‘Trust in the Stone!’ she shouted, her voice carrying to them all. ‘Trust in Bracken and the Stone!’ Her words carried even to Rune, who until then had not seen her clearly, and he faltered, as if uncertain whether she was really living or come back from the dead. Then he heard that it was her and she was shouting the name of Bracken. His eyes narrowed, he wondered whether he was fighting an army of ghost moles, for he remembered Bracken now; then, as ever, coolness returned and he fought on even more strongly, eager to get to the mole who must be Bracken—the tough one who stood fighting between the great mole from the pastures and Mekkins. That was him. He was the one to kill, before the massacre.
His talons razed through the face fur of Bracken, and other henchmoles, sensing his intent, pressed towards Bracken as well, each trying to get their talons in his fur or snout.
The noise was terrible. Screams. Roaring. But then another roaring. The sound came through like sudden wind in trees, a roaring louder than any they had yet heard. A monstrous roaring, accompanied by blunderings and crashings in the wood beyond the clearing, a sound made by no henchmole that had ever lived.
Rune and his moles ignored it, fighting on to kill Bracken and the others. But facing the darkness of the wood as they were, Bracken and Stonecrop and Mekkins, blood flowing freely from their tired limbs, could not but see the sudden huge shadow that appeared at the wood’s edge, ten times bigger it seemed than the slinking form of Nightshade over which it loomed.
It surged forward, caught the moonlight and became clear, a sight more fearful than a thousand henchmoles poised to kill.
It was Mandrake—and he had not looked more terrifying since that spring day, so many moleyears before, when he had appeared at the wood’s edge and slaughtered his way into Duncton.
‘It’s Mandrake!’ cried Bracken, his voice suddenly clear and strong in the night.
Rune and his moles stepped back for a moment, turning to see what it was. Mandrake stood facing them all, his eyes black and impenetrable as the most savage night, fur hanging in great folds about his massive body, his snout as ever like a talon before him.
Nightshade turned round to look as well, but with one single blow of his right paw he swept her bloodily away, her body lifeless before it touched the ground. Mandrake was back.
If days of destiny lead to a final hour and that hour reaches a last minute in whose seconds decisions that form life are made, this was it. Rune tried to grab it.
‘Here is the Stone Mole,’ he shouted, pointing his talons at Bracken. ‘He is the Stone Mole. Help us kill him, Mandrake.’ He turned back to complete the onslaught on Bracken. It was a cunning and brave manoeuvre by Rune.
Mandrake said no word and only a vibrating growl came from him as he looked at them all. His gaze settled not on Bracken but on Rebecca behind him, and behind her on the youngsters gathered, terrified, around her.
‘Rebecca!’ he roared suddenly, moving forward like a black storm cloud across a windy, moonlit sky. ‘Rebecca!’ And his huge paws began to flay right and left, taking with each blow one or two or three henchmoles out of his path. Rune’s forces fell around him at Mandrake’s advance, and at last Rune himself, seeing his support going and his ploy failing, slunk to one side as Mandrake continued his advance, not on Bracken, not on Mekkins, not on Stonecrop, but towards Rebecca beyond them. ‘Rebecca!’ he cried. ‘Rebecca!’
There came from him a smell so rank, so disgusting in its anger and wretched rage, that Mekkins and Bracken fell back before it, closing in front of Rebecca and raising their talons to protect her. But its effect on Stonecrop was just the opposite. He had smelt that odour before—in a temporary burrow where Rebecca and his brother, Cairn, had mated. This was the odour on which he had sworn to take revenge. He moved his own great body forward, his fur lighter and his muscles tauter than Mandrake’s, and with one massive lunge stopped Mandrake in his tracks.
It was the first time since Mandrake had left the frozen slopes of Siabod so many long and cruel moleyears before that anymole had stood so solid in his path. He reared up, looking at Stonecrop as if he was in some way surprised to see him, as if he expected nomole at all to be there. As if the very nature of the world itself had suddenly changed.
Every lesson Stonecrop had learned from Medlar now came into play. Sensing Mandrake’s surprise, Stonecrop acted immediately, lunging forward with a talon cut that scored another wound on Mandrake’s lined and pitted face.
Then Mandrake did a strange thing. Instead of immediately counterattacking, he seemed to try to peer round Stonecrop as if baffled by an obstruction on a path that had once been clear; trying to get a better look at Rebecca and calling, crying, ‘Rebecca! Rebecca!’ And still he did not try to strike Stonecrop back.
