* * * * *
The attack came swiftly.
Hardly had the three outlaws gone a quarter of a mile into the woods before the trees were raining hairy, stinking wild men upon the elf-trail. In the receding daylight, their attackers were as fearsome as they had been previously. They set up a howl that resounded from the surrounding trees and fell upon their prey.
Oswald drew his sword as the woodwoses loped towards them, screaming their bestial war cries. His spirits were low. There were more of the wild men than he could count.
Beside him, Bork had his axe ready. Edwin, by his own admission no fighter, seized a length of wood, and glared at the fearsome attackers.
Oswald shot Bork a startled glance, hearing him panting and grunting. Was the hardy Norseman afraid? In the silence of his own heart, Oswald admitted that their dimly discernable inhuman opponents terrified him, but at least he was man enough to keep his face stern.
Suddenly, Bork broke and ran. But not away from the woses, as Oswald had feared - towards them! The Dane set upon his foes; hacking and slashing about him with his mighty battleaxe, bellowing a war cry as savage as their own.
‘What’s got into him?’ demanded Oswald, about to follow.
‘Wait,’ Edwin said quickly. ‘This should be interesting…’
‘What’s happened to him?’ Oswald cried, watching the Dane crash through the gibbering ranks of wild men. ‘He’s gone mad!’
‘The berserk frenzy,’ Edwin said, his voice low. ‘Only the heathens really understand it.’
They watched in awe as Bork hacked a bloody swathe through the howling woses, sending blood showering across the sward, hacking limbs from torsos and heads from necks. Though wose after gibbering wose attacked him, slashing at his body with wickedly gleaming talons, Bork seemed oblivious. To Oswald’s amazement and creeping horror, he saw that for all the fury and venom of the woses, not one of the claws that raked Bork’s flesh left so much as a scratch.
‘He’s not wounded.’ Oswald shuddered. This was unnatural. ‘What kind of warlock is he?’
Edwin shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to explain,’ he replied as they followed cautiously. ‘He tried to tell me once, but he couldn’t find the words. You’re born to it, he says.’
Most of the woses were scattering towards the trees, howling in bestial panic, leaving a few braver or more foolish brutes who still tore and bit vainly at the berserker.
‘Somehow they make their skin invulnerable to sharp weapons,’ Edwin added. ‘It’s a heathen practice, of course, but it comes in handy.’
They reached Bork, who was busy dismembering a final woodwose. He turned, snarling, and advanced on them, his eyes glaring madly. Blood spattered him from head to toe and he seemed even more terrifying than the woses themselves. Oswald’s estimation of the creatures had lowered, but his respect for the Dane had increased immensely.
‘Kill!’ the Dane yelled, and he staggered drunkenly towards them.
‘Of course, it does have its drawbacks,’ remarked Edwin, casually dodging a swing from Bork’s axe. ‘Firstly, berserkers often forget important little things…’ He dodged again. ‘...like the difference between friend and foe. Hey, Bork!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you remember me? It’s your friend Edwin!’
Bork staggered to a halt, and peered muzzily from Edwin to Oswald. He snarled incoherently at the thane.
‘And this is Oswald,’ Edwin added hastily. ‘One of the king’s men… woah!’ he shouted as Bork lunged at Oswald. The little thief leapt on him, dragging him back.
‘And now an outlaw!’ he shouted down Bork’s ear. ‘One of us!’
Bork halted in front of Oswald, who had instinctively raised his sword to defend himself. He lowered it cautiously. Bork swung towards Edwin.
‘Edwin?’ he said thickly. ‘I don’t feel so good…’
He sank to his knees, shivering and breathing hoarsely. Edwin shot a glance towards the surrounding trees.
‘That’s the other drawback,’ he said dryly to Oswald, keeping an eye on the forest around them. ‘Once he’s had his bloody little tantrum, he’s as weak as a pussycat, aren’t you, you big heathen?’ Bork nodded vaguely. ‘Come on,’ Edwin added. ‘We’d better get moving before the woses realise how weak we are.’
‘Too late!’ Oswald said, catching a flicker of movement from the trees. Down in the depths, vengeful wild men were slipping slowly back towards them. ‘They’ve seen how weak he is! They’re coming! Run!’
Half dragging, half carrying the bone-weary berserker, Oswald and Edwin fled full-tilt through the trees, dashing down the elf-trail.
Deeper and deeper into the dank, primeval forest they ran, with the woses loping through the trees on either side, calling to one another in their brutish voices, leaping agilely through the undergrowth. The fleeing outlaws fled onwards, through thickets untouched by charcoal burners, clearings unhaunted by robber or rogue. The elf-path trailed crazily between the trees. Often they had to duck to avoid low-lying branches.
In the darkness behind them, the wose-calls rang and reverberated from the ancient oaks. They had passed through the scrubbier birches and ashes, and now they were fleeing deeper and deeper into the dark old heart of the Forest of Arden. As they scrambled down a rocky slope, Oswald saw, through a gap in the thickening canopy of leaves, that the Sun had almost set.
Beside him, Edwin cursed. Oswald turned to follow his gaze.
The elf-path had led them down into a rock-walled glen. Ahead of them, it ceased abruptly in front of a high, featureless cliff.
‘We’re trapped!’ Oswald glanced over his shoulder. As he did so, the entrance to the rocky combe filled with hairy figures, their eyes ablaze with the fires of wrath and vengeance.
‘Trapped!’ Oswald repeated with a curse. ‘And the woses’ blood is up. They’ve got their fellows to avenge.’
Edwin shook his head. ‘There must be some way out of here,’ he said reasonably. ‘Otherwise, why the elf-path? Where was it leading us?’
Oswald laughed harshly as the woses loped down the slope towards them.
‘Astray,’ he replied bitterly. ‘Perhaps the elves can fly up the cliff, or walk through rock. I was a fool to listen to you.’
Edwin darted away, leaving Oswald to support the semi-conscious berserker. The thief sprinted up to the cliff-face and banged on it with his fists.
‘Let us in!’ he shouted wildly. ‘Let us in! We’re your friends!’ He stopped, and looked towards the woodwoses in futile horror.
To the surprise of both of them, the rock gave vent to a grinding noise, and slowly, one outcrop rumbled outwards to reveal the entrance to a dark cave.
Small, indistinct figures - elves? - stood framed within it.
Oswald stared at the woses. They had seen the opening of the cliff. A great wose chieftain, who resembled the one whose corpse had pinned Oswald to the ground the other night, banged on his chest and roared to his fellows.
They charged down the slope, howling and gibbering.
‘Come on!’ Edwin yelled, running back to seize Bork by the arm. Caught up in the madness of the moment, Oswald took Bork’s other arm and together they heaved the berserker towards the yawning gap.
They scrambled up to the cave mouth, and one of the elves hissed something in smooth, liquid tongue that seemed vaguely familiar to the thane. He beckoned to them. They hurried Bork into the cave.
As the woses came bounding across the glen towards them, the boulder slid back across the cave mouth. In the last shaft of light from the sunset outside, Oswald caught a glimpse of a complicated mechanism of ropes and counterweights leading to the rock.
Then it slid shut, and they were in darkness. They had entered the kingdom of the elves.
A flame flared up from somewhere nearby, and flickering shadows danced across the rock walls of the tunnel. In its light, Oswald saw Edwin and Bork standing silently nearby. Surrounding them all were countless numbers of diminutive figures, brown-skinned, lank-haired, d
ressed in deer-hide and green-dyed wool, and armed with bronze-headed spears.
One of them, evidently the leader, beckoned to the three companions, saying something in his strangely familiar language. He turned to go.
Though the words were strange to Oswald, the meaning was clear. He turned to Edwin.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘He wants us to follow him.’ Edwin gave him a sharp look, and nodded.
Together, they helped Bork, following the elves down the tunnel, through a deep, dank darkness lit only by the swirling light of primitive torches held high by their hosts - or captors.
The tunnel twisted and wound crazily as it led them deep into the hills. Water splashed beneath Oswald’s feet as he marched onward.
Slowly, the rock began to open out. Red light flickered ahead of them. They turned a corner, and a vast, bustling, smoky cavern opened instantly before them, illuminated by bonfires dotted here and there across its wide space. The roof towered far higher than the palace in Tamworth, or Lichfield Cathedral. Beneath it, countless numbers of elves busied themselves with tasks beyond enumeration.
The elves who had rescued them led them rapidly through the smoke-hung chamber. Oswald looked about him as he followed them across the rocky floor.
Here, elven warriors were painting their bodies with a phosphorescent liquid; there, three elf-women spun wool, their hag-like faces bright with malign animation. Elsewhere, more elven warriors were heaving the carcass of a cow down a steep incline that led to another exit; some farmer’s herd would be smaller in the morning. In another corner, elves with horse-skull masks seemed to be preparing themselves for a night of hag riding.
Beyond this, Oswald saw a sight that truly made him shudder; groups of elves carrying with them fine, healthy human babies, passing another group that was setting out through an archway carrying slack-jawed, dull-eyed elf-brats.
But finally, they crossed the noxious cavern and had passed all its nightmarish inhabitants. A large natural arch towered above them at the far end, and the elves led them through this.
They came out into a high-vaulted chamber. Pillars of limestone flanked either side, and between them, Oswald caught glimpses of high windows looking out onto an impossibly tranquil sylvan scene.
At the far end of the hall, a natural outcrop had been carved into the shape of multiple thrones. Seven tall, hooded figures sat upon them, their faces in shadow. The elves leading the three outlaws halted before the mysterious figures.
The one in the centre raised its hands to its hood and slipped it back to reveal a feminine face of advanced age and impossible, unearthly beauty. She gazed down at them with purple-tinged, feline eyes.
‘Welcome to Elfhame,’ she announced in deep, ringing tones. ‘I am Lady Godda.’
5 UNEXPECTED AUTUMN
She indicated her companions. ‘These are my sisters,’ she added.
As one, they pushed back their hoods to reveal the handsome faces of six women who bore a family resemblance to the Lady. They gazed down at the three men with pleasure.
‘We too welcome you to Elfhame,’ they chorused in clear, ringing voices.
Oswald remembered his manners, and bowed to the seven women, nodding to Bork and Edwin to copy him.
‘I am Oswald son of Osnoth, thane of Westchester - currently in exile,’ he announced, rising to the occasion. He ignored Edwin and Bork as they stared rudely around them. ‘These are my companions, Edwin the Lawless and Bork the Dane.’
‘Thane of Westchester?’ Lady Godda mused. ‘And yet an outlaw?’
Oswald nodded, awkwardly.
‘Wrongfully accused by the queen,’ he replied. ‘But I am of noble blood, and can trace my descent back to Woden.’
Lady Godda looked enigmatic.
‘Woden?’ she asked. ‘A fine fellow, the last I saw of him.’
‘You knew him?’ Oswald asked.
‘We’ve... been acquainted,’ Lady Godda replied mysteriously.
‘Doesn’t that make you pretty old?’ demanded Edwin. ‘Woden ruled years ago!’
Oswald frowned at him. There was an etiquette in speaking with aristocrats, whatever world they came from.
‘The royal stock of Elfhame is a long-lived one,’ Lady Godda replied, showing no discomfort.
‘My apologies,’ Oswald broke in. ‘My companions are commoners, and have no idea of how to address a lady.’ He paused. ‘Nonetheless, if I may be so bold, I have a few questions to ask myself. First - who are you?’
‘My sister has already identified herself,’ said one of the others in tones of mild reproof.
‘But… Lady Godda? Elves?’ Oswald said.
‘I’m afraid our friend has had a poor schooling,’ Edwin said. Oswald stared at him. The robber’s boorish tone was gone completely. Was he mocking them? ‘In Bork’s country the elves are deemed second only to the gods, and we commoners in England still hold your people in some reverence, whatever the Church has to say.’
‘As a child, I heard more about saints and heroes, than elves and bugbears,’ Oswald admitted. ‘But I thought that you were no more than the stuff of legend.’
Lady Godda smiled. ‘Many of our people - the ellyllon, we call ourselves - prefer it that way,’ she replied. ‘Some of us wish that even legend had nothing to say.’
‘You don’t have any desire for fame?’ Oswald asked incredulously. ‘No wish to be remembered after death?’ To his people, an undying name was as important - and, being more difficult to obtain, more highly prized - as salvation. It went against his beliefs that an entire people wished to go unremarked and unnoticed.
‘You know little of our history,’ said Lady Godda sadly. ‘If you did, you would not wonder that the ellyllon keep to the woods and the hills, and eschew all contact with men.’
‘What about the wild men?’ Bork rumbled, who was slowly recovering. ‘Where do they fit in?’
Lady Godda glanced at him, and sighed.
‘Ah, yes, the woses,’ she said regretfully, ‘Whose feud with us is as great as ours with your own people.’
A chill ran down Oswald’s spine, and he gripped his sword-hilt, darting glances left and right at the silent elves who surrounded them.
‘You are… at feud with us?’ he asked.
Lady Godda laughed. ‘Do not worry, Oswald son of Osnoth,’ she replied. ‘Our feud is so ancient that on occasion we may waive it. When other feuds loom, more immediate and more important…
‘Sometimes my people raid your fields and steal your cattle,’ she added regretfully. ‘And since we have lived so long apart from others, our ancient blood is thin, and we prefer to mingle it with the blood of men…’
‘So you swap our babies for witless oafs,’ Edwin said.
Gravely, Lady Godda inclined her head. ‘Much bad blood lies between us,’ she replied.
‘But from what?’ Oswald asked. ‘The Church condemns you as the children of Cain. Does the feud stretch back as far as that?’
Lady Godda looked puzzled. She glanced at her sisters. One leaned over, and whispered in her ear. Her face cleared.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You are of the new religion?’ Oswald nodded. ‘No,’ replied Lady Godda, shaking her head with a faint smile. ‘Our feud is ancient; it goes back far longer than the memory of the Church extends.
‘Long, long ago, my people came to this island, which we named Albion after its white cliffs; we were exiles then, and we fled war in our homelands far to the east. Then the island was uninhabited, deserted, save for a few apemen and savages who knew little of craft and nothing of farming. Perhaps they were the children of the giants who once ruled the world, who built the first of the stone circles, and are said to still lurk, high in the mountains…’
‘These were the woses?’ Oswald asked, remembering the wild men: their ape-like gait, bestial faces and manlike limbs.
‘Indeed,’ Lady Godda replied. ‘Our ancestors saw nothing more than a rich land, ripe for the taking. They began to hack back the forests and pl
ant their crops, to raise their megaliths and burial mounds, and to build their roads high on the chalk.
‘It was not long before the woses banded together to fight this invasion, and we learnt to our dismay that if they were less than men, they were more than beasts, and had more than a beast’s cunning.
‘The wars raged long, throughout that primeval dawn, lasting many hundreds of years before we slaughtered the woses or beat them back into the fast-dwindling forests. For a time, there was peace in the island. The ellyllon reigned supreme, untroubled by warfare, and our civilisation gradually reached its glittering zenith.
‘Only enigmatic megalithic ruins remain of our long-lost golden age; the dolmens and the sarsens, the long barrows and the stone circles all lie empty and abandoned. Sheep crop heath and downland where once fields of wheat tossed beneath an antique sun, and the ancient forests shrink daily, felled by the axes of those who supplanted us.’
‘Who supplanted you?’ demanded Oswald, his heart touched by the infinite sadness in the elf-woman’s voice. ‘Who destroyed your civilisation?’
‘The fathers of the fathers of the folk you call the Welsh. Against us they came with their axes of iron, and they laid our peaceful kingdoms waste. Then it was our turn to suffer the fate of the woses. We were slaughtered, supplanted, enslaved, or beaten back to the hollow hills and the caves, and the depths of the forest, to dwindle and die like the oaks that fell to the invader’s axe.
‘For a while it was possible for us to co-exist with the conquerors, and we even took to speaking their own language…’
‘Of course!’ Oswald said, glancing again at the other elves. Lady Godda, startled by the interruption, gave him a quizzical glance. ‘I thought I recognised the language your people spoke - it sounded like Welsh.’ Edwin nodded thoughtfully in agreement. ‘But not the Welsh they spoke when I fought King Catull…’
‘We have long dwelt apart from the invaders,’ Lady Godda replied. ‘Now we hide from whoever rules the land, whether Welsh, Roman or English. Now we war only with our own kin.’
‘Your own kin?’ Oswald asked. ‘But you attacked the woses the other night.’
Lady Godda nodded. ‘At first we thought their incursion into our forests was part of the war,’ she replied. ‘But we have since learnt otherwise.’
‘War?’ Edwin asked. ‘What war? With the Welsh? That’s the only war I know about, but it’s over now.’
Lady Godda smiled darkly. ‘With the Welsh?’ she asked. ‘In a way.’
‘As I told you, some of our people fled into the mountains when the ancestors of the Welsh - the Britons - invaded Albion. Those who took refuge in the hills where now the Welsh themselves dwell, drew apart from our own race, changing slowly over the years into a stunted, ill-favoured folk who dwell in the caverns beneath the Welsh mountains… Coblynau, we call them. They feature in your own legends as goblins, just as we are known as elves.’
Oswald raised an eyebrow.
‘Goblins, elves, woses…’ he said in mock despair.
‘Their king also appears in your legends, as I understand,’ Lady Godda continued. ‘He goes by many names, but the most well known is Puck…’
‘Puck?’ Edwin laughed. ‘You mean the mischief-maker who my mother blamed every time the milk went sour?’
‘Your legends are but a pale mirror of the truth,’ replied Lady Godda sternly. ‘Puck is the Pwcca, the king of the goblins. He is a twisted, half-mad ancient who has long waged war with the elves of the woods, much as the Welsh fight with the English. We have known him to employ the woses before in his mad schemes. And when we learnt that a large force of them had entered the forest, it seemed to link with other reports we had received concerning the coblynau and their latest movements.’
‘But it seemed to me that they were following us,’ objected Oswald. ‘They found our cave, and then returned at night to attack us.’
Lady Godda nodded. ‘Further investigation revealed a different story,’ she replied, ‘more complex and yet still having at its heart the plots and machinations of the king of the goblins.
‘Our spies in the kingdoms of men, one of those who you know as witches, told us of a rival in the palace of the king, a sorcerer from the far northern realm of Lapland. He has taken service with the queen…’
Oswald nodded slowly. ‘I had heard rumours,’ he replied. ‘I’d discounted them as slander, suggestions that the queen was consorting with evil. But since then I’ve seen her in a different light…’
‘We know,’ Lady Godda replied calmly. ‘We also know that Queen Cynethryth is afraid of you. When you rejected her advances, she was frightened that you would inform the king, and alert him to her true nature. She feared exposure all the more since her diabolical plots seemed close to fruition…’
‘Why, what is she plotting?’ Edwin asked.
‘She has contacted Puck through her Lappish wizard, and together they are planning to take over the kingdom. Cynethryth wishes to seize Offa’s power, and rule the kingdom according to her own tyrannical dictates. Puck, meanwhile, wishes to crush my folk, once and for all.’
‘How are they going to do that?’ demanded Edwin. ‘A woman, a warlock, and a gang of bogeymen?’
Lady Godda looked stern. ‘They will have other allies,’ she replied. ‘We have discovered that, with the witchcraft of the Laplander, they intend to raise the Red Dragon from his aeon-old sleep.’
‘The Red Dragon?’ Oswald said curiously. He had heard of the Red Dragon - seen him on the Welsh standards. But he had always thought the creature a symbol, like the White Dragon of Wessex, or the Horse of Kent. ‘Who is the Red Dragon?’
‘Millennia ago,’ Lady Godda replied, ‘when the Earth was fresh-risen from the depths of chaos, dragons ruled the world we now share. Few survived the Age of the Giants, and of those that did, most sleep deep within the mountains or at the bottom of vast lakes. Occasionally, at times of great stress in the world above, they awake, and wreak devastation across the lands.
‘But two dragons lie beneath the mountain of Snowdon; a red dragon and a white. At certain times in this island’s history, they have been seen battling together; before the coming of the Romans, for instance, and on the eve of the English invasion, when Ambrosius spoke his prophecies before the high-king Vortigern. Their battles mirror those of invader and invaded; the white dragon being the attacker, the red dragon its eternal foe. The king of the coblynau hopes to summon up the latter and induce it to wreak its ancient vengeance upon our realms.’
‘What?’ snapped Oswald. ‘Why, we must stop them! Let us go! We’ll ride to King Offa immediately…’
‘And he’ll put us in chains and hang us,’ Edwin said caustically. ‘He won’t believe a word we say, especially not after what the queen has said about you.’
Oswald faced him, lost for words. There had to be something they could do…
‘We must go to Wales,’ he declared. ‘Stop the goblins summoning this dragon!’
‘No,’ said Lady Godda, her voice tolling clear as a bell through their hubbub. Oswald turned and stared at her, about to object. But then Lady Godda spoke again.
‘No,’ she repeated. ‘You must slay the dragon.’
In disbelief, Oswald stared at the elf-woman.
‘Kill a dragon?’ he asked, stunned.
‘And how exactly do we go about that?’ Edwin asked. ‘This is the fire-breathing, scales and wings kind of beastie we’re talking about here, right?’
‘The legends are not far from the mark,’ Lady Godda replied gravely.
‘And you want us to kill it,’ Edwin said flatly. ‘How?’
‘There is only one way,’ said Lady Godda. ‘With Wyrmbane, the Sword of Wayland.’
‘Wayland?’ Oswald repeated eagerly. At last, someone he had heard of.
He had been brought up on the legends of the old heroes of his people. Wayland Smith loomed large in many of them: whether as the hero who had avenged his enslavement at the hands of the King
of Sweden by killing the man’s sons and seducing his daughter; or as the smith who had made the swords that a hundred other heroes had wielded, heroes like Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer, Theodoric the Great, Walter of Aquitaine, and Widia the Outlaw. Son of the sea-giant Wade, and of elvish blood, Wayland was a superlative hero of the ballads listened to by the aristocracy. But what had he - or his sword - to do with them?
‘Where do we get this sword, then?’ Edwin asked.
‘On the downs of Wessex, near the ancient road of my people that you call the Ridgeway, lies a long barrow,’ said Lady Godda. ‘The locals name it “Wayland’s Smithy”, and with good reason, for it is here that the elven smith now dwells.’
‘Wayland lives?’ Oswald asked in surprise. ‘But I thought none of the heroes of the old legends survived. They all died long ago, when the Age of Heroes ended.’
‘What of Wade?’ asked Lady Godda, seeming puzzled.
‘Wade?’ Oswald replied. ‘Wayland’s father?’
‘Wade, who came to your king’s court not so long ago, and assisted him in constructing the defences against the Welsh,’ Lady Godda replied.
Oswald frowned. He remembered the man well - he had created quite a stir at the time, being well over seven feet tall, and having a hundred thanes in his train. Wade had appeared on the coast of Lindsey in a large ship with his warriors, then marched to Tamworth to offer his services in the construction of the dyke against the Welsh. Once they had completed their work, they had departed over the sea as mysteriously as they had come.
‘What of him?’ Oswald asked. ‘A likely man, I’ll admit. But more an engineer than a hero.’
‘He is the same Wade you know from legend, father of Wayland,’ Lady Godda replied. ‘He lives still, and so does his son.’
‘And his son has the only means of slaying the Red Dragon?’ demanded Edwin. Lady Godda nodded. ‘So you want us to traipse all the way down to Wessex to get it?’ Again, Lady Godda nodded. ‘While this Lappish wizard and the Pwcca summon up the dragon itself?’
Lady Godda inclined her head. ‘The rite must be performed at midwinter,’ she replied. ‘Which should give you sufficient time to fulfil your quest.’
Oswald nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now tell me more about Wayland, and his sword.’
‘Very well,’ replied Lady Godda. She looked around at the imposing hall. ‘But let us move to more congenial surroundings.’
She rose, and descended the throne, and her sisters rose and followed. The other elves shouldered their spears.
‘This way,’ Lady Godda bade them, and she led them towards a small archway in the left-hand wall.
As they strode down the passage beyond, Lady Godda continued speaking.
‘Wayland is the greatest smith among elves or men, as the legends so truly tell you. After retiring from an adventurous youth, he threw himself into developing and enhancing his skills.’
‘I heard that he learnt his art from a swan-maiden,’ Oswald said, hurrying to keep up with Lady Godda.
‘This is true,’ replied Lady Godda, leading them round a corner. ‘His skill is as much magic as it is craft.
‘In the Age of Heroes, many warriors were proud to wield a sword or wear helm or byrnie that they could say was Wayland’s work; many of his masterworks lie with their owners beneath the turf. Dragons slew many of them, for there were more dragons awake in those days; indeed, more living on Earth.
‘After many years, Wayland decided that the time was ripe for him to forge his masterpiece, the work that would ensure his name would live for all time; a sword that could kill the most evil of dragons. He had hoped that it would fit the hand of Siegfried, greatest of all dragon-slayers, but then that hero was betrayed and murdered by his own kinsmen, who lusted after the Rhinegold, the dragon-hoard he owned.
‘Siegfried had been a pupil of Wayland in his youth, and his murder struck the smith hard. He retreated from the world in mourning, and took up residence in this island, far from the dragons and heroes of the continent, finally finding a place to dwell on the downs of Wessex.’
Lady Godda gave them a sombre glance. ‘It may take some persuading before he is prepared to give you the blade.’
‘Oh, marvellous,’ Edwin said.
But at that moment they rounded another corner and the sight that confronted them stunned even Edwin into silence.
An archway opened before them, framing an incredible scene. Just as when their first sight of Elfhame had impressed them with what seemed the depths of squalor, the gentle sylvan scene beyond the arch was splendour at its height.
Tall, majestic pine trees thrust their branches towards a wide blue sky, bare of clouds. Gentle slopes climbed on either side, leading up to towering cliffs that vanished into the haze. A cool, limpid stream wound across the open grassland, feeding a crystal lake that lay before the eaves of the encircling forest. Beside its banks rose a dark tower.
Lady Godda turned to the elves that were following.
‘Bring us food and drink,’ she commanded. ‘We will feast beside the stream.’
The elves disappeared back down the tunnel. The three outlaws followed Lady Godda and her sisters out into the verdant valley.
As the three men trod the gentle grassy sward, they stared around them in amazement. A cool breeze ruffled their hair, bringing with it the resinous scent of the pines.
‘What is this place?’ Oswald asked quietly.
‘This is the Forest of Arden,’ Lady Godda replied tranquilly.
Edwin frowned. ‘Where are all the wolves and boars and robbers?’ he asked wildly. ‘Where are the woses and bugbears, and the drizzle? I know the Forest of Arden, and I’ve never seen it look like this.’ He gave the pine trees a puzzled glance.
Lady Godda laughed as she led them down to the banks of the stream.
‘Magic protects this valley,’ she told them. ‘As it has since the beginning. No evil can enter here, and here my people may live as they did in the morning of the world, before the coming of Man.’
They sat down on the grass beside the brook. Oswald looked around him, breathing in the cool, softly scented air, marvelling at the perfection of the scene. Here everything was as it should be. The ground was not too hard; the grass was not too wet. The stream was clear and shimmering. It was not too hot, nor was it too cold. There was not a hint of rain; also, there was none of the heat that bakes the soil in high summer. Here, he thought to himself, there could be no famine, no war, no injustice; it was as if the Golden Age had never ended.
‘I had thought your folk were a backward lot,’ he said frankly to Lady Godda. ‘Living in caves like animals, using crude weapons… savages. But… this place has completely changed my mind.’
Lady Godda sighed. ‘We are a dwindling people,’ she replied. ‘Much about us has not changed since the old time. But we are not the people we once were. There was a time where all Albion was like this hidden valley, and the ellyllon were strong and noble, fair and free. But you have seen how they became.’
The other elves were returning from the caves in the cliff behind them, bearing food and drink and all the accoutrements of a feast. Oswald watched the stunted, twisted creatures as they set out the meal under Lady Godda’s directions, and mentally he compared them with their leaders. Lady Godda was right. The elves were a pale shadow of what they must once have been.
It was the most splendid feast Oswald had ever attended, though he could remember little of it later. Once they had eaten their fill, they felt sleepy, and at the suggestion of the elf-woman, they stretched themselves out on the grass and slept. The last words Oswald heard from Lady Godda were ‘Farewell. It may be that we will meet again.’ He was on the edge of a dream, yet still he wondered.
He awoke, cold and stiff. Raising his head, he looked about. He frowned, and scratched his head absently.
In a flash, he recognised his surroundings. He was lying between his two companions, in front of the cliff that concealed the entrance to Elfhame. A
round him, though it seemed strangely different, was the dell where the woses had pursued them. He looked around sharply, but the woods were bare and silent.
He leaned over and shook Edwin.
‘Wha… what…’ mumbled the little outlaw. He sat up, and rubbed his head.
‘What happened?’ he demanded. He looked at Oswald, frowned, as if he was about to say something else, then looked around. ‘Where are the woses?’ he added. ‘Did they knock us out, or something?’ He stared at the trees suddenly, and a puzzled expression crossed his face.
‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ Oswald asked. Had it all been a dream? He looked suspiciously at the blank cliff. Where had the entrance been? He could see no sign of a crack.
‘The woses were after us,’ Edwin said slowly. ‘We’d followed that track into the trees, and they ambushed us. Bork went berserk, but then we had to run for it…’
He broke off, staring at Oswald. ‘When did you grow a beard?’ he demanded.
Oswald’s jaw dropped. Bewildered, he touched his chin, and was startled to find a thick growth of hair upon it. He’d worn a beard a couple of years ago, when they were in fashion - he’d worn purple stockings and cross-garters back then, but no one wore anything like that at court these days. Beards were a heathen affectation, and heathen fashion wasn’t so popular this year.
‘Your own beard has grown,’ he replied suddenly. Like his Danish companion, Edwin normally went unshaven, but he kept his beard hacked short. Now it was almost as long as Bork’s.
At that point, the Dane yawned, and sat up. He beamed up at the others.
‘What are we doing here?’ he asked brightly.
‘How do you feel?’ inquired Oswald.
‘Fine, fine,’ rumbled the Dane. He paused, and looked puzzled. ‘Odd, that,’ he added. ‘Usually when I’ve gone berserk I really don’t feel so good for the best part of a day. Worse than a hangover.’
‘Don’t either of you remember the elves?’ Oswald asked suddenly.
The other two stopped, and stared at him blankly. A thoughtful look crossed Edwin’s face, as if troubled by vague, nagging recollections.
‘Now that you mention it…’ he said slowly.
‘Elves?’ asked Bork. He scowled absently. ‘Álfar?’ he said in his own tongue. ‘I remember something…’
Edwin shivered suddenly. He stared at the trees again, his face troubled.
‘I think...’ He said, then fell silent.
Oswald struggled to grasp the fading memories in his mind as they slipped away like dim fragments of a half-forgotten dream.
‘Godda… Lady Godda… Wayland…’ he said. Then; ‘The Red Dragon! Queen Cynethryth!’
‘The Sword of Wayland!’ Bork exclaimed. ‘Aye, it’s all coming back to me!’ He looked about. ‘But what are we doing out here again? Or did we fall asleep, and share dreams?’
Oswald shook his head uncertainly.
‘I don’t know…’ he replied. He scanned the cliff again, searching for the telltale cracks that marked the entrance to Elfhame. ‘Did you dream that we went into the hollow hill and spoke with Lady Godda? For hours?’
‘For hours?’ Edwin said suddenly. ‘Maybe it was longer…’
Oswald shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘The elf-woman did talk for a long time, but… Why do you say that?’
‘It was before Whitsun when we were attacked by the woses,’ Edwin said. ‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ Oswald replied. ‘Of course. What is the matter?’
‘What’s the matter?’ Edwin asked. ‘What’s the matter? Look at the trees!’
Oswald turned to face the forest. He saw nothing.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Can’t you see it?’ Edwin asked.
‘I can,’ said Bork quietly, after a few seconds.
Oswald stared at the trees a while longer.
‘You’ll have to tell me,’ he said unwillingly. Then it came to him in a flash.
‘They’re bare!’ he blurted, staring wildly at the others. He took another look.
A russet carpet of leaves clothed the forest floor. The trees themselves stood stark and bare against the cloudy sky. He shook his head in bewilderment.
‘When we went on there it was spring,’ he said. ‘Now… it’s autumn!’
6 ON THE ROAD
The forest was silent. The three outlaws exchanged troubled looks. Finally, Bork spoke.
‘Nothing will be achieved by wrinkling foreheads,’ he said. ‘What now?’
‘What now?’ Edwin replied. ‘A good question.’ He looked to Oswald.
Oswald returned his gaze silently.
‘Lady Godda gave us a quest,’ he said finally. ‘If anything we dreamt was real, we should follow it. Apart from anything, the kingdom is threatened.’
‘Why should we care about that?’ demanded Edwin. ‘Outcasts and outlaws like us.’
‘We might profit from it, even,’ Bork rumbled. ‘Loot and plunder for the taking.’
Oswald shook his head.
‘No!’ he said vehemently. ‘Do you think the reign of Queen Cynethryth will mean anything but a life of peril for us? If we save King Offa, perhaps he will pardon us…’
‘So that’s what this is about, is it?’ Edwin asked suspiciously. ‘Let me tell you, Oswald - Bork and I aren’t exiles from Court. I’m an escaped thrall. Bork is a foreigner. What kind of a place would Offa offer us?’
Oswald shook his head. ‘If we save his kingdom, who knows how the king will reward us? Perhaps he will make you both thanes, and give you estates of your own.’
Edwin sneered. ‘My only estate is the greenwood,’ he replied scornfully.
‘Still, I think we should do it,’ said Bork suddenly. ‘It sounds a fine adventure. It would win us honour.’
Edwin glared at him, betrayed.
‘I think you Danes have got something seriously wrong up here,’ he said, tapping his skull. ‘Adventure? Did you hear what the elf-woman was talking about? Wizards, goblins, dragons? Going against them won’t be adventure - it’ll be suicide!’
‘A noble death, if we do die,’ replied Bork dogmatically. ‘I’m with Oswald.’
Edwin shrugged, affecting nonchalance. ‘Seems I’ve been outvoted.’
‘But will you come?’ Oswald asked eagerly. He’d come to value the man’s company. ‘You’ll join us?’
Edwin indicated the surrounding forest.
‘You think I want to stay here on my own?’ he demanded. ‘It’s dangerous! Robbers and all that. No, I’ll come along and keep an eye on you dimwits. Somebody has to.’
‘So it’s agreed?’ Oswald asked. ‘We’re going to Wessex?’
‘Wales, Wessex, Wendland; wherever,’ Edwin replied, flinging his arms around. ‘Lead on.’
‘Lady Godda said we would find Wayland’s Smithy in Wessex,’ Oswald said firmly.
‘Where is Wessex?’ asked Bork, frowning. His knowledge of the seven kingdoms was limited.
‘South of here,’ Edwin said. ‘Beyond the Cotswolds. The downlands between Cornwall and the Weald, that’s what the King of Wessex usually lays claim to, though I hear they are fighting a civil war, as usual.’
‘That’s over now,’ Oswald said knowledgeably. ‘King Cynewulf was slain by a rival named Cyneheard, and now a man called Bertric has the throne.’
‘I thought Offa was king,’ said Bork, frowning.
‘Offa is the greatest king of the English,’ Oswald replied reverently, ‘but not the only one. Wessex gives the king tribute, but it is governed by its own kings.’
‘Very well, then,’ Bork said. ‘How do we get there?’
‘Down the Fosse Way would be quickest,’ Edwin said. ‘That’s to the east of the forest. It leads through the Vale of the Red Horse, past the Wychwood, and across the Cotswolds. We’d best go careful there, since the hills are under no king’s rule, and savage robbers prey on unwary travellers.’ He grinned. ‘They might even prey on
us.’
‘And beyond that lies Wessex,’ added Oswald. ‘It’s not far from the border to the Vale of the White Horse. If what Lady Godda says is true, the old road of her people - the Ridgeway - leads straight past the Smithy itself.’
‘As simple as that,’ Edwin said with a cynical smile.
‘But how long will it take?’ asked Bork. These distances meant nothing to him. ‘On foot, I mean?’
‘On foot it’ll take forever,’ Edwin said. ‘And besides, it’ll be dangerous following such a well-used road. We’re still wanted men, remember.’
‘What do you suggest we do, then?’ Oswald asked with irritation. ‘Go back and ask Lady Godda to give us wings?’
‘No,’ Edwin said with an enigmatic grin. ‘Follow me, and I’ll show you.’
An hour later, they were standing on the ridge of a hill overlooking the long grey sword-slash of the Fosse Way. It sliced arrogantly across the rolling landscape, flanked on either side by the deep ditches that gave it its name. Behind the trio, the dark eaves of the Forest of Arden loomed to remind them of the perils that lay behind. What was ahead was as uncertain as the shifting skies above.
Oswald squinted up. A few hours remained before sunset.
‘Looks like rain,’ he said. He turned to Edwin. ‘The road is quiet. Shouldn’t we start following it while we still have the chance?’
Edwin shook his head mysteriously.
‘We wait here,’ he declared. He nodded at a muddy field below them, linked to the road by a bridge across the fosse. ‘See that area?’ he asked. ‘Wagoners often camp there.’
Oswald regarded him solemnly.
‘What of it?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see,’ Edwin said, still looking enigmatic.
Bork fingered his axe. ‘Why don’t we get going?’ he asked. ‘I’m keen for combat.’
‘Patience, warrior,’ Edwin said. ‘We’ll see carnage soon. But not the axe,’ he added. ‘The bow.’
Bork glanced at the bow he had slung over his shoulder when they set out, and nodded wisely.
‘Just what is your plan?’ Oswald asked.
‘You’ll see,’ the little thief repeated.