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  They laughed in unison, breaking the black mood that had enveloped them, walking along the path towards the sett.

  As Soffen followed Brock's broad back, she deliberately trod in his footsteps, trying to come to terms with the feelings that were welling up inside her. Feelings that centred more and more around the badger ambling along in front of her.

  Chapter 7

  Grindel impatiently tapped his claws on the stone floor, frustrated at being kept waiting so long in such a grim place. Glancing along the sweating rock walls, he shivered, ruffling his coat against the cold. No matter how many times he was summoned here, he was never prepared for the sombre experience.

  Coughing quietly, wrinkling his snout against the foul smells, he settled down to wait, passing the time by going over what he would say, determined that this time it would be different. When he was finally admitted to the inner chamber there would be no fawning or deferential adulation, no flattery or false praises, because this time he would take control.

  The bile rose in Grindel's throat as he glanced about the filthy charnel house, trying to ignore the heaps of bones and rotting carcasses laying in the dark corners. Black liquid oozed from one pile of putrefying flesh, running across the floor to collect in a dark pool, busily attended by carrion beetles.

  Eyes widening, Grindel studied the familiar shape tossed carelessly on top of the sickening mass, the black and white stripes still plainly visible through a thick coating of congealed blood. Stumbling forward, repelled and fascinated at the same time, Grindel tentatively reached out a trembling paw towards the severed head.

  Raffen? Could this be Raffen, he wondered.

  "Grindel!" His name rebounded from the dank walls, and he froze, paw still outstretched. "Come here badger."

  Turning away from his grisly discovery, Grindel hastily entered the inner chamber, all thoughts of rebellion vanishing once he stood before the bent and twisted old figure dominating the small space.

  Lowering his snout, Grindel touched it to the slime-coated floor in the expected gesture of subjugation.

  "Have you carried out my instructions?" The voice was harsh and gritty.

  Keeping his gaze on the floor, Grindel nodded. "Yes Skelda, I gave the Teller, Brock, no chance to speak. He seemed very disorientated."

  The gnarled head bobbed slowly. "Good. That's good. And what was his reaction?"

  Grindel studied the misshapen badger surreptitiously, not daring to look directly at him, but ever watchful for signs of approval.

  "He left the chamber in confusion. He appeared upset."

  "And where is he now?"

  "With the Healer, the one called Soffen." A short pause, followed by, "But—"

  Skelda raised his snout slightly, giving Grindel permission to continue.

  Grindel took a breath before plunging on, "I was wondering how you managed to influence him at such a distance."

  The distorted head bobbed again. "The Dark Healing works well under my command Preceptor. You would do well to remember that."

  The gaunt, twisted figure studying Grindel with such intensity carried about it the smell of death. Patches of discoloured skin could be seen through the dull, sparse coat, a deformed spine made movement more a shuffle than a walk, and part of the head was covered by a cancerous growth, glistening in the dim light. A weeping canker replaced one ear and the one good eye, staring now with such obvious ill humour, harboured a menace that terrified any badger unlucky enough to attract its attention.

  No matter how hard he tried, Grindel could not bring himself to think of this creature as anything other than pure evil, something to be feared and obeyed.

  The gruff voice sounded again. "Even as we speak, the Teller and Healer are planning a journey to find Boddaert's Magic, and to undertake such an adventure, they'll require access to the Sacred Roots."

  While in no position to question this statement, Grindel did not doubt its validity. The badger facing him had proved time and again his access to extraordinary powerful magic.

  Skelda smiled, which twisted his features into an even more grotesque mask. "They'll enlist Grey's help to get at the Sacred Roots. He will be the one to betray us."

  "But he would never do that." Grindel immediately lowered his gaze, realising the terrible mistake he'd made, bitter experience having taught him that Skelda brooked no contradiction.

  Moving with astonishing speed, the deformed badger pushed a claw deep into the Preceptor's ear, twisting it savagely. Grindel, overwhelmed by the sudden pain, dropped to the floor, begging Skelda to stop his sadistic attack. Skelda ignored the Preceptor's screams and the trembling badger could do little more than lay on his side, head thrown back, eyes wide and staring, desperately searching for some small corner of his mind in which to escape the torment.

  Then as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped, and there was nothing to mark its passage, except a fading memory.

  "Grindel," Skelda's voice dripped with the honeyed tones of reason, "I believe I've warned you before about questioning my judgement?"

  The Preceptor could only manage a hoarse whisper. "Yes."

  "Then I trust it will not be repeated?"

  "No."

  Skelda smiled, nodding benignly. "Good. Very good." Settling his bloated body into a more comfortable position, he stared hard at the fawning badger. "Now listen carefully Grindel, because I want no mistakes. Allow Grey access to the Sacred Roots but do it in such a manner that it won't arouse his suspicion. Tell him you're going away on a trip or something. That should do it. Tell him you want him to take over your duties while you're gone." Skelda smiled again, his eyes blazing with inner excitement. "Once they have the Sacred Roots, they'll be able to begin their search."

  "And when will that be?" Grindel asked sulkily, still favouring his injured ear.

  "Use your head idiot. They'll hardly leave just as winter is making ready to set in. No, they'll delay until spring brings new life to the forest. That much is certain."

  The Preceptor lowered his head in respect. "Forgive me for being so stupid Skelda, but why can't I just find out from the Teller what he so obviously wants to tell us and save all this subterfuge?"

  Skelda studied the cringing Preceptor carefully. Was the badger really so stupid, or was he playing some game of his own? Had he perhaps figured out that it was impossible for him, caught as he was in such a deformed and twisted body, to leave these dank tunnels? That without Boddaert's Magic to help him become whole again, he would be trapped here until he died?

  Skelda shuddered at the thought of what might happen if Grindel ever gained control of Boddaert's Magic before he did.

  Finally, curling his upper lip in contempt, he snapped, "You try my patience, badger!" The underlying threat was implicit in his tone.

  "I'm sorry Skelda," Grindel purred. "Forgive me, I'm but a simple badger, and like all simple creatures, I tend to follow the most obvious path."

  Skelda sighed impatiently. "If we allow the Teller to convince the Council that Brockenhurst Sett is in danger, they'll be forced to help him and we'll have no chance of keeping the magic for ourselves. No, this way he'll be forced to get together a party of like minded badgers to help him seek it out. Given half a chance, the Council will interfere and neither of us want that, do we?"

  "But why can't I go instead?"

  "Because only one badger can survive direct contact with Boddaert's Magic, and that badger is not you."

  Grindel wrinkled his snout. "I see Skelda."

  "I doubt that," the deformed old badger snapped back. "Go on. Get out!" Then, as Grindel turned to leave. "No wait, there's something I want you to do."

  After receiving his instructions, Grindel backed from the inner chamber, heaving a silent sigh of relief to have survived yet another meeting with Skelda. Each time he was summoned, the meetings were harder to take.

  Pushing aside such thoughts he headed for his sleeping chambers, planning his next move, the move that would put him in possession of Bodd
aert's Magic.

  *

  As Grindel backed out of the chamber, Skelda's features relaxed into something that might have been a smile; it was hard to tell on such a deformed countenance. Scratching at a suppurating patch of bare skin near his tail, he grunted softly. Not because the wound hurt, that had ceased to happen long ago, but because every new malaise only served to remind him of how little time he had left.

  Leaving the chamber, he made his way along tunnels known only to him, mumbling softly to himself, a habit that was growing more frequent of late. He barked a short laugh, recalling Grindel's past attempts at trying to outwit him. The Preceptor would never accomplish that.

  "Not so long as I'm alive, my wily friend," he muttered darkly. "Not so long as I'm alive."

  Skelda sighed deeply, entering his sleeping chamber, glad to be out of the oppressive tunnels. The walls were too straight, the floors too smooth, the unnatural smell offensive.

  Settling himself down on a bed of moss, he dismissed the tunnels from his mind, turning to the future instead– to a time when he would run along the tunnels like a young badger again, a time when Boddaert's Magic would return his failing body to the youthful and vigorous thing it had once been.

  And as Skelda dreamt his dreams of power, savouring his dominion over all badgers, the sun slid behind the horizon, bringing the moon's dark shroud across Brockenhurst Forest. And with the falling temperature, badgers stirred in their warm chambers, readying themselves for the moon's foraging.

  *

  Slowly, over the following moons, the darkness lengthened, and the chill winds turned the last of the heather brown, covering the trees with a light mantle of frost.

  Once more the coldest season had begun to cup Brockenhurst Valley in its chilly embrace, turning the sun's cycle into white swathes of crisp frost and the moon's cycle into reflected points of light that almost out-sparkled the stars.

  As badgers hurried about their business, trying to lay down enough body fat to carry them through the coming moons, the mist gathered between the trees, swirling about, its inquisitive fingers touching every surface.

  The first snowflake hit the ground and disappeared before any badger saw its descent, but soon the air was full of drifting flakes. They covered the ground, the now dormant shrubs, the branches and trunks of the trees, and the badgers knew it was time to stuff the sett's entrance tunnels with grass and retire until the warm cycle returned.

  Chapter 8

  The winter was harsh and cold, and most badgers stayed semi-dormant in their snug sleeping chambers.

  During the prolonged cold period the sett took on its usual familiar smells, brought on by the blocked entrances and fermenting leaves, the musty moist warmth spreading through the tunnels and chambers, making them a secure and pleasant place to be.

  Occasionally the throaty purr of a mating adult could be heard, or the deep warning growl of an aggressive encounter, but mostly the sett settled quietly into the slow rhythm of winter.

  With the first winter easterly, the forest was dusted in a light coating of frost which, after a further drop in temperature, turned to a heavier layer of ice. The cutting winds tried shaking a copse of evergreens, but after failing to dislodge any leaves, sulkily blasted the debris of the forest floor instead.

  Everywhere life slowed, taking on a less hurried tempo, keeping pace with the icicles growing like long teardrops from bare limbed trees. Deep within Brockenhurst Forest the Aro Brook wound its slow way through the trees, gurgling and muttering to itself where the ice encrusted banks widened, before thrusting out onto the flat plains of Low Meadow.

  And so winter passed, as many winters before.

  *

  Spring was Grey's favourite season. A time when daffodils thrust aside dead leaves, splashing the dull-brown accumulation with vivid yellow reflections. A time of new growth, new life, new hope.

  He stood now, just outside the sett entrance, taking a short break from the chores of chasing out the rabbits, foxes and other small creatures that had taken advantage of the sett's warm interior during the winter-cycle. Breaking open a snail's shell the old boar nibbled the delicate flesh, pondering what had happened to Soffen and Brock during the long winter months.

  During the harsh winter, Soffen's cubs had grown rapidly. Broshee, the image of her mother, had an impish manner, endearing her to everyone. Darkburst, who'd kept mostly to himself, appeared surly and moody.

  Both cubs had visited the sett frequently during the winter-cycle, Broshee making a number of new friends, but Darkburst hadn't fared so well.

  One friend Darkburst had made however, was Grindel, The Preceptor. Their friendship became so close that Darkburst was allowed to use the Preceptor's name, a rare privilege indeed.

  Grey scratched his snout, watching a large beetle scuttle its way under a nearby stone, then glanced up to study the piles of earth thrown up around the sett, recalling his father's explanation on what the earth-works said about the size of the sett below. From the proportions of the embankment fronting Brockenhurst Sett, no badger could fail to be impressed at how big an area it must cover.

  Back in the upper tunnels, Grey could hear other badgers moving about and knew it was time he returned to his work, but he sighed gently instead, settling his large bulk into a more comfortable position.

  He would go shortly. First, he had some thinking to do, and there was always the question of that large beetle!

  *

  During Soffen and Brock's only winter visit with Grey, the trio discussed Brock's vision at length, exploring it in every detail.

  Brock's interpretation was part fact and part revelation, so the conversation had been stilted and difficult.

  Soffen accepted Brock's vision without hesitation, convinced that the events foretold would happen, but Grey remained sceptical, finding such a catastrophe impossible to accept, especially as there were no hard facts. To him, it was inconceivable that Brockenhurst Sett could erupt into an expanding fireball, devouring all before it– that badgers would die horrible deaths, beating at flames as they sprang into life on their fur. To him, Brock's vision was unthinkable.

  To help make his case, Brock had dropped into a trance and used the powers of The Way, reaching back through time to discover what history had to say about Boddaert's Magic.

  Recovering from his trance, Brock then told them how, following the last spell cast by Boddaert, the surviving Magi had discovered his dead body on Fire Rock, and frightened by the magical powers they believed it still contained, hid it deep within a crevasse in the Brockenhurst Plains.

  And there the body had lain for generations, until Evaert, twenty-third in line of succession, found it. This puissant badger, hopelessly lost to the forces of the Dark Healing, planned to use the powerful magic of Boddaert's remains to further his own ambitions, and what followed was indeed a dark period in badger history.

  With the power given to him by Boddaert's remains, Evaert set out on a campaign of butchery and destruction, bent on conquering all of Boddaert's lands, and it was only the intervention of Bawsen, the fabled fighter from Badachro, which finally put an end to his tyranny.

  After Evaert's defeat, Bawsen determined that such a thing would never happen again and assembled the first Custodians of The Way. He ordered them to form a Council, which he then instructed on the history of the badger's race, starting the first line of Tellers.

  Bawsen split Boddaert's remains into three parts– the Circle of Claws, the White Coat, and the Fire Soul– hiding them in separate places. The Fire Soul he buried beneath Fire Rock but the White Coat and Circle of Claws were hidden far from Brockenhurst Forest.

  Before he died, Bawsen carved the whereabouts of Boddaert's remains on the Sacred Roots, knowing that only a badger expert in the use of The Way would ever be able to decipher the locations and unify Boddaert's body again.

  Grey listened to Brock's account with intense concentration. He had heard the story before as a young badger, but it carried more weight
coming from a Teller's lips. After Brock had finished, Grey wandered off on his own to ponder on what he had learnt.

  In the end, after much consideration, the old Custodian returned and reluctantly agreed to join their search.

  *

  Once winter had eased its cold grip on Brockenhurst Valley, Brock was keen to begin his search for Boddaert's Magic. The three conspirators, rightly cautious about their plans, arranged to meet in a secluded glade.

  While he waited for the others to arrive, Grey dug around in the earth for a bluebell bulb. Failing to find one, he tutted in frustration, listening instead to the sounds of the forest– the rustling leaves, the shrill 'ke-wick' of a tawny owl, the steady tap of a wood boring beetle searching for food.

  The old Custodian revelled in the sounds, loving the forest with a passion deeper than mere feeling. It was an empathetic and intimate bonding with the Prime Mover that could find no expression in words.

  Grey exhaled loudly. He'd spent a lot of time since Brock and Soffen's visit going over all the arguments in his mind and had begun to waver. Now he wasn't sure that what they were going to do was the right thing at all.

  They were asking him to gamble all this on a vision that had no more substance than a cub's dream. If he did as Brock asked and was caught, there was a good chance he would be banished from this wonderful place forever.

  Soffen's greeting dragged Grey back to the present and he carefully put the half-eaten grub to one side so he could finish it later.

  "Look," he began as soon as Brock appeared, "I'm sorry if I'm less than enthusiastic about all this, but I've been thinking, and I don't believe Boddaert's Magic really exists, let alone that it's the answer to saving Brockenhurst Sett. I mean, how do I know your vision has any substance at all and isn't just remorse?"

  Brock glanced at Soffen, then back at Grey. "Grey, we went over all this the last time we met. I don't know for certain, I've admitted that. Visions aren't . . ." casting about for the right words, he continued, "well, a certainty."

  Gesturing with a paw, the Teller's voice took on an authoritative tone. "They're a mixture of fact and fiction, stories, fables, happenings and dreams. All coming together at a crux of inevitability, but they nether-the-less hold the kernel of truth. Even when I travel the paths of The Way, the truth sometimes remains elusive. You know this already. But for all that, I really do feel the vision to be genuine."