the gates and down into the hill.

They were a small people, not more than four feet high, deep-chested, with narrow waists, and long, slender arms and legs. They wore short tunics, belted and sleeveless, and their feet were bare. Some had cloaks of white eagle feathers, though these were marks of rank rather than a protection. They carried deeply curved bows, and from their belts hung on one side quivers of white arrows, and on the other broad stabbing swords. Each rode a small white horse, and some sat proudly erect, though most drooped over the pommels of their saddles, and a few lay irrevocably still across their horses’ necks, and the reins were held by others. All together they numbered close on five hundred.

Beside the iron gates stood an old man. He was very tall, and thin as a young birch tree. His white robes, and long white hair and beard flew with the gale, and he held a white staff in his hand.

Slowly the horsemen filed through the gates into the glimmering tunnel, and when they were all inside, the old man turned, and followed them. The iron gates swung shut behind him, and there was just a bare rock in the wind.

In this way the elves of Sinadon came unnoticed to Fundindelve, last stronghold of the High Magic in our days, and were met by Cadellin Silverbrow, a great wizard, and guardian of the secret places of the Edge.

CHAPTER 2
THE WELL

“Eh up,” said Gowther Mossock, “what’s this?”

“What’s what?” said Colin.

“This here in the Advertiser.”

Colin and Susan leant forward to look where Gowther’s finger pointed to a headline near the middle of the page.

PLUMBING THE DEPTHS

Speculation has been aroused by the discovery of what appears to be a thirty-foot well, during excavations in front of the Trafford Arms Hotel, Alderley Edge.

While workmen employed by Isaac Massey and Sons were digging to trace a surface water drain they moved a stone flag and discovered a cavity. The lowering of a weighted string showed that the depth was thirty feet, with fifteen feet of water. The well was in no way connected with the drain, and although the whole of the covering was not removed it was estimated that the cavity was about six feet square with stone walls covered with slabs of stone.

It has been suggested that at one time there was a pump in front of the hotel and that excavations have revealed the well from which water was pumped.

Another theory is that it may probably be an air shaft connected with the ancient mines, which extend for a considerable distance in the direction of the village.

“The funny thing is,” said Gowther when the children had finished reading, “as long as I con remember it’s always been said there’s a tunnel from the copper mines comes out in the cellars of the Trafford. And now theer’s this. I wonder what the answer is.”

“I dunner see as it matters,” said Bess Mossock. “Yon’s nobbut a wet hole, choose how you look at it. And it con stay theer, for me.”

Gowther laughed. “Nay, lass, wheer’s your curiosity?”

“When you’re my age,” said Bess, “and getting as fat as Pig Ellen, theer’s other things to bother your head with, besides holes with water in them.

“Now come on, let’s be having you. I’ve my shopping to do, and you’ve not finished yet, either.”

“Could we have a look at the hole before we start?” said Susan.

“That’s what I was going to suggest,” said Gowther. “It’s only round the corner. It wunner take but a couple of minutes.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Bess. “I hope you enjoy yourselves. But dunner take all day, will you?”

They went out from the chip shop into the village street. Among all the parked cars, the Mossocks’ green cart, with their white horse, Prince, between the shafts, stood thirty years behind its surroundings. And the Mossocks were the same. Bess, in her full coat, and round, brimmed hat held with a pin, and Gowther, in his waistcoat and breeches – they had seen no reason to change the way of life that suited them. Once a week they rode down from Highmost Redmanhey, their farm on the southern slope of the Edge, to deliver eggs, poultry, and vegetables to customers in Alderley village. When Colin and Susan had first come to stay at Highmost Redmanhey everything had seemed very strange, but they had quickly settled into the Mossocks’ pattern.

Gowther and the children walked at Prince’s head for the short distance up the street to the De Trafford Arms, a public house built to Victorian ideas of beauty in half-timbered gothic.

A trench about three feet deep had been dug along the front of the building, close against the wall. Gowther mounted the pile of earth and clay that stood beside it, and looked down into the trench.

“Ay, this is it.”

Colin and Susan stepped up to join him.

The corner of a stone slab was sticking out of the trench wall a little way above the floor. A piece of the slab had broken off, making a hole three inches wide: that was all. Susan took a pebble, and dropped it through the gap. A second later there was a resonant ‘plunk’ as it hit water.

“It dunner tell you much, does it?” said Gowther. “Con you see owt?”

Susan had jumped into the trench, and was squinting through the hole.

“It’s – a round – shaft. There seems to be something like a pipe sticking into it. I can’t see any more.”

“Happen it’s nobbut a well,” said Gowther. “Pity: I’ve always liked to think theer’s summat in the owd tale.”

They went back to the cart, and when Bess had done her shopping they continued on their round of deliveries. It was late afternoon before all was finished.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to walk home through the wood again,” said Gowther.

“Yes, please,” said Colin.

“Ay, well, I think you’d do best to leave it alone, myself,” said Gowther. “But if you’re set on going, you mun go – though I doubt you’ll find much. And think on you come straight home; it’ll be dark in an hour, and them woods are treacherous at neet. You could be down a mine hole as soon as wink.”

Colin and Susan walked along the foot of the Edge. Every week they did this, while Bess and Gowther rode home in the cart, and any free time they had was also spent wandering on this hill, searching—

For a quarter of a mile, safe suburban gardens bounded the road, then fields began to show, and soon they were clear of the village. On their right the vertical north face of the Edge rose over them straight from the footpath, beeches poised above the road, and the crest harsh with pine and rock.

They left the road, and for a long time they climbed in silence, deep into the wood. Then Susan spoke:

“But what do you think’s the matter? Why can’t we find Cadellin now?”

“Oh, don’t start that again,” said Colin. “We never did know how to open the iron gates, or the Holywell entrance, so we’re not likely to be able to find him.”

“Yes, but why shouldn’t he want to see us? I could understand it before, when he knew it wasn’t safe to come here, but not now. What is there to be scared of now that the Morrigan’s out of the way?”

“That’s it,” said Colin. “Is she?”

“But she must be,” said Susan. “Gowther says her house is empty, and it’s the talk of the village.”

“But whether she’s alive or not, she still wouldn’t be at the house,” said Colin. “I’ve been thinking about it: the only other time Cadellin did this to us was when he thought she was around. He’s either got tired of us, or there’s trouble. Why else would it always be like this?”

They had reached the Holywell. It lay at the foot of a cliff in one of the many valleys of the Edge. It was a shallow, oblong, stone trough, into which water dripped from the rock. Beside it was a smaller, fan-shaped basin, and above it a crack in the rock face, and that, the children knew, was the second gate of Fundindelve. But now, as for weeks past, their calling was not answered.

How Colin and Susan were first drawn into the world of Magic that lies as near and unknown to us as the back of a shadow is not part of this story. But having once experienced the friendship of Cadellin Silverbrow, they were deeply hurt now that he seemed to have abandoned them without reason or warning. Almost they wished that they had never discovered enchantment: they found it unbearable that the woods for them should be empty of anything but loveliness, that the boulder that hid the iron gates should remain a boulder, that the cliff above the Holywell should be just a cliff.

“Come on,” said Colin. “Staring won’t open it. And if we don’t hurry, we shan’t be home before dark, and you know how Bess likes to fuss.”

They climbed out of the valley on to the top of the Edge. It was dusk: branches stood against the sky, and twilight ran in the grass, and gathered black in the chasms and tunnel eyes of the old mines which scarred the woodland with their spoil of sand and rock. There was the sound of wind, though the trees did not move.

“But Cadellin would have told us if we couldn’t—”

“Wait a minute!” said Colin. “What’s down there? Can you see?”

They were walking along the side of a quarry. It had not been worked for many years, and its floor was covered with grass, so that only its bare walls made it different from the other valleys of the Edge. But their sheerness gave the place a primitive atmosphere, a seclusion that was both brooding and peaceful. Here night was gathering very quickly.

“Where?” said Susan.

“At the other end of the quarry: a bit to the left of that tree.”

“No—”

“There it goes! Sue! What is it?”

The hollows of the valley were in darkness, and a patch of the darkness was moving, blacker than the rest. It flowed across the grass, shapeless, flat, changing in size, and up the cliff face. Somewhere near the middle, if there was a middle, were two red points of light. It slipped over the edge of the quarry, and was absorbed into the bracken.

“Did you see it?” said Colin.

“Yes: if there was anything there. It may just have – been the light.”

“Do you think it was?”

“No.”

CHAPTER 3
ATLENDOR

They hurried now. Whether the change was in themselves or in the wood, Colin and Susan felt it. The Edge had suddenly become, not quite malevolent, but alien, unsafe. And they longed to be clear of the trees: for either the light, or nerves, or both, seemed to be playing still further tricks on them. They kept imagining that there was white movement among the tree tops – nothing clear, but suggested, and elusive.

“Do you think there was anything in the quarry?” said Susan.

“I don’t know. And, anyway, what? I think it must have been the light – don’t you?”

But before Susan could answer, there was a hissing in the air, and the children leapt aside as sand spurted between them at their feet: then they saw that there was an arrow, small and white, imbedded in the path, and as they stared, an impassive voice spoke out of the dusk above their heads.

“Move not a sinew of your sinews, nor a vein of your veins, nor a hair of your heads, or I shall send down of slender oaken darts enough to sew you to the earth.”

Instinctively Colin and Susan looked up. Before them a very old silver birch threw its trunk in an arch across the path, and among the branches stood a slight figure, man-like, yet not four feet high. He wore a white tunic, and his skin was wind-brown. The locks of his hair lay close to his head like tongues of silver fire: and his eyes – were the eyes of a goat. They held a light that was mirrored from nothing in the wood, and in his hand was a deeply-curved bow.

At first, Colin and Susan stood, unable to speak, then the tension of the last few minutes broke in Colin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “You nearly hit us with that thing!”

“Oh, the Donas! Oh, the holy Mothan! It is himself that can speak to elves!”

Colin and Susan started at the sound of this rich voice that welled with laughter. They turned, and saw another small, but stockier, figure standing on the path behind them, his red hair glowing darkly in the last light. They had rarely seen such an ugly face. It was big-lipped, gap-toothed, warted, potato-nosed, shaggily thatched and bearded, the skin tanned like brambles at New Year. The left eye was covered with a black patch, but the right eye had the life of two in it. He was unmistakably a dwarf. He came forward and clapped Colin on the shoulder, and Colin rocked under the blow.

“And it is I, Uthecar Hornskin, that love you for it! Hey now! Will his mightiness come down out of yon tree and speak with his friends?” The white figure in the tree did not move: he seemed not to hear what was said. “I am thinking there is more need of elf-shot in other parts of the wood this night than here! I see Albanac coming, and he in no quiet mood!”

The dwarf looked down the path beyond Colin and Susan. They could not see far in the dark, but they heard the faint sound of hoofs pounding towards them. Nearer and louder they grew, and then out of the night came a black horse, wild-eyed and sweating, and halted in a spray of sand. Its rider, a tall man, himself clothed in black, called up into the tree. “My lord Atlendor! We have found it, but it is free of the wood to the south, and moving too fast for me. Ermid son of Erbin, Riogan son of Moren, and Anwas the Winged, with half their cantrefs, have it in sight, but they are not enough. Hurry!” His straight hair hung black upon his shoulders, gold glinted at his ear, and his eyes were like burning ice. A deep-crowned, wide-brimmed hat was on his head, and about his shoulders was a cloak fastened with a silver buckle.

“I go. Albanac shall teach my will to these folk.” The elf ran lightly along the birch trunk and disappeared into the crown. There was a rush of white in the surrounding trees, like swirling snow, and a noise like wind in the branches.

For some time nobody spoke. The dwarf gave the impression that he was enjoying the situation and was happy to let others make the next move; the man called Albanac looked at the children; and Colin and Susan were recovering from their surprise, and taking in the fact that they were back in the world of Magic – by accident, it seemed; and now that they were back, they remembered that this was a world of deep shadows as well as of enchantment.

They had been walking into it ever since they reached the quarry. If they could have recognised this atmosphere for what it was, the successive shocks of elf, dwarf, and rider would not have been so breathless.

“I think now,” said Albanac, “that the matter is out of Cadellin’s hands.”

“What do you mean?” said Colin. “And what’s all this about?”

“As for what I mean, that will take some telling, and what it is about is the same thing. And the place for it all is Fundindelve, so let us go together.”

“Is there not more urgent business in the wood this night?” said Uthecar.

“Nothing that we can do,” said Albanac. “The speed and the eyes of elves are the only hope, and I fear they will not be enough.”

He dismounted from his horse, and walked with the children and the dwarf back along the path. But after a little while, Susan noticed that they were not making for the Holywell.

“Wouldn’t it be quicker that way?” she said, pointing to their left.

“It would be,” said Albanac, “but this way the path is broader, which is a good thing this night.”

They came to a wide expanse of stone and sand which spilled down the face of the Edge. This was Stormy Point, a place of fine views in daylight, but now it was friendless. From here they crossed over the rocks to Saddlebole, which was a spur of the hill jutting into the plain, and half-way along this stood a tall boulder.

“Will you open the gates, Susan?” said Albanac.

“But I can’t,” said Susan. “I’ve tried often enough.”

“Colin,” said Albanac, “will you put your right hand to the rock, and say the word ‘Emalagra’?”

“What, like this?”

“Yes.”

“Emalagra?”

“Again.”

“Emalagra! Emalagra!”

Nothing happened. Colin stood back, looking foolish.

“Now Susan,” said Albanac.

Susan stepped up to the boulder, and put her right hand against it.

“Emalagra. See? It’s no good. I’ve tried every—”

A crack appeared in the rock; it grew wider, revealing a pair of iron gates, and beyond these a tunnel lit by a blue light.

CHAPTER 4
THE BROLLACHAN

“Will you open the gates?” said Albanac.

Susan stretched out her hand, and touched the iron gates. They swung open.

“Quickly now,” said Uthecar. “It is a healthier night within than without.”

He hurried the children through the gates, and the rock closed after them the moment they were all inside.

“Why did they open? They wouldn’t before,” said Susan.

“Because you spoke the word, and for another reason that we shall talk about,” said Albanac.

They went with Albanac down the paths of Fundindelve. Tunnel entered cave, and cave gave way to tunnel: caves, and tunnels, each different and the same: there seemed to be no end.

As they went deeper the blue light grew pale and strong, and by this the children knew that they were nearing the Cave of the Sleepers, for whose sake the old dwarf-mine of Fundindelve had been charged with the greatest magic of an age, and its guardian was Cadellin Silverbrow. Here in this cave, waiting through the centuries for the day when Cadellin should rouse him from his enchanted sleep to fight the last battle of the world, lay a king, surrounded by his knights, each with his milk-white mare.

The children looked about them, at the cold flames, now white in the core of the magic, flickering over the silver armour, at the horses, and the men, and listened to the muted, echoing murmur of their breathing, the beating of the heart of Fundindelve.

From the Cave of the Sleepers the way led uphill, by more tunnels, by stark, high-arching bridges over unknown depths, along narrow paths in the roofs of caves, across vaulted plains of sand, to the furthest caverns of the mine. And finally they came to a small cave close behind the Holywell that the wizard used for his quarters. In it were a few chairs, a long table, and a bed of skins.

“Where’s Cadellin?” said Susan.

“He will be with the lios-alfar, the elves,” said Albanac. “Many of them are ill of the smoke-sickness: but until he comes, rest you here. There is doubtless much you would know.”

“There certainly is!” said Colin. “Who was that shooting arrows at us?”

“The elf-lord, Atlendor son of Naf: he needs your help.”

“Needs our help?” said Colin. “He went a funny way about getting it!”

“But I never thought elves would be like that!” said Susan.

“No,” said Albanac. “You are both too hasty. Remember, he is under fear at this time. Danger besets him; he is tired, alone – and he is a king. Remember, too, that no elf has a natural love of men; for it is the dirt and ugliness and unclean air that men have worshipped these two hundred years that have driven the lios-alfar to the trackless places and the broken lands. You should see the smoke-sickness in the elves of Talebolion and Sinadon. You should hear it in their lungs. That is what men have done.”

“But how can we help?” said Susan.

“I will show you,” said Albanac. “Cadellin has spoken against this for many days, and he has good reason, but now you are here, and I think we must tell you what is wrong.

“In brief, it is this. There is something hiding in the dead wastes of the Northland, in far Prydein where the last kingdom of the elves has been made. For a long while now the numbers of the lios-alfar have been growing less – not through the smoke-sickness, as is happening in the west, but for some cause that we have not found. Elves vanish. They go without a sign. At first it was by ones and twos, but not long since a whole cantref, the cantref of Grannos, was lost, horses and weapons: not an arrow was seen. Some great wrong is at work, and to find it, and destroy it, Atlendor is bringing his people to him from the south and the west, gathering what magic he can. Susan, will you let him take the Mark of Fohla?”

“What’s that?” said Susan.

“It is the bracelet that Angharad Goldenhand gave to you.”

“This?” said Susan. “I didn’t know it had a name. What good is it to Atlendor?”

“I do not know,” said Albanac. “But any magic may help him – and you have magic there. Did you not open the gates?”

Susan looked at the band of ancient silver that she wore on her wrist. It was all she had brought with her out of the wreckage of their last encounter with this world, and it had been given to her, on a night of danger and enchantment, by Angharad Goldenhand, the Lady of the Lake. Susan did not know the meaning of the heavy letters that were traced in black, in a forgotten script, upon the silver, yet she knew that it was no ordinary bracelet, and she did not wear it lightly.

“Why is it called that?” said Susan.

“There are tales,” said Albanac, “that I have only dimly heard about these things, yet I know that the Marks of Fohla are from the early magic of the world, and this is the first that I have ever seen, and I cannot tell its use. But will you give it to Atlendor?”

“I can’t,” said Susan.

“But the elves may be destroyed for lack of the Mark!” said Albanac. “Will you fail them when they most need help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” said Susan. “It’s just that Angharad told me I must always look after my bracelet, though she didn’t say why: but if Atlendor needs it, I’ll go back with him.”

At this, Uthecar laughed, but Albanac’s face was troubled.

“You have me there,” he said. “Atlendor will not like this. But wait: is he to know? I do not want to burden him with fresh troubles if they can be avoided. Perhaps this would be of no use to Atlendor, but let me take it to him, Susan, so that he can try its powers. If they are deaf to him he will accept your provision more easily.”

“And why should himself not be away beyond Bannawg sooner than the fox to the wood, and the Mark with him?” said Uthecar.

“You do not know the lios-alfar, Hornskin,” said Albanac. “I give you my word that there will be no deceit.”

“Then another word shall go into Cadellin’s ear,” said Uthecar, “lest Atlendor should think black danger merits black deed. None of the lios-alfar will leave Fundindelve if Cadellin bids them stay.”

“No,” said Susan. “I trust you. And I think I trust Atlendor. Here you are: let him see what he can do with it. But please don’t keep it longer than you need.”

“Thank you,” said Albanac. “You will not be sorry.”

“Let us hope so,” said Uthecar. He did not look at all happy. “But from what I have heard of you, I am thinking you are not wise to put off your armour. The Morrigan does not forget, and she goes not forgive.”

“The Morrigan?” said Colin. “Where? Is she after us again?”

Although the children had first crossed this woman in her human shape, they had soon learnt that there was more to her than her ungraciousness. She was the Morrigan, leader of the witch covens called the morthbrood, and above that, she could wake the evil in stones and brew hate from the air, and she was terrible in her strength. But mainly through Colin and Susan her power had been broken by Cadellin Silverbrow, and they had not been certain that she herself had survived the destruction that had overwhelmed her followers.

“The morthbrood is scattered,” said Albanac, “but she has been seen. You had best ask him who brought word of her.” He nodded towards Uthecar. “This honey-natured dwarf from beyond Minith Bannawg in the Northland.”

“Why? Have you seen her?” said Colin.

“Have I not!” said the dwarf. “Are you all wanting to know? Well then, here is the tale.

“On my way south I came to the hill of the Black Fernbrake in Prydein, and a storm followed me. So I was looking for rocks and heather to make a shelter for the night. I saw a round, brown stone, as if it were set apart from other stones, and I put my arms about it to lift it up – and oh, king of the sun and of the moon, and of the bright and fragrant stars! the stone put arms about my neck, and was throttling the life of me!

“Ask not how, for I cannot say, but I plucked myself free; and then the stone was the Morrigan! I sprang at her with my sword, and though she took out my eye, I took off her head, and the Black Fernbrake’s sides called to her screech.

“But the head leapt a hard, round leap to the neck again, and she came at me loathingly, and I was much in fear of her. Three times we fought, and three times I lifted her head, and three times she was whole again, and I was near death with pain and faintness.

“So once more I set iron to her shoulders, but when the head was making for the trunk I put my sword on the neck, and the head played ‘gliong’ on the blade, and sprang up to the skies. Then it began to fall, and I saw that it was aiming at me, so I stepped aside, and it went six feet into the ground with the force it had. Was that not the head! Then I heard stones crunching, and a chewing, and a gnawing, and a gnashing, so I thought it was time for me to take my legs along with me, and I went on through the night and the winnowing and the snow in it.”

They were waiting now for the wizard to come. And while they waited, Uthecar saw to it that talk never flagged.

He told how Albanac had met him one day, and had spoken of a rumour that something had come out of the ground near Fundindelve and was being hunted by Cadellin Silverbrow. Having himself been idle too long, Uthecar had decided to make the journey south from Minith Bannawg in the hope that Cadellin would be glad of his help. He was not disappointed. The matter was greater than he thought—

Long ago, one of the old mischiefs of the world had brought fear to the plain, but it had been caught, and imprisoned in a pit at the foot of the Edge. Centuries later, through the foolishness of men, it had escaped, and was taken at heavy cost. Albanac’s news was that man had loosed the evil a second time.

“And there was no knowing in the hard, shrivelling world,” said Uthecar, “where we might find the Brollachan again.”

The Brollachan. “Now the Brollachan,” said Uthecar, “has eyes and a mouth, and it has no speech, and alas no shape.” It was beyond comprehension. Yet the shadow that rose in Susan’s mind as the dwarf spoke seemed to her to darken the cave.

Shortly after this, Cadellin arrived. His shoulders were bowed, his weight leaning on the staff in his hand. When he saw the children a frown grew in the lines about his eyes.

“Colin? Susan? I am glad to see you; but why are you here? Albanac, why have you gone behind me to do this?”

“It is not quite so, Cadellin,” said Albanac. “But first, what of the lios-alfar?”

“The elves of Dinsel and Talebolion will be slow to heal,” said Cadellin. “These that have come from Sinadon are stronger, but the smoke-sickness is on them, and some I fear are beyond my hand.

“Now tell me what has brought you here.”

He spoke to the children.

“We were – stopped by Atlendor – the elf – and then Uthecar and Albanac came,” said Susan, “and we’ve just heard about the elves.”

“Do you think badly of Atlendor,” said Albanac. “He is hard-pressed. But Susan has given us hope: I have the Mark of Fohla here.”

Cadellin looked at Susan. “I – am glad,” he said. “It is noble, Susan. But is it wise? Oh, you must think I have the destruction of elves at heart! But the Morrigan—”

“We have spoken of her,” said Albanac quickly. “The bracelet will not be with me for long, and I do not think that witch-queen will come south yet awhile. She will have to be much stronger before she dare move openly, and she does not feel safe even beyond Minith Bannawg, if Hornskin’s tale speaks true. Why else the shape-shifting among rocks unless she fears pursuit?”

“That is so,” agreed Cadellin. “I know I am too cautious. Yet still I do not like to see these children brought even to the threshold of danger – no, Susan, do not be angry. It is not your age but your humanity that gives me unrest. It is against my wishes that you are here now.”

“But why?” cried Susan.

“Why do you think men know us only in legend?” said Cadellin. “We do not have to avoid you for our safety, as elves must, but rather for your own. It has not always been so. Once we were close; but some little time before the elves were driven away, a change came over you. You found the world easier to master by hands alone: things became more than thoughts with you, and you called it an Age of Reason.

“Now with us the opposite holds true, so that in our affairs you are weakest where you should be strong, and there is danger for you not only from evil, but from other matters we touch upon. These may not be evil, but they are wild forces, which could destroy one not well acquainted with such things.

“For these reasons we withdrew from mankind, and became a memory, and, with the years, a superstition, ghosts and terrors for a winter’s night, and later a mockery and a disbelief.

“That is why I must appear so hard: do you understand?”

“I – think so,” said Susan. “Most of it, anyway.”

“But if you cut yourself off all that while ago,” said Colin, “how is it that you talk as we do?”

“But we do not,” said the wizard. “We use the Common Tongue now because you are here. Amongst ourselves there are many languages. And have you not noticed that there are some of us stranger to the Tongue than others? The elves have avoided men most completely. They speak the Tongue much as they last heard it, and that not well. The rest – I, the dwarfs, and a few more – heard it through the years, and know it better than do the elves, though we cannot master your later speed and shortness. Albanac sees most of men, and he is often lost, but since they think him mad it is of no account.”

Colin and Susan did not stay long in the cave: the mood of the evening remained uneasy and it was obvious that Cadellin had more on his mind than had been said. A little after seven o’clock they walked up the short tunnel that led from the cave to the Holywell. The wizard touched the rock with his staff, and the cliff opened.

Uthecar went with the children all the way to the farm, turning back only at the gate. Colin and Susan were aware of his eyes ranging continually backwards and forwards, around and about.

“What’s the matter?” said Susan. “What are you looking for?”

“Something I hope I shall not be finding,” said Uthecar. “You may have noticed that the woods were not empty this night. We were close on the Brollachan, and it is far from here that I hope it is just now.”

“But how could you see it, whatever it is?” said Colin. “It’s pitch dark tonight.”

“You must know the eyes of a dwarf are born to darkness,” said Uthecar. “But even you would see the Brollachan, though the night were as black as a wolf’s throat; for no matter how black the night, the Brollachan is blacker than that.”

This stopped conversation for the rest of the journey. But when they reached Highmost Redmanhey, Susan said, “Uthecar, what’s wrong with the elves? I – don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve always imagined them to be the – well, the ‘best’ of your people.”

“Ha!” said Uthecar. “They would agree with you! And few would gainsay them. You must judge for yourselves. But I will say this of the lios-alfar; they are merciless without kindliness, and there are things incomprehensible about them.”

CHAPTER 5
“TO A WOMAN YT WAS DUMPE”

About half a mile from Highmost Redmanhey, round the shoulder of Clinton Hill, there is a disused and flooded quarry. Where the sides are not cliffs, wooded slopes drop steeply. A broken wind pump creaks, and a forgotten path runs nowhere into the brambles. In sunlight it is a forlorn place, forlorn as nothing but deserted machinery can be; but when the sun goes in, the air is charged with a different feeling. The water is sombre under its brows of cliff, and the trees crowd down to drink, the pump sneers; lonely, green-hued, dark.

But peaceful, thought Susan, and that’s something.

There had been no peace at the farm since their return. Two days of talk from Colin, and the silences made heavy by the Mossocks’ uneasiness. For Bess and Gowther knew of the children’s past involvement with magic, and they were as troubled by this mixing of the two worlds as Cadellin had been.

The weather did not help. The air was still, moist, too warm for the beginning of winter.

Susan had felt that she must go away to relax; so that afternoon she had left Colin and had come to the quarry. She stood on the edge of a slab of rock that stretched into the water, and lost herself in the grey shadows of fish. She was there a long time, slowly unwinding the tensions of the days: and then a noise made her look up.

“Hallo. Who are you?”

A small black pony was standing at the edge of the water on the other side of the quarry.

“What are you doing here?”

The pony tossed its mane, and snorted.

“Come on, then! Here, boy!”

The pony looked hard at Susan, flicked its tail, then turned and disappeared among the trees.

“Oh, well – I wonder what the time is.” Susan climbed up the slope out of the quarry and into the field. She walked round to the wood on the far side, and whistled, but nothing happened. “Here, boy! Here, boy! Oh don’t then; I’m – oh!”

The pony was standing right behind her.

“You made me jump! Where’ve you been?”

Susan fondled the pony’s ears. It seemed to like that, for it thrust its head into her shoulder, and closed its velvet-black eyes.

“Steady! You’ll knock me over.”

For several minutes she stroked its neck, then reluctantly she pushed it away. “I must go now. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.” The pony trotted after her. “No, go back. You can’t come.” But the pony followed Susan all the way across the field, butting her gently with its head and nibbling at her ears. And when she came to climb through the fence into the next field, it put itself between her and the fence, and pushed sideways with its sleek belly.

“What do you want?”

Push.

“I’ve nothing for you.”

Push.

“What is it?”

Push.

“Do you want me to ride? That’s it, isn’t it? Stand still, then. There. Good boy. You have got a long back, haven’t you? There. Now – whoa! Steady!”

The moment Susan was astride, the pony wheeled round and set off at full gallop towards the quarry. Susan grabbed the mane with both hands.

“Hey! Stop!”

They were heading straight for the barbed wire at the top of the cliff above the deepest part of the quarry.

“No! Stop!”

The pony turned its head and looked at Susan. Its foaming lips curled back in a grin, and the velvet was gone from the eye: in the heart of the black pupil was a red flame.

“No!” Susan screamed.

Faster and faster they went. The edge of the cliff cut a hard line against the sky. Susan tried to throw herself from the pony’s back, but her fingers seemed to be entangled in the mane, and her legs clung to the ribs.

“No! No! No! No!”

The pony soared over the fence, and plunged past smooth sandstone down to the water. The splash echoed between the walls, waves slapped the rock, there were some bubbles: the quarry was silent under the heavy sky.

“I’m not waiting any longer,” said Bess. “Susan mun get her own tea when she comes in.”

“Ay, let’s be doing,” said Gowther. “Theer’s one or two things to be seen to before it rains, and it conner be far off now: summat’s got to bust soon.”

“I’ll be glad when it does,” said Bess. “I conner get my breath today. Did Susan say she’d be late?”

“No,” said Colin, “but you know what she is. And she hadn’t a watch with her.”

They sat down at the table, and ate without talking. The only sounds were the breathing of Bess and Gowther, the ticking of the clock, the idiot buzz of two winter-drugged flies that circled endlessly under the beams. The sky bore down on the farm-house, squeezing the people in it like apples in a press.

“We’re for it, reet enough,” said Gowther. “And Susan had best hurry if she dunner want a soaking. She ought to be here by now. Wheer was she for, Colin? Eh up! What’s getten into him?” Scamp, the Mossocks’ lurcher, had begun to bark wildly somewhere close. Gowther put his head out of the window. “That’ll do! Hey!

“Now then, what was I saying? Oh ay; Susan. Do you know wheer she’s gone?”

“She said she was going to the quarry for some peace and quiet – I’ve been getting on her nerves, she said.”

“What? Hayman’s quarry? You should have said earlier, Colin. It’s dangerous – oh, drat the dog! Hey! Scamp! That’s enough! Do you hear?”

“Oh!” said Bess. “Whatever’s to do with you? Wheer’ve you been?”

Susan was standing in the doorway, looking pale and dazed. Her hair was thick with mud, and a pool of water was gathering at her feet.

“The quarry!” said Gowther. “She mun have fallen in! What were you thinking of, Susan, to go and do that?”

“Bath and bed,” said Bess, “and then we’ll see what’s what. Eh dear!”

She took Susan by the arm, and bustled her out of sight.

“Goodness knows what happened,” said Bess when she came downstairs half on hour later. “Her hair was full of sand and weed. But I couldner get a word out of her: she seems mazed, or summat. Happen she’ll be better for a sleep: I’ve put a couple of hot-water bottles in her bed, and she looked as though she’d drop off any minute when I left her.”

The storm battered the house, and filled the rooms with currents of air, making the lamps roar. It had come soon after nightfall, and with it a release of tension. The house was now a refuge, and not a prison. Colin, once the immediate anxiety for Susan had been allayed, settled down to spend the evening with his favourite book.

This was a musty, old ledger, covered with brown suede. Over a hundred years ago, one of the rectors of Alderley had copied into it a varied series of documents relating to the parish. The book had been in Gowther’s family longer than he could say, and although he had never found the patience to decipher the crabbed handwriting, he treasured the book as a link with a time that had passed. But Colin was fascinated by the anecdotes, details of court leets, surveys of the parish, manorial grants, and family histories that filled the book. There was always something absurd to be found, if you had Colin’s sense of humour.

The page that held him now was headed:

EXTRACTS: CH: WARDENS’ ACCS. 1617

A true and perfect account of all such Sumes of Money as I, John Henshaw of ye Butts, Churchwarden of Neither Alderley and for ye parish of Alderley have received and likewise disburst since my first entrance into Office untill this present day being ye 28 May Anno Di. 1618.

| £ | s. | d.
Imprimis Payed for Ale for ye Ringers and oure Selves | 0 | 3 | 2
Item to John Wych his bill for a new Sally Poll | 0 | 2 | 0
Item to a man yt had his tongue cut out by ye Turks | 0 | 0 | 2
Item to Philip Lea half his bill for walking | 0 | 1 | 6
Item to a pretended Irish gentleman | 0 | 1 | 3
Item spent for cluckin to make nets | 0 | 1 | 8
Item to a woman yt was dumpe | 0 | 0 | 6
Item spent when I did goe throw ye town to warne those to bring in ye wrishes yt had neglected on ye wrish burying day | 0 | 0 | 4
Item given to a Majer yt had been taken by ye French and was runeated by them | 0 | 1 | 0
Item payed to Mr. Hollinsheadfor warrants to punish ye boys’ Immoralities | 0 | 0 | 8

But the next entry took all the laughter from Colin’s face. He read it through twice.

“Gowther!”

“Ay?”

“Listen to this: it’s part of the churchwardens’ accounts for 1617.

‘Item spent at Street Lane Ends when Mr. Hollinshead and Mr. Wright were at Paynes to confine ye devil yt was fownde at ye Ale house when ye new pipe was being put down and it did break into ye Pitt.’

“Do you think it’s the hole at the Trafford?”

Gowther frowned. “Ay, I’d say it is, what with the pipe, and all. That side of Alderley near the Trafford used to be called Street Lane Ends, and I’ve heard tell of a pub theer before the Trafford was built. Sixteen-seventeen, is it? It conner be part of the mines, then. They didner come that way until about two hundred years back, when West Mine was started. So it looks as though it was the well of the owd pub, dunner it?”

“But it couldn’t be,” said Colin. “It was called ‘ye Pitt’, and by the sound of it, they didn’t know it was there. So what is it?”

“Nay, dunner ask me,” said Gowther. “And who are yon Hollinshead and Wright?”

“They’re often mentioned in here,” said Colin. “I think they were the priests at Alderley and Wilmslow. I’d like to know more about this ‘devil’.”

“I dunner reckon much on that,” said Gowther. “They were a superstitious lot in them days. As a matter of fact, I was talking to Jack Wrigley yesterday – he’s the feller as put his pickaxe through the slab – and he said that when he was looking to see what he’d got, he heard a rum kind of bubbling sound that put the wind up him a bit, but he thinks it was summat to do with air pressure. Happen yon’s what the parsons took for Owd Nick.”

“I dunner like it,” said Bess from the doorway. She had just come downstairs. “Susan’s not spoken yet, and she’s as cold as a frog. And I conner think wheer all the sand’s coming from – her hair’s still full of it – and everything’s wringing wet. Still, that’s not surprising with two hot-water bottles, I suppose. But theer’s summat wrong; she’s lying theer staring at nowt, and her eyes are a bit queer.”

“Mun I go for the doctor, do you think?” said Gowther.

“What? In this rain? And it’s nearly ten o’clock. Nay, lad, she inner that bad. But if things are no different in the morning, we’ll have the doctor in sharpish.”

“But what if she’s getten concussion, or summat like that?” said Gowther.

“It’s more like shock, I reckon,” said Bess. “Theer’s no bruises or lumps as I con see, and either way, she’s in the best place for her. You’d not get much thanks from the doctor for dragging him up here in this. We’ll see how she is for a good neet’s rest.”

Bess, like many country-women of her age, could not shake off her unreasoned fear of medical men.

Colin never knew what woke him. He lay on his back and stared at the moonlight. He had woken suddenly and completely, with no buffer of drowsiness to take the shock. His senses were needle-pointed, he was aware of every detail of the room, the pools of light and darkness shouted at him.

He got out of bed, and went to the window. It was a clear night, the air cold and sweet after the storm: the moon cast hard shadows over the farmyard. Scamp lay by the barn door, his head between his paws. Then Colin saw something move. He saw it only out of the corner of his eye, and it was gone in a moment, but he was never in any doubt: a shadow had slipped across the patch of moonlight that lay between the end of the house and the gate that led to the Riddings, the steep hill-field behind the farm.

“Hey! Scamp!” whispered Colin. The dog did not move. “Hey! Wake up!” Scamp whined softly, and gave a muted yelp. “Come on! Fetch him!” Scamp whined again, then crawled, barely raising his belly from the floor, into the barn. “What on earth? Hey!” But Scamp would not come.

Colin pulled on his shirt and trousers over his pyjamas, and jammed his feet into a pair of shoes, before going to wake Gowther. But when he came to Susan’s door he paused, and, for no reason that he could explain, opened the door. The bed was empty, the window open.

Colin tiptoed downstairs and groped his way to the door. It was still bolted. Had Susan dropped nine feet to the cobbles? He eased the bolts, and stepped outside, and as he looked he saw a thin silhouette pass over the skyline of the Riddings.

He struggled up the hill as fast as he could, but it was some time before he spotted the figure again, now moving across Clinton hill, a quarter of a mile away.

Colin ran: and by the time he stood up at the top of Clinton hill he had halved the lead that Susan had gained. For it was undoubtedly Susan. She was wearing her pyjamas, and she seemed to glide smoothly over the ground, giving a strange impression that she was running, though her movements were those of walking. Straight ahead of her were the dark tops of the trees in the quarry.

“Sue!” No, wait. That’s dangerous. She’s sleep-walking. But she’s heading for the quarry.

Colin ran as hard as he had ever run. Once he was off the hill-top the uneven ground hid Susan, but he knew the general direction. He came to the fence that stood on the edge of the highest cliff and looked around while he recovered his breath.

The moon showed all the hill-side and much of the quarry: the pump-tower gleamed, and the vanes turned. But Susan was nowhere to be seen. Colin leant against a fence-stump. She ought to be in sight: he could not have overtaken her: she must have reached here. Colin searched the sides of the quarry with his eyes, and looked at the smooth black mirror of the water. He was frightened. Where was she?

Then he cried out his fear as something slithered over his shoe and plucked at his ankle. He started back, and looked down. It was a hand. A ledge of earth, inches wide, ran along the other side of the fence and crumbled away to the rock face a few feet below: then the drop was sheer to the tarn-like water. The hand now clutched the ledge.

“Sue!”

He stretched over the barbed wire. She was right below him, spreadeagled between the ledge and the cliff proper, her pale face turned up to his.

“Hang on! Oh, hang on!”

Colin threw himself flat on the ground, wrapped one arm round the stump, thrust the other under the wire, and grabbed at the hand. But though it looked like a hand, it felt like a hoof.

The wire tore Colin’s sleeve as he shouted and snatched his arm away. Then, as Susan’s face rose above the ledge, a foot from his own, and he saw the light that glowed in her eyes, Colin abandoned reason, thought. He shot backwards from the ledge, crouched, stumbled, fled. He looked back only once, and it seemed that out of the quarry a formless shadow was rising into the sky. Behind him the stars went out, but in their place were two red stars, unwinking, and close together.

Colin sped along the hill, vaulting fences, throwing himself over hedges, and plunging down the Riddings to the farm-house. As he fumbled with the door, the moon was hidden, and darkness slid over the white walls. Colin turned. “Esenaroth! Esenaroth!” he cried. The words came to him and were torn from his lips independent of his will, and he heard them from a distance, as though they were from another’s mouth. They burned like silver fire in his brain, sanctuary in the blackness that filled the world.

CHAPTER 6
OLD EVIL

“I think we mun have the doctor,” said Bess. “She’s wet through again – it conner be healthy. And that blessed sand! Her hair’s still full of it.”

“Reet,” said Gowther. “I’ll get Prince ready, and then I’ll go and ring him up.”

Colin ate his breakfast mechanically. Bess and Gowther’s voices passed over him. He had to do something, but he did not know what he could do.

He had been woken by Scamp’s warm tongue on his face. It must have been about six o’clock in the morning: he was huddled on the doorstep, stiff with cold. He heard Gowther clump downstairs into the kitchen. Colin wondered if he should tell him what had happened, but it was not clear in his own head: he had to have time to think. So he tucked his pyjamas out of sight, and went to light the lamps for milking.

After breakfast Colin still had reached no decision. He went upstairs and changed his clothes. Susan’s door was ajar. He made himself go into the room. She lay in bed, her eyes half-closed, and when she saw Colin she smiled.

He went down to the kitchen, and found it empty. Bess was feeding the hens, and Gowther was in the stable with Prince. Colin was alone in the house with – what? He needed help, and Fundindelve was his only hope. He went into the yard, frightened, desperate, and then almost sobbing with relief, for Albanac was striding down the Riddings, the sun sparkling on his silver buckles and sword, his cloak swelling behind him in the wind.

Colin ran towards him and they met at the foot of the hill.

“Albanac! Albanac!”

“Why, what is it? Colin, are you well?”

“It’s Sue!”

“What?” Albanac took Colin by the shoulders and looked hard into his eyes. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know – she’s in bed – no – I mean – you must listen!”

“I am listening, but I do not follow you. Now tell me what is wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” said Colin. He paused, and then began. As he spoke, Albanac’s face grew lined and tense, his eyes were like blue diamonds. When Colin started to describe how he had followed Susan to the quarry Albanac interrupted him.

“Can we be seen from her window?”

“No – well, just about. It’s that end window at the front.”

“Then I would not be here.”

They moved round until the gable end of the house hid them from any windows.

“Now go on.”

When the story was finished Albanac laughed bitterly. “Ha! This is matter indeed. So near, after all. But come, we must act before the chance is lost.”

“Why? What—?”

“Listen. Can we enter the house without being seen from the window?”

“Ye – es.”

“Good. I think I have not the power to do what should be done, but we must think first of Susan. Now mark what I say: we must not speak when we are nearer the house.

“Lead me to the room. I shall make little sound, but you must walk as though you had no guile. Go to the window and open it: then we shall see.”

Colin paused with his hand on the latch and looked over his shoulder. Albanac stood at the top of the stairs; he nodded. Colin opened the door.

Susan lay there, staring. Colin crossed to the window and unlatched it. At the sound, Albanac stepped into the room: he held the Mark of Fohla, open, in his hand. Susan snarled, her eyes flashing wide, and tore the blankets from her, but Albanac threw himself across the room and on to the bed, striking Susan under the chin with his shoulder and pinning her arm beneath him while he locked the bracelet about her wrist. Then, as quickly, he sprang back to the door and drew his sword.

“Colin! Outside!”

“What have you done?” cried Colin. “What’s happening?”

Albanac’s hand bit into his shoulder and flung him out of the room. Albanac jumped after him and slammed the door shut.

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