‘Look,’ said Perryfoot, and they all saw on top of one of the rocks a little elven figure sitting cross-legged and playing a reed pipe.
‘Jim was right,’ said Beth. When the elf saw that they had seen him he stopped playing, stood up and waved at them, beckoning them towards him up the mound. Quickly they clambered up the slope and met the elf at the base of one of the rocks which towered over them, completely blotting out the sun.
‘I am Morar,’ said the elf. ‘There is no time to lose; follow me,’ and he began to climb back up over the rocks, leaping nimbly from boulder to boulder, while the others did their best to follow, groping for footholds and grabbing on to pieces of lichen and moss as they made their way up these enormous pieces of granite which leant against one another as if they had been thrown down by some giant and so precariously that the animals felt they were liable to collapse at any moment and did not dare to look down.
Suddenly they were at the top, bathed in a pale yellow light as the sun tried to shine through the mist, and Morar was urging them to descend down into a dark gaping opening in the rocks. Beth climbed in first and helped Brock and Perryfoot down. Warrigal and Nab were about to follow when the mist suddenly cleared for an instant and to their horror they heard a chorus of shouts from behind them which rose swiftly in a crescendo of triumph. Looking round they saw the column of Urkku not far from the base of the mound, pointing at them and yelling excitedly at one another.
‘There they are. We’ve got them. They’ll not get away this time.’ Nab felt his stomach turn to ice. He had a vision of a sea of howling faces, mean, pinched and dirty with empty narrow eyes and slavering mouths which dripped hatred like blood, and then he felt Morar push him and he half-slid and half-clambered down into the dark space under the rocks where the others were waiting. It was blessedly quiet in here and he felt his heart thumping.
‘They’re here,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Just outside.’
The others looked at him, their eyes wide with fear until Morar spoke.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Follow me. They don’t know exactly where we are and they’ll never find us where we’re going.’
Their eyes were now growing accustomed to the gloom and they could dimly make out ahead of them a small rectangular entrance formed by two columns of stone at either side with a stone lintel on the top. In the centre of the lintel a large rune had been expertly carved by the hand of some elven stonemason. The mountain elves were renowned for their stonecraft and as they passed under it the animals marvelled at the delicacy of the work and Warrigal whispered that it was their symbol; a new crescent moon, a single blade of grass and a craggy mountain peak. In those few simple lines the artist had captured the very essence of the mountains and the moors so that all who saw it felt their hearts stir.
They found themselves now in a large low-ceilinged chamber, roughly square in shape but completely empty except for rows of swords and shields which hung on the walls. Each was different; the handles had all been carved to represent a different mountain creature and the blades were all embossed with a different runic symbol.
‘We each have our own hereditary sword,’ said Morar. ‘Rarely used, but cleaned and sharpened every day.’ The points gleamed silver in the dark and the colours on the shields seemed to flicker and move as what little light there was caught them.
They crossed the chamber and went through another smaller doorway at the far end and now they began to descend some stone steps which ran down a narrow tunnel. They were small and there was a dip in the centre of each one where it had been worn away by endless centuries of use. A type of bannister had been carved into the stone on either side of the passageway but this was not much help to Perryfoot and Brock, who kept slipping and had to be guided by Nab and Beth. As they went further and further down it grew very cold and damp and their teeth began to chatter loudly in the intense quiet. It felt to the animals as if they were descending into the very heart of the mountains; their footsteps echoed loudly in the stillness and they could hear the steady dripping of water all around them.
They seemed to have been going down for ages when the tunnel gradually began to grow much wider and lighter. The walls were now streaked with different coloured minerals; bright blues and golds and crimsons and even at times an intense snowy white which bathed the tunnel in silver. The path was almost level now and frequently they would come across little caverns and grottoes at the side which were filled with stalagmites and stalactites of strange shapes and sizes; either very tall and thin or else rounded like a thick mushroom; some hanging down while others grew out of the dazzling multicoloured rock gardens. They kept stopping to wonder at these magical sights and Morar explained about each one; its name and history and the legends surrounding it. Many of them were believed to contain the spirits of ancient, long-dead, elven heroes so that there was the Peak of Eynort, the Sword of Braewire or the Spike of Ardvasar. The elves each had their own special one which looked after and guided them and which they in turn repaid by caring for and guarding and making sure, above all, that they were not touched for they were so delicate that they were easily broken and the dead elves’ spirits would then be released to wander, homeless for ever.
So involved were the animals in these fantastic surroundings that they forgot all about the danger that lurked behind them up on the surface and even where they were and what they were doing, so that it came as quite a shock when Morar called them to a halt and they found themselves standing in front of a large stone door on which were many carvings portraying the old histories and sagas. Morar pulled his reed pipe out of his belt and began to play a strange lilting air. When he had finished he waited a short while and then played the same tune again. This time, when he stopped, the great door very slowly started; to swing inwards. They walked through the doorway, whereupon Morar played a different tune, again twice, and the door silently closed behind them.
Now they were standing in a high vaulted cavern roughly oval in shape with huge stone pillars round the walls that formed archways through which were many different anterooms and chambers. Some of these had doors while others were open, and in them the animals could see the elves going about their work. It reminded Beth of a medieval cathedral, particularly as the stone floor had been inlaid with hundreds of different coloured minerals to form patterns. It was from these that most of the light came and, as they followed Morar along a central aisle in the cavern with gold and blue and silver light shining up under their chins lighting their faces from below, they had the eerie feeling that they were walking upside down. High above them, an occasional streak of silver showed up massive natural rock columns which supported the roof.
Soon they were at the far end of the cavern, standing in front of a door set into the rock face. Morar lifted the stone latch and the door swung open easily at his touch to reveal a small room with a figure sitting on a seat at the far end which had been hewn out of the rock. Morar bowed.
‘My Lord Malcoff,’ he said. ‘I present the travellers from Silver Wood.’
The animals all followed Morar’s example and inclined their heads. When they looked up again Malcoff was smiling. Nab’s first impression of him was of immense age; his skin was of a deep dark brown and it was covered with hundreds of little lines and wrinkles like a piece of old bark. The hands which clutched the carved armrests in the rock were very long and thin and bony. Long grey hair the colour of granite hung down his back and there was a band around his forehead with a shimmering blood-red stone in the centre. The single ring on the index finger of his left hand was carved
