Moon Crossing - A Fellhounds of Thesk Story Read online

  Contents

  Map

  About Cathy Farr

  Dedication

  Chapter One The One Left Behind

  Chapter Two Dawn Flight

  Chapter Three A Bitter Reunion

  Chapter Four Friends No More

  Chapter Five The Black Rock

  Chapter Six A Gift from Above

  Chapter Seven Eagards!

  Chapter Eight A Stitch in Time

  Chapter Nine Time for Truth

  Chapter Ten Separate Ways

  Chapter Eleven Another Attack

  Chapter Twelve The Jackal

  Chapter Thirteen Plan B

  Chapter Fourteen Troubled Waters

  Chapter Fifteen Plan ‘D’

  Chapter Sixteen Special Delivery

  Chapter Seventeen Unexpected Pets

  Chapter Eighteen The Golden Tower

  Chapter Nineteen Hats and Horrors

  Chapter Twenty Lord Rexmoore

  Chapter Twenty-one The Ties that Bind

  Chapter Twenty-two The Burning of the Witch

  Chapter Twenty-three Bonacuss Poo

  Chapter Twenty-four Out of the Sky

  Chapter Twenty-five Wil’s Plan

  Chapter Twenty-six The Many Faces of Death

  Chapter Twenty-seven The Redback’s Wrath

  Chapter Twenty-eight Not So Happy Landings

  Chapter Twenty-nine Sights for Sore Eyes

  Chapter Thirty Gisella

  Chapter Thirty-one The Bringers of Bad News

  Chapter Thirty-two A Friend Returns

  Chapter Thirty-three Home to Mother

  Copyright

  About Cathy Farr

  Cathy Farr has always loved stories; listening to them, reading them and writing them. She lives in South Wales with her husband and her Irish Wolfhound, Finn, who has provided much of the inspiration for the magnificent Fellhounds that play such a big part in her books. Finn is 9ft long nose to tail and weighs almost fifteen stone; Cathy is almost 5ft 7inches but her weight remains a closely guarded secret.

  Moon Crossing is Cathy’s second book and also the second of the Fellhounds of Thesk stories.

  For Ali

  CHAPTER ONE

  The One Left Behind

  Godwyn Savidge was standing with his back to the fireplace in Lovage Hall, under the portrait of the Hall’s owners Lady Élanor, her younger sister, Tally, and their father, the late Lord Lakeston. Sweat glistened on his bright red forehead. He was livid.

  ‘I just can’t believe you’ve brought him back – after what he did to my son!’ Godwyn continued to rant.

  Despite the early spring sunshine, Lady Élanor’s housekeeper Martha had insisted on lighting a fire the minute she had heard that the Order of the Magewizen of Saran were on their way. Martha bustled across the room and tossed another log on the already blazing inferno. Then she bustled back again to retrieve a plate stacked with slabs of dark cake from the dresser and, mouthing words of encouragement, offered it around the rest of the stony-faced gathering.

  ‘He was going to be married. Poor Olivia,’ said Godwyn to no-one in particular. Morten Mortens, the Grand Wizen of the Order, perked up at the sight of Martha’s famous honey cake and unashamedly selected the largest piece on the plate – his third. Martha beamed and waved the plate under the noses of the other members of the Order, all of who were pink from the heat of the fire. Godwyn found his voice again. ‘If that boy had done his job… Too busy trying to be a hero! I knew it was a mistake.’ Oswald Beck dismissed Martha’s offer with a wave of his hand. She dodged right to avoid Godwyn’s pointing finger. ‘We should have hung him when we had the chance…’ Agatha Peasgood politely took a very thin slice and put it on her plate where it remained untouched.

  To one side of the fireplace sat Lady Élanor. Her pale blue eyes were fixed on Godwyn who had been on his feet now for some time. ‘We were too soft, Mortens,’ he growled. ‘I warned you, but would you listen?’

  He paused for breath and Lady Élanor seized the opportunity to cut in, her soft voice a stark contrast to Godwyn Savidge’s snarling rage.

  ‘I can only guess at what it must be like to lose a child, Godwyn.’

  Godwyn stared into the fire, gasping laboured breaths. Oswald, Agatha and Morten Mortens nodded. Lady Élanor’s voice hardened.

  ‘But your son was an experienced Fellman. And I can assure you all that Wil Calloway was not to blame.’ She gestured across the room to where a teenage boy was concentrating very hard on his piece of honey cake. ‘He is here at my invitation – to help rescue my sister!’

  She paused. In her hand, she clutched a ragged scrap of parchment. Godwyn took advantage of the brief silence.

  ‘Well, I don’t see how–,’ Godwyn hissed, stabbing his finger towards Wil. But Lady Élanor cut across him.

  ‘We all know how keen Giles was to prove himself, Godwyn,’ she said even more firmly. ‘That was what sealed his fate!’ Her expression softened again. ‘We have had this conversation many times these past winter months, Godwyn. It really wasn’t Wil’s fault – Giles made a huge mistake and unfortunately paid a heavy price.’

  The room fell silent. Wil, with his back against a vast dresser crammed with books, coloured jars and bunches of dried herbs and flowers, shifted uncomfortably. Godwyn wiped his soggy forehead with the back of his hand and glared at the fire. For all the man’s blustering and his sweating red face, Godwyn’s eyes were lifeless; his only son had been attacked during a Moon Chase and no-one really knew what had become of him. Wil’s own father had been taken by Lord Rexmoore, the grasping ruler of Thesk, six years earlier because Wil’s parents couldn’t pay their taxes. To this day Wil didn’t know what had really happened to him. For a brief moment Wil felt very sorry for Godwyn Savidge.

  An abrupt knock on the Hall’s heavy oak door broke the sad silence. Martha shot a questioning glance at Lady Élanor who nodded. Leaving the plate of cake precariously balanced on the cluttered dresser, the housekeeper went to investigate. With a suspicious peek out into the dark evening Martha’s face expanded into a broad smile and she threw the door wide open. The hinges objected with a loud creak.

  ‘Master Merridown!’ Martha beamed. ‘Well, I’ll be… it’s a while since we’ve seen you up here! How did you get on with those pink mustard seeds – did you do them with the salmon, like I suggested? And what about that tarragon butter…’

  Martha’s culinary inquisition continued as a tall, athletic young man strode confidently into the room.

  ‘Yes, Martha, and it was delicious, thank you,’ he grinned, searching the faces around the room until he seemed to find who he was looking for.

  ‘Wil, I knew we’d see you again!’

  Mortimer charged forward, arms wide. Wil got to his feet just in time to be gathered up into a huge bear hug.

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Mortimer!’ wheezed Wil.

  Mortimer released his grip and Wil stepped back gasping but smiling. It really was good to see his friend again.

  ‘Bryn told me that Lady Élanor had gone to fetch you. Sooner than I thought, but I knew we’d see you again, Wil Calloway,’ said Mortimer.

  The last time Mortimer and Wil had spoken was before the winter, on the day Wil had left Saran to return to his own village, Mistlegard. It was also the day he had last seen Gisella Fairfax. Wil was hoping that she might have come with Mortimer but Martha had shut the door and it was obvious Mortimer had come alone. With a familiar twinge of regret – the parting with Gisella had not been one of Wil’s finest moments – he decided not to make enquiries in their present company.

  ‘And how’s that Fellhound of yours
– Apophinis? I hope you haven’t let him get into any bad habits!’

  ‘Phinn’s fine – my mother might forgive him one day for chewing her favourite bedspread – well actually, her only bedspread!’ Wil answered with a sheepish grin. ‘My fault. I left him in the yard when the washing was on the line. Won’t do that again – he can reach the sheets even when the line is on the tallest pole!’

  Mortimer laughed.

  ‘Well, where is he then? I didn’t see him in the garden. I bet he’s grown! Mia – Phinn’s sister – remember? She’s brilliant – big, too, like her Dad – Tarek would have been so proud!’

  A shadow flickered across Mortimer’s face at the mention of his old Fellhound. Wil carried on.

  ‘Well, Phinn’s easily as big as Seth’s hound, Farrow! He’s up in the stables with Pickles and Alana – Alana’s pups are massive, Mort!’ He held his arms at waist height to demonstrate. ‘I can’t believe they’ve grown so much. The last time I saw them they were sat on Tally and me – they’re far too big for that now!’

  But before they could go on Lady Élanor cut in with the same acid tone she had used on Godwyn Savidge a little earlier. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt this hound-filled reunion but we are here to discuss how we can make sure my sister gets the option of whether or not Alana’s pups can sit on her lap in the future!’

  ‘Sorry, yes, Lady Élanor – that’s why I’m here,’ said Mortimer, suddenly serious. ‘If I can be of service, please, count me.’ He bowed solemnly.

  ‘Thank you Mortimer,’ said Lady Élanor returning the bow. ‘I just hope we can find her before Lord Rexmoore’s wife gets near her!’

  She looked down at an old map laid out over the floor in front of the fire. Her back stiff and her fingers in an almost permanent knot, Lady Élanor’s anxiety was obvious to everyone in the room. She had already told Wil a little about Lord Rexmoore’s domineering wife – her aunt, Imelda – earlier that day when she had arrived in Mistlegard to ask Wil for help. She had shown him the note she now clutched in her fist: ‘Give up the legacy or I will make your precious sister tell me where it is!’

  But Wil also knew that only three people knew the whereabouts of Saran’s legacy – and Tally was not one of them. From what he had heard so far Wil couldn’t help thinking that Lady Élanor was right to worry.

  He watched her draw her mane of silver hair back over her shoulders in order to study the worn parchment. During one of his rants earlier Godwyn had carelessly stepped on one corner. The large muddy print of his boot was plain for everyone to see – although nobody mentioned it.

  The map showed the entire kingdom of Thesk. Wil could see Mistlegard tucked away on the far side of Mistle Forest, beyond the River Eem. Earlier, before Godwyn had disrupted the meeting with his very vocal objections about Wil, the Order had been discussing possible routes to Armelia with Lady Élanor – the most obvious being north along the edge of the forest and then north-west over Tel Harion.

  Oswald Beck certainly favoured this route, as did Lady Élanor – although Godwyn Savidge and Agatha Peasgood were in firm agreement that this was by far the most dangerous option.

  Wil shivered. The putrid stench of the Wraithe Wolves that inhabit the stark hills of Tel Harion still lingered in his nostrils, serving as an almost constant reminder of the Moon Chase he had been forced to join the previous autumn. In these past cold winter nights Wil would lie alone in the dark trying to silence the terrifying howls that still rang loud among his memories.

  ‘… so how far is that, Wil?’

  Mortimer’s question jolted Wil from his nightmare thoughts. Everyone was still studying the map.

  ‘Sorry, how far is where… from, eh, where… sorry?’ asked Wil, trying to look as though he had been listening.

  Mortimer repeated his question while he traced his finger across the top of the map: ‘How far is Armelia from Mistlegard if you go via Grizzledale?’

  Wil thought for a moment.

  ‘Er, I’m not sure – I’ve never been to Armelia. I know it takes a day to get to Grizzledale because the river’s too fast through the forest so you have to go all the way up. There’s a bridge there somewhere,’ he said, waving one hand vaguely over the middle of Mistle Forest while taking a piece of cake with the other as Martha swept past again. Then he added, ‘Well, there was – it got swept away in all that rain last month. I think it would probably take a couple of days now to go round.’ He took a bite of cake but then remembered. ‘Oh, they had heavy snow in Grizzledale last week. Garth Fengal, one of our Elders, got stuck there for four days!’

  ‘Hmm, well we can rule that one out then!’ said Mortimer squinting down at the grubby map. ‘If we do go straight over Tel Harion as Lady Élanor suggests, well, it’s no more than a good two-day ride from here – and I know those hills.’

  ‘Two days!’ said Lady Élanor. ‘They took them yesterday morning! Lord Rexmoore’s going to have a very long time to discover that Tally really doesn’t know where the legacy is! Oh, why did I say she could go out on her own with Tanith?’

  Wil remembered Lady Élanor’s beautiful, golden horse that he’d met up in the stables above Lovage Hall. Wil frowned.

  ‘Well, if it was Rexmoore… well, they won’t be in Armelia yet then – will they?’ he said, wondering if he’d missed something. ‘I mean, you can still see a lot of snow up on the Fells… if Tanith’s anything like the horses in our village, he’ll really struggle. They’re ter–’

  Wil’s voice tailed off – Mortimer was glaring at him and a glance in Lady Élanor’s direction told Wil that he had probably said a little too much. Morten Mortens leant forward, still clutching his crumb-dotted plate.

  ‘Well, they do have the advantage of a head start, I agree. But the fact they have Tanith will work in Tally’s favour, my Lady. Believe me,’ he said glancing at Wil, ‘Tally will be over Tel Harion and away from the dangers of the weather and the Wraithe Wolves in no time.’

  Agatha Peasgood brightened, ‘And we don’t know if it was Rexmoore’s men who took her.’ Although she seemed to realise almost immediately that this suggestion wasn’t helpful and took a long sip of her tea.

  ‘And if it was,’ said Mortens pointedly, ‘Rexmoore still may not have Tally yet. After all, he’s about as likely to leave Imelda’s side as I am of jumping over the twin moons!’ He paused to hand Martha his empty plate as she tiptoed past and then continued while brushing crumbs from his magenta robes. ‘I am more concerned that once his Lordship – or rather his wife – realises that Tally is ignorant of the whereabouts of the legacy, she will try to use Tally in some way in an attempt to make you give it up, Eli.’

  ‘But why?... How…?’ said Lady Élanor, looking utterly forlorn.

  Morten Mortens looked suddenly sad.

  ‘When your mother passed away, Imelda was convinced that somewhere in Armelia was a vast hoard of gold that your father had hidden from her – in fact she became quite obsessed.’ Wil got the impression the Grand Wizen’s words were for the benefit of the whole room. ‘Nonsense of course, but it didn’t take much for her to convince Rexmoore to help her look; after all he had been in love with her for years. But she only took an interest in him when he suddenly became useful. So, you see, Eli, now that Rexmoore thinks he is getting close to helping his wife satisfy that obsession, he will not give up easily.’

  Lady Élanor sat forward and opened her mouth as though she was going to say something but then seemed to change her mind. Instead she pressed her lips together and stared at her hands.

  It was Mortimer who broke the silence, taking the opportunity to move on to more positive talk.

  ‘So, if that is the case, my Lady, I am assuming that you will be staying here in the safety of Lovage Hall – unless you want to risk walking straight into Rexmoore’s dungeons – which, by the sound of it, might be what he’s hoping for.’

  Lady Élanor kept her eyes fixed on the parchment in her tightly clenched fist and said nothing.

&nbs
p; Agatha Peasgood nodded.

  ‘Mortimer is right, Lady Élanor. If this is a trap we could lose you, Tally and Tanith in one misadventure!’ She attempted a thin smile. The paleness of her face seemed to exaggerate the worried look in her shining eyes that darted between Mortimer and the Grand Wizen. After a moment’s hesitation, she added gently, ‘I really do think it would be best for you to stay here in the safety of Saran, my Lady.’

  The Grand Wizen took a deep inward breath before he voiced his agreement.

  ‘Agatha is right, Élanor. I made a promise to your father that I would watch over you and your sister. You are much safer here. Lord Rexmoore may have Tally for the moment but we will get her back.’

  Lady Élanor raised her eyes to the ceiling and then bowed her head. Wil watched as a single tear trickled down her ivory cheek and dripped onto her pale fingers. The ink on the parchment blurred. Turning a silver ring around her finger, she made no move to wipe the tear away. ‘But staying here makes me feel so helpless!’ she whispered.

  Then, with a sharp breath she fixed Wil with her blue eyes, her voice still barely a whisper. ‘Bring her back, Wil. Bring Tally and Tanith back for me.’

  Wil met her unblinking stare. He nodded.

  Mortimer looked relieved.

  ‘Right, well if that’s settled,’ he said, and without waiting for confirmation, set about planning. ‘We’ll go tomorrow at first light – sorry my Lady, but it’s far too late to even think about leaving now and it’s pouring with rain! Wil, we’ll take four Fellmen and their hounds, plus you and Phinn. We’ll cross over to Mistle Forest and head up to the Black Stone using the cover of the trees for as long as we can. Then we’ll make for Mort Craggs, keeping Tel Harion on our east side,’ he said pointing out the route on the map as he talked. ‘Wraithe Wolves hate water, so if we hit a problem we’ll cross Dead Man’s Beck and keep going north from the other side!’

  Oswald Beck shook his head.

  ‘But that would take us into Drangfel Woods,’ he said. ‘I’m really not sure if I’m happy about that.’