Duncton Quest by William Horwood Page A

them in turn.
    “Yes, I know of her. A long time ago your father Bracken fought with a mole who had taken over Duncton Wood. An evil mole, and a mole of more power than Bracken could have known. His name is Rune.”
    “ Is Rune?” said Tryfan, surprised. “But did not Rune perish over the high cliff to the eastside of the Ancient System on Duncton Hill?”
    “I said,” repeated Boswell, his white fur curiously filled with light, “that Rune was a mole of power. More than power: he is a mole who is a Master of Dark Sound. He survives, as I survive, beyond due years. He has his task as I have mine.”
    “And what of this Rune?” said Tryfan, trying to appear indifferent to the claims of evil power in a mole he thought his own father had destroyed.
    “Henbane is Rune’s daughter,” said Boswell quietly.
    “Rune’s daughter?” repeated Tryfan, aghast. “And of what system is she?”
    “Oh, I know that ,” said Spindle. “Henbane is of Whern.”
    “But —” began Tryfan horrified, for he had thought Whern was only a dark place of legend, not real, not extant.
    But even as he began to react to Spindle’s extraordinary claim that a leader from Whern had been to the Holy Burrows themselves, the tunnel was filled with the distant drumming of paws, as of many moles travelling out on the surface – confident moles, strong moles, moles filled with zeal and led with power.
    Tryfan’s natural protectiveness immediately took over, and, ordering the other two to stay still and quiet, he went out on to the surface to see what he could.
    Moles. Many of them. Advancing among the Stones steadily and with dark purpose. Not searching, nor tunnelling, but heading back north the way they had come: heading for Uffington. The grikes had returned to the scene of their cruellest destruction.
    Tryfan went below ground and looked at Spindle and Boswell. No words were spoken, nor needed to be: as the drumming of pawsteps continued for minute after minute and hour after hour, they knew that the Spring Solstice was on them, and the hour of a bloody Atonement had come.
     

Chapter Five
    They stayed close and silent in the chamber, fearful of being discovered, but as dusk fell it became obvious that the grikes were on the march, and not searching for enemies.
    Tryfan went up again to see what he could observe and the other two soon followed. The initial drumming of confident pawsteps had thinned, and they could see why. The first wave of moles must have been grike guardmoles, but now there were other moles, captive moles, pitiful moles. The ill, the weak, the aged, the defiant... in groups they came, herded and bullied along by grikes who seemed never happier than when giving commands, never more delighted than when drawing blood with their talons. Time and again Tryfan saw these wretched moles raise weary and frightened eyes, and heard more than one say, “That must be it, that’s Uffington.”
    But they spoke not with hope or delight, as such moles would once have spoken, but with fear and dread, and Tryfan guessed that they knew, or had been told, that at Uffington they would suffer and perhaps die. They had a role to play, and a terrible one, for it was ritualistic and sacrificial, and they were its forfeits.
    It was hard to gauge their numbers and Tryfan soon gave up trying, but certainly there were many of them, more moles together than any of them had ever seen.
    “More than likely they’ve gathered others to their numbers,” said Tryfan, “and will be moving on from here to Buckland, as your master Brevis suggested in his report. Well, for now, this is as good a place to stay as any. We’re more likely to be seen moving than staying still.”
    “Is there nothing we can do?” said Spindle.
    “Nothing that won’t get us killed,” said Tryfan firmly.
    “The Stone will find its own way of dealing with these grikes, and if it includes me in its scheme I shall be well pleased!”
    “What are we going to do when