CHAPTER SEVEN.

The Wind-Chosen

Click here for Chapters ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX.

"And that brings us," said Mr. Baxter, "to the last part of the story, the last chapter, you might say.)

"Does that mean you'll give us another picture?" asked Judy.

“Well, alright,” said her father, and thought for a moment. Then he raised his hand. The picture was a unicorn, but very different from the ones he had shown them before. It was a large, young unicorn, who looked full of strength and vigour. He had a brilliant, pure-white coat and a splendid, full-length horn that was shining like silver.

“Silverhorn,” said Tom. “That must be Silverhorn.”

“What happens, then?” asked Judy. “Does Knobby meet Silverhorn?”

As she was asking the question some writing appeared, another poem.

The dreams and struggles of countless years
Converge on a single day,
And the load of a thousand hopes and fears
Is shattered and swept away.

“You’ll see what happens,’ said Mr. Baxter, when both the picture and the poem were gone. “Let’s get on with the story.

For the first time in living memory, and so far as they knew, for the first time ever, all the Cantibri unicorns, every member of every compound, were gathered together on the flat, open ground at the end of the Grand Warlock’s palace. As this was a very special occasion, they had no tools of any kind attached to their horn-stumps.

The guardians, headed by Banseth, were facing them, ready to take action if there was any unruly behaviour, but the unicorns stood there in almost total silence with very little movement. The guardians seemed hardly necessary.

The palace fillies were lined up neatly close to the guardians. Gracinda was in third place next to Zannerette, who was standing beside the Head Filly. Like the rest of the Cantibri, they were keeping very quiet.

Gracinda saw Knobby’s parents, Garromant and Mellinore, in the front row near the centre, and a little later spotted her own, standing more to the right in the third row back. She made no attempt to communicate with them, either by sight or sound. The lesson of keeping quiet had been too well learnt.

Around them the palace birds were watching from various nearby trees, which were filled with the noise of their squabbles over perching places. From time to time one of them would fly, a bright flash of colour, from one tree to another.

The silent waiting finally came to an end when two Warlocks came out of Meeting. One was carrying a small wooden platform, and the other had a long wooden bar with a crosspiece at one end. The one with the platform placed it on the ground, while the other slotted the bar into place, so that the two together formed an upright post, with the crosspiece at the top.

There was another period of waiting. Then suddenly the door of Meeting flew open with a great crash, and the Grand Warlock himself was standing there, with the dark, hunched shape of Skorfane perched on his shoulder. He slowly descended the steps and came forward to stand near the wooden platform. He was followed by a large crowd of Warlocks, those who had been at the feast and others, who took their places along the edge of the terrace, between the Cantibri and the guardians.

The Grand Warlock looked at all the Cantibri gathered together in front of him, and then his gaze moved to the branches of the trees. The noise of the quarrelling birds had completely died away, but for some time nothing else happened. Then, with a loud clapping of wings, Ballabeck appeared from a large beech tree and flew down to take his place on the wooden crossbar. He did not seem at all nervous, either of the Grand Warlock or of Skorfane. He knew the importance of his position. When the Grand Warlock began to speak, the Cantibri did not hear his words directly. They heard them from the twisted beak of Ballabeck.

“My friends,” he said, “I wanted to have you all together in one place, so that you could feel the encouragement that can only gained from seeing my face and hearing my words. I have inspected the work that has been done in this camp, and I am pleased. Your building work is solid and strong, and your agricultural work is going well. So I have decided to make use of you Cantibri unicorns for a glorious new scheme that I have in mind. When the time is right you will receive information on this matter. In the meantime I am going to demonstrate my generosity and the kindness of my nature by rewarding your leaders.”

There was a short pause after that, while the Grand Warlock spoke briefly to a pair of assistant Warlocks, and then Ballabeck, in a voice even harsher than his normal scream, shouted, “Head Filly!”

The Head Filly walked proudly forward and followed the two Warlocks up the steps and in through the doors of Meeting. She came out a short time later wearing a coat of greyish silver fur, and instead of the flag that she normally had on her horn, there was a plume of peacock feathers. She seemed delighted with this new costume and swaggered back to her place.

The Grand Warlock spoke to his assistants again, and then Ballabeck, as raucously as before, screamed, “Banseth!”

The huge guardian leader moved forward and stood in front of the Grand Warlock. After a moment Ballabeck shouted out another name.

“Ellisette!” he called.

At this a slim, mainly white palace filly with a delicate, yellow horn walked out of Meeting and down the steps. She seemed extremely nervous, and walked in a clumsy way. Banseth looked her up and down and said quietly, “No.”

Ellisette continued past him, looked quickly around, and joined a group of Cantibri standing far at the back. Her time in the palace was over. They were all so nervous that there was no greeting between her and the unicorns she had joined. That would come later.

It had never been done like this before, but most of the Cantibri knew what was taking place. The palace fillies certainly knew. One of them was going to be picked by Banseth.

Gracinda’s feelings, as she stood motionless next to Zannerette, were mixed. Her main sensation was great relief. If things had been just a little different, if the Grand Warlock had not changed his plans, if Belzeena had not tried to be so clever, then she, Gracinda, might be one of those now parading in front of Banseth, rigid with fear, and desperately hoping they would not be picked.

Combined with this feeling was one of sympathy for the fillies who were in this position. She was sorry for all of them, though she did not know much about them, having had little contact in the palace, but most of all she was sorry for Belzeena. She might have felt hatred for Belzeena, or a hope that she would be picked by Banseth, but these were not the thoughts in her mind. She remembered Belzeena’s helpfulness at the time when she, Gracinda, was learning to be a palace filly. She thought of Belzeena’s intelligence, her clever tips on how to remember things. It was Belzeena’s misfortune that she had allowed her intelligence – and her fear – to guide her actions. Combined with her sympathy, Gracinda, although she was not at all to blame for what had happened, felt a sort of guilty relief. It was an unpleasant feeling, but there was nothing she could do. It was all beyond her control.

Ballabeck squawked out another name.

“Azzamella,” he called.

Another filly walked down the steps from Meeting. She was very dark, mainly black with patches of brown and a dark-brown horn, and was, if anything, even more tense and nervous than Ellisette had been. Banseth took one look at her and repeated his previous comment.

“No,” he said shortly.

Azzamella was followed by Delvesta, who was black and white, Soubette, who was pale-brown, with a browny-yellow horn, and Serriole, who was a greyish-white, with little specks of brown. Banseth rejected them all. During this time Gracinda grew more and more tense.

Finally Ballabeck drew himself up on the crossbar and shouted out the sixth name.

“Belzeena!” he screamed.

There was a long pause during which nothing happened. There was total silence throughout the whole assembly. However, Gracinda’s thoughts were racing around in her head. This was the moment, the awful, terrifying moment, that Belzeena had schemed so hard to avoid. All her plans and all her calculations had come to nothing. After all her efforts to prevent it from happening, she was about to appear in front of Banseth, and quite probably, almost certainly Gracinda thought, she would be chosen. Gracinda’s feelings were a painful mixture. She was extremely glad not to be in Belzeena’s position, but at the same time she felt very sorry for her. She could hardly imagine what Belzeena must be feeling.

The silence was broken by the harsh, impatient voice of Ballabeck shouting the name again.

“Belzeena!”

This time something happened. There was the sound of some activity inside Meeting, and then the door opened slowly and Belzeena appeared.

It was Belzeena. It had to be Belzeena, yet she was hard to recognise. She seemed somehow smaller, as if shrunk into herself, and her movements were fearful and slow. Step by step she came down from the door of Meeting, and began to cross the terrace. Banseth and the Grand Warlock were standing some distance apart, and as Belzeena slowly advanced she moved towards the Grand Warlock, obviously trying to keep as far away from Banseth as possible. As she did this Banseth moved forward until finally Belzeena was standing between him and the Grand Warlock, almost touching both. There she stayed. She could go no further.

Banseth looked her over. In spite of her miserable condition she was still a handsome unicorn, with her neat, trim body and smooth, dark coat. After studying her for a while, Banseth moved back a few paces, and looked again from there. Then, gruffly and briefly, he spoke to her. “Turn round,” he said.

Stiffly and awkwardly like a robot, Belzeena turned. She was now looking back the way she had come, towards the steps of Meeting. Once again Banseth looked at her for a long time. All of a sudden he seemed to make up his mind. “No,” he said.

There was no movement. Nothing happened.

“No,” said Banseth again.

Still Belzeena made no attempt to leave. She stood as motionless as if no word had been spoken, or as if she could not hear what was being said

The Grand Warlock spoke to Ballabeck, who then turned towards Belzeena.

“Unicorn,” he yelled in a raucous scream, “get out of it! Go!”

This finally had some effect on Belzeena. She began to move forward, realised she was going back towards Meeting, turned, and then stood, as if afraid to approach Banseth again, half suspecting that it was some kind of trap or cruel trick.

Ballabeck screamed a second time, “Get out of it! Go on, get out!”

Still Belzeena hesitated. Then she suddenly burst into action, dashing frantically not for the gap between the Grand Warlock and Banseth, but out to the left in the way that would pass them at the greatest possible distance. There was something despairing and hopeless about the way she ran, as if she could not believe that she would ever escape. She collided with the boundary wall, stumbled and nearly fell, righted herself, and finally joined the rest of the Cantibri unicorns

By now there was quite a lot of noise among them. The Grand Warlock frowned, and Banseth glared around fiercely, then started to flex his whip. The other guardians did the same, and the sound soon died away.The Cantibri waited for the next name to be called. Then they slowly began to realise that there were no more names. It was over. All the palace fillies returning home that year had now returned, and Banseth had chosen none of them.

Once again they waited in silence. Then the Grand Warlock moved towards Banseth, who seemed to be lost in thought, and spoke in a quiet voice.There was a short conversation, in which it appeared that Banseth was asking for something. The Grand Warlock considered for a moment. Then, nodding as he spoke, he made a brief reply before moving away.

Banseth looked quite different. His whole manner had changed. Whatever the Grand Warlock had said to him, he was obviously delighted. It soon became clear why.

Taking his time, Banseth looked around him. He looked at the main body of Cantibri unicorns. He looked across the terrace at the lines of Warlocks. He looked at the hooded guardians, armed with their whips. Finally he looked at the group of palace fillies where Gracinda was standing, and he began to walk towards them. Ignoring all the others, he went straight up to Gracinda. As if in a daze, she saw his enormous form, the dark-grey, slightly curly coat, with patches and flecks of white, and the huge, red whip swinging lazily overhead. He seemed to loom over her, blotting out every other sight and sound. Banseth did not speak to her. Turning once more to face the Grand Warlock, he finally made his choice.

“I want this one,” he said.

The Grand Warlock nodded and gave a short command. Several attendant Warlocks came forward, together with two of the guardians. They led Gracinda away, up the steps and in through the door of Meeting.

Some time later she reappeared. Still with the guardians and the attendant Warlocks on either side, she came slowly down the steps. The whole group advanced to where Banseth was waiting. Then the Warlocks and guardians left, leaving only Gracinda standing there. She was now wearing a light-blue cape, which had a number of dark-red stars embroidered on it. They were the same colour as Banseth’s whip and the same size and shape as his medallion. Then, as Gracinda stood there, something completely unexpected happened, something which had never happened before. Banseth, staring round at the assembled Cantibri, issued a challenge.

“This filly is mine,” he said. “Are there any here who dispute my claim?”

There was total silence.

“Good,” said Banseth. “I take it that none of you objects.”

This time there was a response. Gracinda’s father, Dennister, lifted his head in a movement of protest, and said something that might have been “Yes.”

“Aha,” said Banseth, “so you object, do you?”

He stared hard at Dennister, and then said, gently and quite politely, “In that case would you mind stepping forward.”

Slowly but defiantly, as Banseth waited, Dennister came forward, pushing his way between the densely packed mass of the Cantibri. When he was clear of the group, Banseth suddenly arched his neck, and the enormous, dark-red whip shot out. Dennister tried to dodge, but with a vicious, ear-stunning crack, the whip slashed across his side, leaving a bright-red mark on his coat. Dennister half collapsed, and Banseth drew back his head to strike again. At that moment another voice was heard. Loudly and clearly it rang out over the whole assembled gathering.

“Yes,” said the voice, “I object.”

Checking his second whip-stroke, Banseth turned. So did all the Warlocks, the guardians and the palace fillies. Every eye was on the half-open door to Meeting. There, standing on the steps, was an unknown unicorn. They took in the smooth, light-grey coat and the undocked horn, but it was clear from the voice, the size and the general appearance that this was no palace filly. They watched as the unicorn came down the steps from Meeting, moved on to the terrace past the row of fillies, and halted some distance from Banseth. Then he spoke again.

“You asked if anyone objected,” he said. “The answer is yes. I object.”

Banseth stepped forward a little. He seemed to be measuring the distance between them. His voice, however, was quiet.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“An objector.”

“I see,” said Banseth. “Well, that can be cleared up later. Right now ---.”

Without warning he suddenly arched his neck, and the great red whip shot out towards the stranger. The stranger was quicker than Dennister had been. Like lightning he jumped back out of range. The whip made a deafening crack, but did not make contact. Then, before Banseth could draw back to strike again, the stranger closed in quick as a flash, and stood with point of his horn against Banseth’s throat. It was a large, strong, light-grey horn, and the watchers could see that it was ready to strike home. Banseth could do nothing. His whip was useless at such close range, and if he tried to move away, the stranger kept pace with him. There was no escaping the long, grey horn, so Banseth simply stood there, seething with rage, while the tip of the stranger’s horn never left his throat.

The Grand Warlock was looking alarmed, and spoke rapidly to Ballabeck, who passed on the message in his usual raucous voice.

“There are 25 guardians here,” he said to Banseth. “If you need help with this intruder, they can surround him and prevent him from escaping. He can then be killed with a sword or sent over the Fatal Fall.”

“Help?” shouted Banseth in a fury. “I do not need help with my executions. I will kill this wretch myself in a formal duel.”

Then he said to the stranger, “The choice is yours. Strike home now and we will both die, but for you, pushed off the terrace to fall on to the jagged rocks far below, it will be undignified and nasty. Or you can take your chance in a duel with me, which will follow the proper rules that have been laid down for these occasions. Do you accept?”

“I accept,” said the stranger.

The Grand Warlock was pleased. The running of the camp depended largely on the guardians, and it was important that they should not appear weak. They had to be seen to be unbeatable, especially the Head Guardian. There was no doubt that Banseth would win a formal duel. The Cantibri would see that the stranger’s victory at this first meeting was just a fluke, and Banseth would regain the respect that he must have lost in their eyes. So the Grand Warlock ordered the place to be prepared.

A short time later, after the group of Warlocks had moved away from the edge of the terrace and were standing, together with the guardians, close to the end of the palace, after the Cantibri, already quite closely packed, had shifted back and back until they could go no further, and after the Grand Warlock himself, taking Ballabeck and his stand, had moved to a position at the end of the row of fillies, the empty space in the centre of the terrace was a great deal larger. The space was empty, that is, except for the two contestants.

The stranger was standing between the Warlocks and the lines of Cantibri. Behind him the terrace had no boundary fence or wall. It ended in a sheer drop down to jagged rocks, which were outside the Cantibri camp. It was said that more than one unicorn had gone over this in the past, and not always by accident. It was known as the Fatal Fall.

The Grand Warlock, speaking as usual through Ballabeck, announced the conditions of the contest.

“This duel,” he said, or rather Ballabeck squawked, “this duel is about a filly. Banseth, having been offered a filly in reward for his services, and having made his choice, has been challenged in the matter by an unknown stranger. The Grand Warlock, following the ancient custom, has decided that they may settle the matter by formal combat. When Banseth kills the stranger, as he surely will, the stranger’s body will go over the Fatal Fall. If, on the other hand, the stranger is victorious, he will be free to take the filly, and the two of them will be free to leave the camp. And now,” he concluded, “you are invited to watch the fate of all who challenge the authority of the guardians. Let the combat begin.”

What began, however, was not the combat itself, but a sort of test to see if the stranger deserved the honour of meeting Banseth in a duel.

One of the senior Warlocks, who had disappeared into Meeting a short time before, now came out wearing a many-coloured robe and a tall, pointed hat and holding a wand in his hand. He was the Grand Warlock’s Enchanter. Accompanied by two assistants, he made his way to the centre of the terrace, between the two rivals, and there he set to work.

One of the assistants, who had a handful of what appeared to be dry sticks, put them carefully on the ground. The enchanter then walked slowly round them in a circle, never taking his eyes from the pile. Suddenly he pointed his wand at the sticks and spoke a single word, a short, sharp word that sounded like a curse. There was a crackling sound, and then a thin wisp of smoke began to rise from the pile. The smoke very quickly became thicker and began to spread, and as it did so the Enchanter began to sing. It was a complicated song, rising and falling in a not very tuneful way, and sounded for all the world like a set of instructions, which was precisely what it was.

When the smoke was high enough and widely spread enough to enclose a small building, the Enchanter’s song came to an end, finishing on a long, drawn-out word that sounded like now-ow-ow. The smoke then cleared very quickly, as if the magic that had made it was also making it disappear.

Where the pile of sticks had been there was now a circular, flat-topped building a little higher than a unicorn. The walls, and also what could be seen of the roof, were jet black in colour, and made of some shiny, smooth material. Yet the general effect was far from black, because set in the circular wall of this building and equally spaced all round it were many doors, each one a different colour. In the centre of each door there were eight small, square panels, set quite close together, and here again the colour of each was different.

The two assistants now retired, and the Enchanter, who seemed able to speak any language, and did not need a translator, turned towards the stranger.

“Stranger,” he said, “you have dared to challenge the leader of the guardians, who has offered to meet you in a formal duel. Before doing this, however, you must pass a test to prove that you are worthy of this honour.”

He then pointed to the circular building.

“In this building which I have conjured up, call it a riddle house, there are, as you see, many doors. Behind one of those doors there is a sword. Behind all the other doors there are various monstrous creatures whose exact form not even I, who called them into being, know for certain. These monsters have been created by magic, and they can only exist for a short space of time. When that time is coming to an end the doors will automatically open, and the monsters, whose natures have been formed in such a way that they will attack you and you only, will be released. Needless to say, they will destroy you. There is only one way you can avoid this fate, and that is to find which door conceals the sword and open it first. If you succeed in doing that the monsters will not be released. Your task, in other words, is to find the sword before the monsters find you.’
“I see,” said the stranger. “So, with no further information, I must find and open this door.”

“I will give you three sets of information,” said the Enchanter, “which will be in the form of riddles. The first two riddles will give you the colours of two doors which you must not open, but which, taken together, may tell you the right door to open. The third riddle will tell you how to open it.”

“I see,” said the stranger again. “I am ready to begin.”

The Enchanter made no reply. He took up a position between the stranger and the riddle house, and stood in silence for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then he spoke. “Hear now,” he said, “the first riddle.”

A mighty shout,
And yet not high.
Open this door,
And you will die.

The stranger did not move. He said nothing. He was thinking. There was total silence throughout the gathering. Not even the birds made the slightest twitter. Then the stranger began to think aloud.

“A mighty shout,” he said, “is a bellow. It is also a bawl, a yell or perhaps a cry.”

“Go on,” said the Enchanter.

“Something not high is low, or in the case of a shout perhaps soft.”

“Time is passing,” said the Enchanter.

The stranger thought in silence for a moment.

“Yell and low,” he said, “make yellow. So I must not open the yellow door.”

The Cantibri applauded, tossing their heads and drumming their hooves on the ground, but stopped when the guardians began to flex their whips. The Enchanter gave a grim smile. “Hear now,” he said, “the second riddle.”

An aim or intention,
Then a lair.
Open this door
And face despair.

Again the stranger stood deep in thought, but this time he did not speak. He kept his thoughts to himself. The watchers had no way of telling how close he was to solving the riddle.

“The time is passing,” said the Enchanter.

Still the stranger said nothing.

“Not even I,” said the Enchanter, “can say precisely when the monsters will be released.”

The stranger did not reply. The riddle house shifted slightly. It seemed the creatures inside were moving about. Then the stranger spoke.

“I have the answer,” he said. “An aim or intention is a goal. A lair is a den. Goal and den makes golden. So I must not open the golden door.”

There was another burst of applause, which not even the guardians with their whips could prevent. The Cantibri were filled with excitement – and hope.

“You have discovered two doors that must not be opened,” said the Enchanter. “Go on. There is not much time.”

The riddle house was now shaking, and strange sounds, grunts and growls and other animal noises, could be heard inside. Ignoring these, the stranger walked round it, carefully examining the doors. Once again he was thinking aloud.

“I must not open the yellow or golden doors,” he said, “but these doors together will show the door that should be opened.” He paused for a moment and then added in a thoughtful tone, “Between them they will give the answer.”

After another pause he suddenly exclaimed, “There is only one door between them, and that is the green.” Then, turning to the Enchanter, he said, “I choose the green door. That is the one I would like to open.”

“You will have to be quick,” said the Enchanter, and with no change of expression he continued, “Hear now the third riddle.”

To mark the flesh,
And to allow.
To finish searching
Press it now.

The stranger stood thinking, and as he thought, the noises in the riddle house increased. There was a deep, gruff roaring, together with a snarling, snuffling sound. This was followed by a series of screeches, as well as thumps and scratches against the doors.

Still the stranger stood in thought. Then something else happened. Very slowly, with a nasty, creaking noise, the doors began to open. It could now be seen that they were still held by chains, but through the power of the enchantment the chains were growing longer link by link, and as the chains lengthened, so the doors opened wider. Only the green door remained completely closed. As the doors opened, strange things began to appear from behind them, from one a large, bird-like foot with long, yellow talons, from another a thin snout with curving fangs, and from a third a pair of slimy, green tentacles, as the snarling, hissing, grunting creatures inside did their best to escape.

“The monsters will soon be free,” said the Enchanter.

The thin-snouted creature was pushing against its door, and a single eye was now visible, while the two green tentacles had been joined by a third.

Suddenly the stranger stepped forward towards the green door, and pressed the tip of his horn against one of the small, square panels – a bright red panel – in the centre of it. Instantly the opening doors began to close again, while the green door swung smoothly and easily open. Inside, on a kind of low table, was a long, gleaming sword of the type that was sometimes used by guardian patrols.

“Stranger,” said the Enchanter, “allow me to offer my congratulations. You have passed the test.”

There was a tremendous burst of applause. The Cantibri were delighted. This stranger had not only shown that he was an excellent fighter. He had also proved that he was intelligent. He could keep his head and think clearly and rapidly in a dangerous situation. They did not know this of course, but none of the snip-snip birds, not Gripling, not Dumpling, not Stickling himself, could have done any better.

The riddle house, meanwhile, had begun to disappear. The roof and walls grew thin and flimsy, before vanishing completely. The creatures inside lasted a little longer, though in a tangled mass, in which the shapes of teeth and claws and a pair of bat-like wings could still be seen. Then, hissing and sputtering like burnt-out fireworks, they too disappeared. All that remained was the table and the sword that was lying on it.

Pointing to this, the Enchanter said, “This sword is now yours by right. Though also created by enchantment, it is a real sword, and it will last as long as you need it for the duel.”

“I need no sword,” replied the stranger. “My horn is my weapon. I will fight as I am.”

“The choice is yours,” said the Enchanter, “but your opponent will certainly have a sword.. To defeat him with your horn you will need as much good fortune as you had in guessing which of the panels would open the door.”

“It was not a guess,” said the stranger. “To mark the flesh is to scar, and allow means let, so I pressed the scarlet panel.”

The Enchanter seemed about to reply, but Banseth, who had quietly left the terrace after the solving of the final riddle, now reappeared. The large, red whip that he normally carried was gone. In its place was a shining sword, which was the same size and type as the one on the table. As the Enchanter went to join the other Warlocks, and the table with its unwanted weapon was removed, Banseth took up his earlier position, and stood facing the stranger. The Cantibri, looking at the two of them, found little in the sight to raise their hopes.

The stranger was a fine-looking young unicorn, large and clearly very strong. The muscles rippled under his glossy coat, he moved with perfect balance, and they had already seen that he could attack with lightning speed.

If the stranger was large, however, Banseth was larger. Banseth was truly massive, and there was no doubting his enormous strength. He could also move fast, and when he made practice cuts with his sword, so that it whistled round in a flashing arc of fire, it seemed impossible that any unicorn armed only with a horn could stand against him.

Ballabeck now made an announcement. “The stranger,” he squawked, “having passed the riddle test, has earned the right to meet Banseth in a personal duel. However, before the duel begins, the Grand Warlock would like to make one final offer.”

He turned to the stranger.

“Your opponent is armed with a sword,” he said. “It is your right to have a similar weapon, and as you know, there is one available. You are undocked, but that can soon be changed, so the Grand Warlock asks you, one final time, if you wish to take this opportunity.”

The stranger’s reply was brief. For the second time he said, “My horn is my weapon. I will fight as I am.”

There was no more to be said. Rising up importantly on his perch, Ballabeck, also for the second time, called out, “Let the combat begin.”

As the two unicorns began to circle each other, Banseth said, not loudly but loudly enough for the Cantibri to hear, “I am glad you passed the riddle test. I now have the pleasure of killing you myself.”

The stranger made no reply. The two of them continued to circle. The stranger was alert and so light on his feet that he seemed to be dancing. Banseth was calm and very confident. His plan was to cut off the stranger’s horn with his sword, after which it would be easy to kill him. But to do this he needed to get in a good, straight blow, and the horn was everywhere at once, now sweeping round in a circle, now flicking out to right or left, now driving forward in a lightning lunge. The stranger himself was never still. With his alertness and lightning speed, there was no question at this stage of driving him into a corner or towards the Fatal Fall. Twice Banseth slashed at the horn, and twice he missed, the sword-blade swishing through empty air. The third time he made contact, but the blade was turned aside by a quick twist of the horn, and he could not avoid the stranger’s counter attack. It was only a slight wound, the horn had punctured the great knot of muscle at the top of his leg, but the Cantibri went wild. The terrible Banseth, the unbeatable Banseth had been wounded. First advantage had gone to the stranger. There was no stopping the Cantibri. They not only drummed their hooves and tossed their manes, they began to shout.

“Come on stranger! Keep it up stranger! You can beat him. Give him another one, stranger.”

Whether or not these shouts encouraged the stranger, they certainly had an effect on Banseth. His mood was completely changed. He had not been badly wounded, but his pride had been hurt. His early confidence had now turned to a grinding rage, a vicious, grim determination. If it was going to take longer than he had thought to kill this stranger, then so be it. But kill him he would.

His method now was to stand his ground and wait for the attack. Sooner or later the stranger would make a mistake, he would leave himself unguarded, and when that happened, a single good, straight, downward cut of the sword would be enough. Even without that, the stranger could hardly keep up the present pace. He was bound to tire.

Yet this did not seem to be happening. In spite of his constant movement, in spite of the speed of his attacks, the stranger seemed to have the endurance of an aurochs. There was no sign that he was tiring. His attacks never stopped for a moment, and they seemed to be growing even faster. Banseth had to concentrate on defending himself, rather than cutting the stranger’s horn, but he was wounded twice more, very slightly at the base of the neck and rather more deeply in the left side, while the stranger was still unmarked. Then, in another lightning attack, the stranger scored again. The tip of his horn pierced the fleshy part of Banseth’s right foreleg, and the guardian leader, losing his temper, threw aside all caution.

Roaring with rage, and slashing from side to side with his sword, he charged at his rival. Caught off balance, the stranger warded off the blade, but could not avoid the full force of the charge, which knocked him over. With incredible agility and speed, he got back on his feet, while Banseth, also thrown off balance by the collision, stumbled slightly. Then he twisted round, and his wildly slashing sword caught the stranger on the side. It was a shallow cut, but definitely a wound..

The two then met in a whirling confusion of fighting fury, churning up the earth as they struggled for advantage, but too close together to use their weapons to any effect. Twice they separated and crashed together again, and the second time, after a furious exchange of attacks and counter-attacks, that was almost too rapid to follow, the watching Cantibri realised that the stranger’s horn was caught in the tangled hair of Banseth’s mane, so that the two opponents were locked together. Both had been freshly wounded. Banseth, using his greater weight, was slowly forcing the stranger towards the edge of the Fatal Fall.

Then suddenly the pattern changed. The stranger turned sideways, so that he now had the crowd of Cantibri behind him, and twisting back towards them, he freed his horn. Banseth slashed at the air as the stranger leaped clean over his back. The stranger, whirling round even as he landed, pressed the sharp point of his horn against his enemy’s throat. The tables had been completely turned. Banseth was beaten.

The silence that followed was broken by a single word.

“Surrender,” said the stranger.

The silence continued. Grimly, stubbornly, Banseth made no reply.

“Surrender,” said the stranger again.

Then something quite unexpected happened.. One of the guardians darted forward from the group, and with every ounce of strength in his scrawny body brought his whip squarely down on the stranger’s back. As the stranger whirled about, Banseth, who had never surrendered, raised his great blade and crashed it down in a mighty blow, a terrible sword-stroke that shattered the base of the horn and sliced through muscle and bone. He killed the guardian. The stranger, with almost incredible speed, had not only twisted round, but in the same movement had leaped to one side, and Skimmeril, the crafty, vicious Skimmeril, had paid the final price for his interference.

As this happened the Grand Warlock started forward with a loud shout. Whatever the word he called out, it seemed to act as a signal. The remaining guardians, all 24 of them, dashed forward to help their leader. The result was a battle that was one great tangle of confusion. The stranger was everywhere at once, yet it was impossible to get to grips with him. The guardians tried to lash him with their whips, they tried to surround him and prevent him from moving, they tried to force him over the edge of the Fatal Fall. Banseth made desperate efforts to kill him as he had done Skimmeril, but the sheer numbers of the guardians blocked and hampered his efforts on every side.

The stranger leaped and twisted, swerved, advanced and retreated. He ran forward and then reversed, so that the guardians attacking him collided with each other. He leaped clean over the backs of his attackers. He advanced towards them, so that they turned and ran and got in the way of others. He retreated before them and sprang to one side, so that in their eagerness they lashed other guardians. And always he fought them, stabbing and thrusting and stabbing again. He fought like a hero, like an avenging fury, like a Banneree dragon aflame with the Fire of Truth.

One by one at first, and then in greater numbers, limping, hobbling, groaning, the guardians retreated from the battle, leaving the two opponents face to face. Both wounded, they began once more to circle round each other. The mark of Skimmeril’s whip on the stranger’s back was now criss-crossed by many others, but he had not lost his agility. Banseth, on the other hand, was beginning to stiffen. Nevertheless, he was the first to gain an advantage. With a slash from his sword he cut the stranger’s cheek. The stranger fell back, and Banseth, sensing victory, followed him. As he advanced he began to talk, a string of nasty threats and promises.

“You’re finished,” he said. “You’re played out. You’re beaten. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to slice you to pieces, and I’m going to send you over the Fatal Fall.”

The horn-thrust took him by surprise. A lightning stab in the chest was followed by another in the side, as the stranger parried his stroke and shot past him, striking as he ran. Banseth, roaring with rage and pain, whirled round to face his enemy. Then, desperate to win at any cost, he played a trick that brought him disaster.

It began by chance. As the stranger was coming forward to attack again, Banseth caught his sword in the ground, which by now was well churned up and loosened, and it flicked a small chunk of earth into the stranger’s face. This was a mistake, but what followed was not. The earth did not harm the stranger, but it distracted him, and he did not press on with his attack, so Banseth tried to do it again. Deliberately this time, he dug his sword deep into the ground and heaved. With a tremendous crack the blade broke in half.

It was over. Once again the stranger closed in. Once again he called on Banseth to surrender, and this time Banseth responded.

“I surrender,” he said.

It was truly over. The stranger had won. Banseth was defeated and stood there sullenly as the Grand Warlock, together with the Enchanter, came on to the field. The Enchanter spoke.

“By the agreed terms of the duel,” he said to the stranger, “you have the right, as the winner, to go your way unhindered, together with the filly. However, as her cape is embroidered with the badge of your rival, it should first be removed, and this can be done more easily in the palace.”

The stranger thought for a moment, and then agreed. Gracinda was once again led up the steps into Meeting, and several Warlocks went with her, including the Enchanter.

It was quite a long time before she came out. While they were waiting a strange thing happened. Some dark-brown smoke drifted out of the door of Meeting, and more came out of some of the windows. Then Gracinda appeared. She stood at the top of the steps, with the Enchanter behind her, and seemed to hesitate, before coming slowly down. As she made her way past the row of fillies, she was walking in a strange way, and holding her head very low. The stranger watched her, and when she came to a halt he began to move towards her. Gracinda stretched her head towards him and waited. He had almost reached her when suddenly, for no obvious reason, he leaped away.

He was just in time. With a loud, harsh, whirring sound, Gracinda’s tongue, or what seemed to be her tongue, shot forward out of her mouth. It was in fact a long metal spear, about twice as long as the stranger’s horn. For a moment she stood there motionless, while the deadly weapon, still quivering, moved slowly up and down. Then she fell on her side, and smoke began to rise from her body.

It was not Gracinda at all, but like the riddle house and the monsters in it, a thing made by enchantment, a horrible, conjured-up imitation, as false as a siren’s song. If the stranger had not been able to sense the deception and leap away, the spear would have killed him.

There was silence over the gathering as, like the riddle house before it, the body sizzled and smoked, and then disappeared. The silence was broken, surprisingly, by Banseth. For some time he had been looking at the stranger.

“I asked you before,” he said, “and I ask you a second time. What is your name?”

The stranger hesitated.

“I am surprised at your question,” he said, “because we have met before.”

“We have met before?”

“We certainly have, and it is not the second time you have asked my name. It is the third.”

Banseth was puzzled.

“Perhaps you remember,” said the stranger, “a docking day, and a young dockee who did not want to be docked.”

Banseth started. A change came over him. He glared at the stranger. Then he began to roar with rage.

“You! You! You!”

At the same time he began to shiver slightly, and the shivering increased until he was shaking all over. Then suddenly he charged. It was a crazy, desperate, suicidal action. The stranger scarcely needed to dodge. He stepped aside as Banseth, still roaring, hurtled past him and went straight on – over the edge of the Fatal Fall. The awful, fading cry of rage and despair was cut off at last by a terrible impact. Then silence.

It was the end. Plainly and simply, it was the end of a brutal tyrant. In a wider sense it was the end of many more things. The cruel, hateful rule of the guardians, the power of the Warlocks, the evil plans of the Grand Warlock himself, and above all else, generations of slavery in the Cantibri camp, all these things had perished with Banseth on the jagged rocks below.

It was also a new beginning. Just as Gracinda, the real Gracinda, appeared at the door of Meeting, the stranger turned to face the Cantibri. The words he spoke had not been heard among them for many generations, yet in some strange way they seemed to understand their meaning.

“Cantibri unicorns!” he cried. “Cantibri unicorns! I invoke the Thunder Horde. Follow me.”

And they followed. Without the assistance of the guardians, the Warlocks could do nothing to hold them back. The Enchanter’s magic, though powerful, was not designed for such things. They followed the stranger down the entrance road, not the narrow path beside the palace, but the main entrance road, then under the little bridge where Gracinda had been trapped and on round the curve till they came to the high stone arch. There was a guardian there – not quite all of them had been present at the gathering – but he was young, and when he saw the Cantibri he made no attempt to stop them. It would have been useless. The second stone arch was unguarded, and passing this, they poured out on to the road by the docking field.

They were now near the entrance to the camp, and thundering up the road past an empty guardian compound, they found that the gate, though closed, was also unguarded. It had not been made to withstand a determined charge, and it did not withstand the Cantibri unicorns. Leaving it shattered and hanging open, they streamed along the road outside. Then, galloping through a wood, across a field and through another wood, they came to the banks of the river Tan. Without pausing, they splashed and swam across this, and then on over fields and through clumps of trees, until they found themselves in open grassland. Here they waited for a time to let the slower ones catch up. Then when they were all together in a group, they set off towards the distant line of mountains.

The stranger hardly spoke, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going. When they were still some way from the edge of the plains, he turned slightly to the left and made straight for a gap in the line of hills. They followed him through this, and passing a number of smaller hills, they finally came to one that seemed unusually steep, and was a good deal higher than the hills all round it. Without hesitation the stranger made his way to the base of this hill, and as the Cantibri watched, he began to climb it.

He seemed to know his way. In a very short time the Cantibri, who had spread out to form a circle round the hill, saw his form appear at the top. He was standing there motionless, as if waiting for something. Then they realised that directly above them a large, black cloud was formimg. It was spreading rapidly, and very soon it covered most of the sky.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of lightning, and a moment later a deafening crash of thunder. Then the rain came down. It came down like a gigantic waterfall, almost a solid wall of water. At the same time, while the thunder rolled and roared, the lightning played about the sky. It stabbed down into the hills. It flashed into sheets of flame. Finally a colossal bolt of lightning came straight down on to the pinnacle of rock where the stranger was standing. The thunder that followed was so loud that it seemed to shake the world.

Then the Cantibri realised that the rain had stopped. When they looked up they saw that the sky was beginning to lighten. The storm was over.

And there, on the rocky summit, was the stranger, but he was transformed. The cuts and wounds and traces of battle had disappeared, the whip marks were gone, and the coat that had been grey was now brilliant white.

But the greatest change of all was in his horn. For the magnificent, perfect horn that he raised to the sky was no longer grey. Nor was it brown or white or yellow.

It was GLEAMING, SHINING SILVER.

And a tremendous shout went up from the Cantibri, a single word that came bursting out, as if from some ancient memory.

SILVERHORN!

It echoed round the mountains.

SILVERHORN!

It soared to the sky.

SILVERHORN!

It rang out over the plains.

At last the sound of it died away. Then a different sound was heard. It was very soft at first, but it quickly grew until it blotted out all other noises. It was a rising wind, but it was no normal wind. It seemed to be blowing into the centre from every direction. It had risen now to a gigantic roar, and it was bending the trees. All the trees around the hill were bent down low, as if paying their respects, and the Cantibri were pressed down close to the ground.

Then quite suddenly the wind subsided. The trees straightened up again, and everything was calm. When the Cantibri looked up at the summit of rock, the stranger was no longer there. Then some of them saw a movement at the base of the hill.

A little later on a flat stretch of grassland out on the plain, the Cantibri had formed a circle round their new leader. They waited in silence as he stood there, looking about.

Then Gracinda, with her ivory-coloured coat and her slender, undocked horn, left the circle. She walked up to the leader. They looked at each other and said nothing. The feeling between them was too deep for that, and there would be plenty of time for talk. When she finally spoke it was just a single word.

“Knobby,” she said.

Many hours later the unicorns were strung out along the top of a ridge, looking down on a broad expanse of country below. They could see rolling plains, mile upon mile of waving grassland. They could see woods and scattered groups of trees. Far away, glinting like silver in the evening light, they could see a river, and beyond that a range of mountains – new mountains. The Cantibri camp and all its surroundings were far behind them now.

Gracinda, Garromant and Mellinore were standing near the leader, and Dennister, whose whip mark had nearly gone, and Pelisse were also nearby. Bumpus too was there. He was admiring the leader.

“That’s the way to be,” he said. “A sorry sight most of us look, with stumps instead of horns.”

The leader looked at the line of Cantibri, spread out along the ridge. The palace dockees were there, most of them still with pans or brushes on their horn-stumps. Close by them was a small group of fillies, who had all once been picked by Banseth, and, standing slightly apart from the rest at the end of one line, there were some large but very subdued-looking unicorns. These were ex-guardians, who had asked, and been allowed, to join the group.

By far the greater part of the line, however, was simply the working population of the camp, the Cantibri unicorns. The leader turned back to Bumpus.

“Your horns will grow,” he said. “Given time, they will grow.”

Then, looking about him, he raised his voice to speak to the whole of the gathering.

“Come,” he said. “Come. We have a new life to begin.”

A short time later anyone looking at the scene might have noticed a moving cloud of dust on the far horizon.”

There was a short pause after that. Then a final piece of writing appeared in the air.

‘And so, for many, many years, the great and glorious King Silverhorn the Mighty, with his beautiful queen, Gracinda, led the Cantibri unicorns in a life of exultant freedom, to gallop over the plains in a phalanx of living thunder, to graze at ease in the lush, green valleys, to strike brave sparks from the chilly mountain gorges, to raise their horns to the sky and feel the vibrations of the creative power that made them, and to live again as once their race had lived, for age upon age since the very dawn of time.

And there, in their pristine world of valley and mountain, river and pasture, Earth and sky,
there, in their primal harmony,
there, as we finish the tale and return to the hassle of human existence,
there let us leave them,’

The story was over. For a moment or two they sat in silence. Then Mr.Baxter looked at his watch.

“Time for the two of you,” he said. “We seem to have finished rather late this evening.”

Neither Tom nor Judy said anything. They were both thinking. Finally Judy spoke, in a rather dreamy way.

“I liked the writing at the end,” she said. “It was sort of poetic, wasn’t it?” Then, after another thoughtful pause, she asked, “Did Knobby really turn into Silverhorn on the mountain?”

“Well, not exactly,” said her father. “He became the new leader, and he was given the title Silverhorn, as well as the appearance that went with it, the pure white coat and the horn that shone like silver. It was rather like getting a new uniform to go with his position.”

Tom had also been looking thoughtful. Now he said, “Knobby needed all four of the dreams. If he’d missed just one of them he would have lost the fight.”

Judy seemed doubtful.

“Well,” said Tom, “for a start he might not have passed the riddle test if it hadn’t been for his time with the snip-snip birds, it sharpened up his wits and improved his thinking. So that was the Dream of Air. The Dream of Earth, when he was with the aurochs, gave him strength and endurance, which he needed to keep up his attacks on Banseth. The Dream of Fire, well, it gave him fire, the fiery courage to fight all 24 guardians at once.”

“Good,” said Mr. Baxter, “and what about the Dream of Water?”

Tom hesitated. “The Dream of Water. Well, that was when he realised that the sirens’ song was all a trick. That dream gave him judgement and – and – sensitivity. So when Gracinda came down the steps at the end, he felt there was something wrong, that it wasn’t the real Gracinda, and he jumped away just in time.”

“Well done,” said Mr. Baxter. “And now I really think – ”

But before he had time to mention bed again, some more writing began to appear in the air above him. It was a final poem.

Wind of the spirit that fills the sky,
Voice of the truth unfurled,
Wind of the life that will never die
Breath of the turning world.

Wind of the high-aspiring peaks,
Wind of the distant call,
Wind of the forest that sighs and speaks,
Wind that enfolds us all.

“The wind,” said Tom thoughtfully. “It was his friend all the way through, wasn’t it? I suppose that’s what the story was all about, really, the power of the wind.”

“It was about a great deal more than that,” said a voice, and they realised that Edward was behind them.

“You didn’t hear most of it,” said Tom.

“I heard a lot more than you think, but I didn’t always come into the room. I also enjoyed it as much as you did, or even more, because of course you completely missed the deeper symbolic meaning.”

“Oh, did I?” said Tom. “What was it then, this deeper symbolic meaning?”

Edward hesitated, rather sorry that he had brought up the subject. Tom and Judy were just a pair of kids. How could he explain to them that the unicorn’s horn was a symbol of spiritual awareness, lost when the horn was cut off short, and the Cantibri camp a sort of model of the world, interested only in practical matters, with spirituality forgotten.

Besides, he was not quite sure he had got it right himself

“Oh, never mind,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“The symbolic meaning can wait until tomorrow,” said Mr. Baxter. “Right now - .”

“Dad,” said Judy, “does Silverhorn come in another story?”

“Yes,’ said Mr. Baxter, “he does, but that, as they say, is another story.”

Tom and Judy couldn’t think of any more questions, so they finally went to bed.

Click here to return to Chapter ONE, or to SYNOPSIS