“We should leave sooner than that!” said Bramble.
“We must ensure that the Castern Chambers are secure, and though I have no doubt that all the lower valley routes are watched by grikes, at least there are hidden higher exits which will give us respite from being underground. Believe me, Bramble, and you others who are for leaving now, once you get to Castern you will not want to stay confined in the chambers there for longer than we need.”
“And if Castern is not secure, do we drop this cowardly inclination not to fight?” asked Bramble.
“We shall decide that when it happens, and be guided by the Stone,” said Squeezebelly strongly, looking around the gathering for support that the discussion was now closed.
But though he did not betray his unease, yet he felt it. Was a mole really to do as his conscience and the Stone Mole himself suggested, and do nothing in the face of violence? He hoped that if and when the time came he would have the courage of his peaceful convictions, and the qualities that would be needed to lead these moles in such a crisis.
“She is with pup, Terce, the sideem Mallice is with pup!”
For once Lucerne seemed as young as his years, young and delighted, and Terce, too, was able to be pleased. At last his daughter had got herself with pup and he felt the thrill of knowing that his plans for moledom and for the Mastership were going right.
“Everything is beginning to go right, Lucerne,” he said.
Lucerne nodded his agreement, for it was true enough. In the last few days confirmations had come in with growing frequency from the trinities that the murderous strikes against the followers had been almost entirely successful; quietly, efficiently, and in a sufficiently coordinated way that the followers had not had time to group and fight back.
The strikes had begun ruthlessly in the south-east in February with a campaign led from Buckland by Clowder which had then spread to the west and into the Midlands just as he and Lucerne had planned. Before long the strikes had gained a momentum of their own, and as the grikes acquired taste for them they were spreading northwards. The Word was supreme.
So much so that Lucerne decided shortly before his departure for Ashbourne and Beechenhill to send word to Ginnell to begin the final rout of the Welsh Marches, strengthened as he would be by the guardmoles in the Midlands and south-west.
“Yes, Terce, all is coming right,” smiled Lucerne, “and today we shall leave for Beechenhill.”
“Whatmole shall you leave in charge?”
“Drule and Slighe can manage it between them, I think. Now, I shall go and prepare my beloved for her departure. I would have preferred her to have the pups in Whern but that is hardly possible. But Beechenhill is within a safe range for a journey, and for the future Master to be born there would be a fitting desecration of the place.”
Lucerne smiled again and left. Terce watched him go, but his pleasure in the sharing of the news that meant much to both of them slid into concern and unease. He frowned, his sleek face lined and old, his eyes wrinkled and cold, his fur thin. Austerity had made the bones of his body prominent and they formed gaunt shadows at his shoulders and rear.
Why uneasy? He did not know. Something about the reports of the strikes. Something wrong.
Too easy. No opposition from the followers at all? Was the Stone, their enemy of centuries, so weak? Terce could not believe it. The original counts of followers might have been wrong, or more had emerged since and remained undetected. No, no, something was wrong. Perhaps the followers had been better at dissembling than the sideem gave them credit for, and there were more than anymole had thought living isolated and quiet and waiting. Waiting for what? The Stone Mole was what they were always meant to say when asked that question. But what could a solitary mole do – especially one now in the safe paws of Wort?
Terce had not risen to his position of power as Twelfth Keeper by asking such questions merely rhetorically. He trusted himself that when he felt uneasy there was reason for it, and if a question asked itself in his mind it might have another answer than the obvious one.
So... what could a solitary mole do against the might of the Word? Nothing much, surely. Not even if he was martyred, and Wort would not be so stupid as to kill him before the Master got to Ashbourne. Would she? She might, yes, she might. Martyrdom then... well, there had been martyrs on both sides over the centuries. Yet Terce, who knew his history as a Keeper must, knew of nomole through the centuries who had achieved power through death. Martyrdom was a temporary thing, soon forgotten in the living affairs of moles. And yet... he was uneasy.
Did not his own task on Rune’s behalf depend on having Rune’s memory elevated to something higher than a mere history of his life? Aye, through the death of his grandson Lucerne – a death that would be his, Terce’s, greatest achievement on behalf of Rune – their dynasty would become divine; would become in moles’ minds the once-living incarnation of the Word, living on through memory, worship, and liturgy. Divine Rune! Divine Lucerne! And then the emergence, once moles had forgotten the truth, of divine Henbane. And after that, one of the pups Mallice would bear, pups of which he, Terce, would be grandfather... and thus he would be part of that divinity.
What was the matter? The western front, always a running sore. Siabod never truly taken. The followers not quite as destroyed as sideem and the Master might think. And always the memory of Wort’s warnings that the Stone Mole had a quality about him that might destroy the Word. What quality could that be? One mole... divinity. Terce did not move as he thought, and now was very still indeed. Barely breathing.
Rune had always known that there were risks in his great strategy towards the elevation of his kin to holiness, and Terce had long since guessed that when the day came for Lucerne to be killed, in pursuance of the Word’s need, there would be risks, and tensions, and doubt. All that he felt now.
The Stone Mole, born in Duncton Wood, the one place where none could have expected it. Duncton, Tryfan’s system. Duncton, where Rune had found moles for the first and only time who thwarted him. But how sweet the Word’s revenge to ordain that a son of Tryfan should be Master of the Word! Terce smiled and for once felt excited.
Yes, yes, oh yes... it was, as Lucerne had said, coming right, but for an objective only he, Terce, could know. Obviously the Stone Mole’s death must be at one with Lucerne’s fate and thereby the opposition to the Word of which Duncton was the symbol would be finally crushed, and then... divinity. Terce liked it.
But I like not Wort having the Stone Mole in her power, he thought. She has fulfilled her task, and now she must be relieved of anything more. He was glad Lucerne had decided to leave today. Three days, a little less time perhaps, and they could have their paws on the Stone Mole, and all would be safe, and well.
So... Mallice was with pup! Good. Wasn’t it? More doubts now in Terce’s endlessly seething mind. He had noticed something unenthusiastic beneath Lucerne’s enthusiasm.
Perhaps Mallice had not been as clever as she should have been. Whether the pups would be Lucerne’s Terce had no idea – he had planted an idea in Mallice’s head, but it was one she had not discussed or even acknowledged since, nor one he ever wished to know more about. If she had pups and they were Lucerne’s he would be satisfied. If they were not, why, they were still pups of his own blood and might be deemed to be of Rune’s and that was sufficient satisfaction of Rune’s great scheme.
What would Lucerne do if he thought they were not his? Kill them, no doubt. It had been what Rune himself had intended to do with Henbane’s pups, and what, in truth, he, Terce, loyal only to Rune himself, intended to do to Lucerne.
To seem to father a future Master and to die gloriously and so create the hallowed dynasty was all Lucerne needed to achieve. Yes, yes, it would be well enough. Terce frowned in the dark, his eyes narrowing as he thought.
Then Terce smiled.
“I could never have been Master,” he whispered to himself. “I would have worried too much. I am content that a mole of my bl
ood will succeed Lucerne soon. Content with that, and thankful to the Word and glorious Rune for making it so, for it shall be.”
Terce was right to worry so far as Mallice was concerned. For just prior to his meeting with Terce – the one where he had seemed too pleased – Lucerne had seen Drule privily, very especially privily so that Mallice could not overhear. Out on the surface above the Sumps, in fact.
“There’d better be a reason for this, Drule.”
The big mole looked warily back and forth and said, “Master, there is a reason.”
“Why, Drule, I have never seen you look afraid before. Discomfited, yes – as when I sent you off to Duncton with the overzealous eldrene Wort; but not afraid.”
“I am afraid, Master.”
“Of what?”
“Of nothing but yourself. But yet I must speak out.”
“Then speak,” said Lucerne sharply. He liked this not. He liked this not one bit.
“Master, my loyalty is to thee alone, thee even before the Word.”
“I know it, Drule, I trust you absolutely.”
The mole managed a brief smile of satisfaction at this, but it did not last long.
“Master,” he continued hesitantly, “it is the sideem Mallice. Of her I must speak to you.”
“Something you know?”
Drule nodded, but his eyes dared not meet Lucerne’s.
“Well?”
“She is with pup.”
“I know it. Well?”
“They are not yours, Master.”
Perhaps only Lucerne could have kept his gaze steady and betrayed not one single tremor of surprise, anger or doubt. Only his voice revealed how shocked he was: it was a trace more quiet than it might have been.
“Tell me, Drule, what it is you know,” he said evenly.
“The father, Master, is the guardmole Weld.”
“I know him not.”
“He is one of those whose task is within the Sumps.”
“Tell me more.”
Drule’s mouth curled.
“He brags, Master. Brags of having her.”
“You have no doubt?”
“None, Master.”
“Bring him to me now, here, quick.” Lucerne’s voice betrayed more of what he felt now. Its tone was one of controlled violence.
“Drule, tell him not why, nor whatmole he is coming to see. Do it now.”
The cold March wind drove over the heather above the Sumps and among the sandstone rocks which outcrop there. Lucerne waited, eyes half closed, heart steady, heart cold.
He had suspected it. Something about the way she had been. Too eager, yet enjoying it less than she had before. A disconcerting combination. Too, too eager, her sighs not fooling him. Oh yes, he had suspected it.
Lucerne hid in shadow until the mole was almost up to him. Drule was very close behind. The mole Weld would not escape.
“What’s the secrecy abo...?”
Lucerne appeared.
“I am told you brag of having sideem Mallice.”
“I... did not!” said the mole.
“Ask him, Drule, do it quick.”
Drule’s massive paws went round the mole’s neck, but only to get a hold. That done he took the talons of his left paw and began to insert them into the now whimpering mole’s snout. Then he slowly turned them. Done too fast a mole can die of pain that way; too slow and a mole goes mad; done right a mole confesses all.
Drule did it right. Before blood came the mole was beginning to confess and the astonishing words he screamed were these: “I was not the only one!”
“Shall I kill him, Master?”
Lucerne shook his head and stared at the pathetic mole. It was jealousy he felt, and rage at being taken for a fool. It turned him icy calm, and Drule, who knew him well, saw that Weld would die.
“Tell me everything, Weld, and you might live.”
He told the tawdry tale of how Mallice had two others, and had them killed – by him. Then she had him and he, not quite such a fool it seemed, got clear before she could have him put down. Then nothing, but news that she and the Master were leaving to go north, and he had hinted that he knew something about Mallice others didn’t. A hint, a laugh, a jest is all it needs to make a brag, and brags get passed on to Drule.
Drule told Lucerne and here they were.
Lucerne smiled and said, “Weld, I am grateful to you, more than you know.”
Weld stared hopefully.
Drule said again, “Shall I kill him now, Master?”
“Always too fast, Drule, too eager. No, put him in the Lower Sumps, and leave him there to die.”
A look of horror came over Weld’s face, for he had put moles in that place himself. But Lucerne saw not his face, for he turned away and left Drule to do his task.
He must see Terce and play his part. But first he went to Mallice.
“Master mine, so soon?”
“Now,” he said coldly, and he took her violently.
Her screaming done she took to sighing over him. But when he wanted her again she said, “No, no, my love, you are too eager. Think of the pups: you would not want to hurt them.”
Lucerne contrived to look contrite.
“Well then, I shall go and tell Terce the news.”
“I told him myself, but he would like to hear it from you.”
So, affecting joy and happiness, Lucerne had told Terce with convincing enthusiasm and, that done, he had gone back to Mallice.
“We leave soon for Beechenhill. I wish to take the journey slowly, so that our pups are unhurt.”
“You think of me at such a time!” said Mallice.
“And the pups as well, my dear,” he said. The odour of evil hung about them both.
Lucerne saw Drule one last time before he left, and Slighe as well.
“Together shall you administer Cannock well. Is all as it should be, Drule, with the guardmoles? Am I leaving enough behind?”
“Yes, Master. Each and every one is exactly where you would wish him to be.” He beamed at his uncharacteristic subtlety. The bastard Weld was already sealed in a darkness from which he would never escape, and whimpering too for the talons Drule had ripped out of him. Drule knew how to pain a mole. Weld was already wishing he was dead.
“Master Lucerne, it shall be a pleasure to keep Cannock running smooth in your absence,” said Slighe. “But are you sure...?”
“Yes, Slighe, you are to stay here. I need one mole at least to keep my friend Drule in check.”
They laughed, moles three, easy with each other.
“Good luck, Master,” said Slighe.
Lucerne smiled and was gone. They would leave within the hour.
But at first he did not hurry the journey to Beechenhill, for he wanted to think.
Did Terce know of Mallice’s infidelity? He could not tell, but time would reveal the truth of that. Probably he did, for Terce was not Twelfth Keeper for nothing. Almost certainly he did. In which case... it needed thought. His punishment of Mallice would be to kill her pups in front of her once born. But Terce... what punishment for him?
They travelled on. They rested. Night came. Dawn broke. Terce appeared.
“Master, we are travelling slow and I cannot but think that we should travel more swiftly.”
“Why so?”
“Because now she has got the Stone Mole I do not trust the eldrene Wort.”
“Tell me why?”
“Because she is obsessive. And obsessive moles are inclined to think they are right and everymole else is wrong. We do not mind her killing the Stone Mole, I suppose, but we do not want him martyred.”
“How many days to Beechenhill now?”
“Two or just over perhaps – if we do not dawdle.”
Lucerne sighed.
“The Master is not Master of his destiny, it seems.”
“True of us all,” said Terce. “Shall we go faster?”
“We shall. I wish to meet this Stone Mole before he dies, and martyrs
can be tiresome things, no doubt.”
“And dangerous, too,” said Terce.
It was at the coming of that same dawn that Wort knew the Word had spoken to her.
“Summon Merrick,” she told a henchmole.
When he came he saw that her eyes were glittery bright and she was trying to contain her restlessness and seem calm.
“Sideem,” she began, “I am glad you have come quickly for I have something of importance to say. This night past I had a vision of the Word and it commanded me what we must do, with vigour and without fear. The Word is with us.
“It said, ‘Wort, eldrene of Fyfield, thou art commanded to strike hard into Beechenhill and purge us of the former Mistress Henbane. Thou art commanded to take with thee the curst mole Beechen, called Stone Mole, and there before the Stone to make him Atone for his insults against the Word. Do it in my name.’ I saw great lights, and great darkness, and my body felt as if it was tossed on a wild river of great waves which were the tears of the Word for the sadness it feels that such moles live in moledom. Sideem Merrick, blessed are we to be appointed agents of the Word and resolute must we be!”
Merrick, who had half expected some madness of this kind, had rehearsed in his mind what his response might be, and he now said, “We are honoured, eldrene Wort, to have you in this system. I doubted you when you first came, but now I see the Word is truly with you, and shines from you like a light to us all. But I am afraid to act against the Master’s wishes. Should we not wait until he comes?”
“There is a time, Merrick, as one day you too will know, when a mole must abide by the Word’s wishes, knowing that when it speaks directly it says only what the Master would were he here. Yes, great is the honour but great the responsibility. I understand your fear, but you must be true only to the Word’s will. Each day, each hour, each minute that Henbane and the Stone Mole live unatoned before the Word is an insult, danger and temptation to us all. Now, are thy moles willing to be led to Beechenhill?”