“Help us...” said Weeth again, and he felt he had never spoken two words more fervently.
Chapter Thirty
Maple now held absolute sway in the Wolds, and Newborn fears concerning the followers’ true strengths were far more justified than even Supreme Commander Squilver realized. For not only were the Wolds now entirely in Maple’s paws, and the many systems there well protected from the excesses of the Newborn Crusades that continued beyond their boundaries, but increasingly through the summer years he had subtly extended the followers’ power.
Even a mole as well informed as Squilver could be forgiven for underestimating the followers’ strength, for unlike the Newborns, who were concentrated in important systems, and linked by aggressive and visible patrols, the followers were dispersed and rarely seen together in force. The small group of which Arvon was in charge, although an elite, was one of several similar ones which operated more or less secretly throughout that summer, gathering information concerning Newborn strengths and weaknesses, and, increasingly, collecting evidence of their mounting atrocities.
Maple no longer doubted that in the end the followers would triumph over the Newborns, for their cause was right, and such evidence as he had showed that Quail was losing control of the Crusades he had begun. In that case, Maple knew, a strong military leader, with a disciplined but fair force, could establish his authority far more quickly than moles generally realized. Time and circumstance seemed on the followers’ side.
“But what concerns me,” said Maple, speaking to his most able and charismatic commander, the Siabodian warrior Ystwelyn, “is what happens if a powerful leader emerges on the Newborn side who does what I would do: gets rid of Quail, and establishes a more rigorous command, building on their considerable strengths of force and territory, and begins to repair some of the weaknesses.”
“Aye,” answered Ystwelyn, “it’ll make our task a lot harder if that happens. That mole Thorne...”
“Exactly – Thorne. You remember when we confronted him across the vale at Rowton? You remember I said that he looked formidable, and not like the usual conniving weak-willed Newborn Brother Commanders we’ve come to expect?”
“Yes, mole, I do,” responded Ystwelyn.
They were talking out on the eastern slopes of Bourton, the system in the centre of the Wolds of which the inestimable Stow, one of Maple’s toughest and most reliable commanders, was the Elder. Nomole knew the Wolds better than he, nor loved its moles and landscape more, and to him had been entrusted the thankless task of watching over Rooster, and hiding him away somewhere in the High Wolds where no Newborn could reach him.
Ystwelyn had toured the followers’ various encampments in the past few days and had returned late the night before to brief Maple about the morale and readiness of the followers. Now he and Maple had begun their talk in a shady nook, a river flowing blue and leisurely down the vale below them, and the sun growing warmer by the hour. The Siabod mole eyed Maple expectantly, for he sensed his return had been well-timed, and that in his calm and careful way, Maple was talking generally on familiar themes before getting down to business.
“Yes, I remember Thorne well. As you say, a formidable mole.”
Maple nodded, only half listening, turning from Ystwelyn to a travel-stained journeymole who waited respectfully nearby, one eye on Maple, the other on some food he was hungrily finishing off.
“Take your time, mole,” said Maple cheerfully, “you’ve earned it!”
The journeymole gratefully finished his meal, tidied himself up a bit, and then came on over to them.
“I needed that, sir! No food for two days!”
“You’ve done well and you’ll be able to go and get some sleep soon. But before you do... you’ve told me most of what I need to know but it never hurts to hear it twice, and Commander Ystwelyn likes to hear things at first paw.”
“Name’s Radish, sir, of Dorchester way,” he said, looking at Ystwelyn. He was a typical journeymole – stocky, big-pawed, scarred from scrapes he had been in, and with an independence in his eyes typical of such moles. He was older than both of them but clearly a disciplined, loyal follower, and one not intimidated by meeting the two most powerful commanders. He barked rather than spoke his words, as if there was no time for full sentences and he might have to dash off somewhere at any moment, so he might as well get on with it. But this curious manner was alleviated by the pleasing soft burr of his southern accent.
“One of Maella’s journeymoles, then?” said Ystwelyn, naming the only senior female commander amongst the followers, who had originally led a band of moles up from the south-west, done sterling work on the eastward slopes of the Wolds, and in the high summer years of July had been deputed by Maple to reconnoitre the dangerous area south of the Wolds and west of Duncton – a Newborn stronghold dominated by Avebury and notorious Buckland, both firmly in Newborn paws.
“Aye, sir. Heading here but got diverted. Long story, told Commander Maple here. But a lucky break. Met the mole Weeth, sir.”
Ystwelyn’s eyes lit with excitement and he glanced appreciatively at Maple.
“Near entrance to Duncton, just by chance. Joined them on a jaunt to Banbury, sir, at Arvon’s suggestion, sir.
Tagged along to help, observe and report. This I am now doing.”
He rattled off his story in simple direct terms, passing on all he had learnt about the state of affairs with Pumpkin in Duncton, and Quail in Banbury.
“Didn’t see this Quail myself, sir, seeing as I’m not trained in that line of night work. Waited as was ordered, and when Arvon, Weeth and the others came back in one piece, well, I was impressed, sir. Each to his own. Gave me the willies what I heard of Quail and that.
“I was to tell you that Weeth is two or three days behind me, no more. On his way back right now. He guessed you’d be in Bourton by now so he’ll not lose time finding you.”
“What’s he dallying for, mole?”
Radish grinned. “Said you’d ask that and told me to reply, quote: ‘Tell Maple I’m still looking for the special something he was hoping for, he’ll understand.’ End of quote. I think I got that right.”
Maple laughed and said, “He didn’t have to stay away until he found it, but that’s Weeth. Three days, you say?”
“No more. Maybe less, though I travel fast and he had a couple of guards with him which slows things up, one being quicker than three.”
Maple nodded. “Now tell the commander what you heard about Thorne.”
“Yes, sir. Former commander of Cannock is now established at Leamington and has control of the east and north. It’s said that a Brother Rolt, Thripp’s aide, is with him, and there’s rumours of Chervil, Thripp’s son, being there too. Just rumours, no more.”
Ystwelyn looked at Maple, serious. Thorne, Rolt, and Chervil... a formidable cabal of moles, and one capable of taking power from Quail. Things were moving fast, perhaps too fast, in precisely the direction Maple feared, for such a grouping of Newborns would surely have little difficulty wresting power from Quail if his leadership was as flawed and failing as they thought.
“When did you hear this, mole?”
“Days ago, sir, from Arvon himself.”
“And he got it from Newborns, I suppose?”
“No, sir, not Newborns.”
He looked a little discomfited, as if dealing with something unfamiliar and disliked. This was a military journey-mole, and he did not like things he could make no sense of.
“Er, he got it from what are called ‘pilgrims’, sir. Meaning moles of no fixed abode, sir.”
“‘No fixed abode’?” repeated Maple, smiling.
“Exactly, sir. Wander around they do, sir, praying and that. But a useful source of information it seems, as Arvon has found. They come from and go to places others don’t. Find things out. Not of this world, a pilgrim isn’t. Have met some. Don’t talk sense. Unreliable. Inclined to wander off, like raw recruits. So I don’t place much reliance on these reports
from Leamington, speaking personally; but I pass on what I’m told and that’s what Arvon and Weeth told me, sir.”
Radish talked some more, but he had reported the main points, and once he had rested he could tell what remained – detailed dispositions of forces south of Duncton, and much he had learned about Buckland and Avebury – to one of Ystwelyn’s subordinates, trained to scribe down such things.
“Well done, mole. Now, take that rest you’ve earned, and be easy for a day or two. But after that...”
“Yes, sir?”
Despite his tiredness Radish spoke eagerly. Allmole at Bourton guessed that matters were moving apace and soon decisions would be made and campaign orders given.
“I’ll be ready, sir!”
“Oh! Radish?”
“Sir?” said the journeymole, turning back to Maple. Ystwelyn listened carefully, recognizing the sharp and alert tone in Maple’s voice, and the attention in his eyes. Maple had spotted something he had not.
“These pilgrims. You say you have met a few of them?”
“Quite a few. In odd places. They’re growing in numbers if you ask me, like fleas on a warm day. It’s Duncton Wood they talk of, it’s the mole Privet they think about. But why or what for, Stone only knows, cos they don’t. It’s my belief they’ve lost their home systems, sir, and don’t know what to do with themselves. It’s all nonsense they talk, that’s what I think. Is that all, sir?”
Radish suddenly looked tired and with another word of thanks Maple let him go.
“Pilgrims,” repeated Ystwelyn dubiously. He evidently shared some of Radish’s doubts about such moles.
“Hmmph!” said Maple, frowning, and thinking for a time.
“I’d feel happier if Weeth was back with us already,” said Maple finally, “though at least we know he’s on his way. I’m a patient mole, Ystwelyn, but sometimes...”
His strong clear face cracked into a grim smile, and it was one his friend returned. Radish had given them much to think about, but at the very least there was now the sense in both of them that the long wait was almost over, and the real struggle against the Newborns could begin.
“He had no need to risk his life on some venture into Quail’s stronghold,” grumbled Maple, for he missed Weeth sorely, the more so now that he was so nearly back again.
“He’s not one to take risks he doesn’t calculate,” said Ystwelyn reassuringly, “and nor is Arvon. Don’t know why he’s not returning with Weeth, but he’ll have reason enough, and Weeth’ll know what it is. Maybe Arvon just wants to get the very latest information. I’ll warrant that part of Arvon’s purpose in going to Banbury was to disconcert the Newborns and show them that they’re not as invulnerable as they think. It’s a trick we used to play on the Newborns around Siabod before we came to Caer Caradoc and got caught up with you.”
“Well...” growled Maple, unconvinced.
“Anyway, you’ve been telling us to be patient these molemonths past, so I don’t see why you can’t be patient for a couple more days. Weeth won’t be far behind. And he’s a survivor.”
“Aye,” sighed Maple, “so he is, so he is. And maybe there are a few things we can do. Yes, I think maybe the time’s come...”
A flash of excitement went across Ystwelyn’s eyes and he moved closer to Maple, to hear what he was suggesting, and to offer his thoughts as well, which it was his trusted role to do.
Finally the meeting was over and Ystwelyn went off to issue new orders to the fittest and fastest messengers he could find, and to oversee deployment, training and checking of the forces that in recent days had begun to arrive at Bourton in expectation of imminent action. In fact, Maple had begun to concentrate the followers in and around Bourton since the beginning of August in preparation for mounting an autumn offensive against the Newborns in the cooler, mistier weather of September and October. Excitement was mounting daily.
Now, as messenger after messenger left Bourton, in pairs for extra safety and support, a new buzz of excitement went around the tunnels and surface, and rumours, ever present when an army of moles gathers for coming action, began to multiply, and tunnel-talk increased.
Morale among the followers was high, for there was a general belief that they were lucky to be led by such a mole as Maple, one who cared and thought. They respected his unwillingness ever to pass comment on others, and the way he always took final responsibility for the sometimes hard decisions he had to make.
There had been hard decisions, and some appalling moments, when all Maple’s resolve had been needed to keep the followers together and abiding by the strict code of conduct he imposed. Had he not acted swiftly over that group of senior followers who had been about to kill eight Newborn guardmoles in late May when it had been discovered they had tortured and massacred at least thirty moles in the harmless Woldian system at Cheltenham? He had: all were demoted, and the guardmoles set free and told to return to their Brother Commander, Maple personally chastising the senior follower who by turning a blind eye had permitted the attempted reprisal.
Had he not personally intervened when twenty angry followers tried to do to two Newborn captives what had been done to some followers a few days before? Which was, to hang them by their paws from the barbs of wire and taunt and torture them for three days before drowning them in the mud of a ditch.
Oh yes, Maple had stopped that in short order, charging in among the followers, roaring down their protest, fighting off their assault upon his person, and by himself rescuing the Newborns.
“If only one of you does such things you reduce all of us to no better than our enemy. It is for truth and justice we fight, not to seek revenge.”
And when, as happened, revenge was taken, his treatment of those guilty was arraignment, and severe punishment, and execution if need be. The followers who fought with him came to fear him, but respect him too, and to accept his strict treatment where other commanders in other wars might have been far more tolerant.
As when he had been angry when news of Quail’s exodus from Wildenhope was late reaching him because the follower patrol that should have spotted it were off and away fornicating with some over-friendly females down Willersey way, where the females were known to be on the loose side. Could anymole really blame them – and who could say that if they had reported Quail’s move sooner it would have made any difference?
“There’s nothing wrong with a little dalliance,” Maple admonished them, “but not while you’re on duty. Because you took your pleasures others may in time lose their lives.” And when reports of the outrages committed by Quail’s entourage were heard, he called back the grumbling followers who had been caught out and let them hear for themselves a first-paw account of one of Quail’s atrocities so that they might know what dereliction of duty by one mole could lead to for another.
Yet when the guilty moles, hearing the foul reports, offered to lead the attack on Quail’s forces, Maple would have none of it.
“I shall decide when and where we attack,” was all he had said to them. “Now back to your posts...”
How sleepless his nights had been in the times that followed, as report after report of atrocities came in, and his commanders, Ystwelyn among them, urged him to let them descend upon Quail and his foul forces while he was still within reach in territory where the followers were strong. How great was the pressure on him to do what almost all the followers wanted. They had had enough of skulking about the Wolds and watching, and never taking action. Now, surely...
But now it was that Maple showed his greatest leadership in holding back his force, in biding his time, in not taking the obvious easier course.
“We are not strong enough. Though moles will die, and die horribly at his paws, the time is not yet right. Had we known sooner of his coming we might have got some systems cleared, but that was our failure. Now he’s on his way and going to Duncton Wood no doubt. Well, then, let him go, and may the Stone forgive me, but each step of the way that he commits more violence I swear will build u
p opposition and hatred for him of which in time we will reap the benefit.”
“But are we not here to save lives?” demanded commander after commander.
Maple shook his head. “We are here to defeat Quail, and rid moledom of the Newborns. We will not do that by rushing in because we are angry. His greatest enemy for now is himself. Let his actions prepare the ground for us. We will go in when we must, and not too soon.”
Sensing disagreement and disaffection in the follower ranks, Maple had exhausted himself for moleweeks on end travelling all around the Wolds, explaining, persuading, threatening, and holding his forces in check. Few moles knew better than Ystwelyn what stamina and resolve this had needed, who saw at first paw the determination and wisdom that underlay all that Maple said.
“He is a great mole...”
“Even though he’s never won a major battle? Eh? Come off it Ystwelyn!”
“And whatmole’s to say he has not? Which of us can deny that without him we would not now be in the strong position we are, with so few lives lost, with our pride intact, and without reducing ourselves – as some want us to – to the filth and slime against which we are fighting. Aye, Maple’s day will come, and when it does he will choose it for himself and not when others do. And I, Ystwelyn of Siabod, will be at his flank, and if he says to me, ‘Lie down mole and don’t defend yourself!’ or ‘Jump and touch the moon!’ I shall do so, because I believe in him.”
It said much for Maple that so strong and purposeful a mole as Ystwelyn was his subordinate, and it is a mark of Maple’s skills as a commander that he should have known how to find and inspire such a mole. When Ystwelyn doubted his leader, and sometimes he did, he was in the habit of reminding himself that it had been a Duncton mole who a century before had trekked to Siabod, and brought that ancient and backward-looking system into the modern age.
Weeth and his two companions finally reached Bourton two evenings later, just a little sooner than Radish had predicted, and they found a system busy with activity. Maple had rarely been so glad to see a mole and once they were established in his simple quarters, the two did not waste time with many preliminaries.