Hyddenworld.
‘The question is, why now?’ he said aloud.
He went straight to his computer and online to see if he could find out. He had only to see the headlines to know why Bohr had called.
‘Oh, dear God,’ said Arthur Foale, appalled. ‘Oh dear God.’
7
T HE S CYTHE OF T IME
A t dusk that same day the Fyrd finally gave up waiting for Stort and the others to show up. They never found their hiding place.
‘If they’re not up there tomorrow morning, we’re moving on,’ said Jack.
But they left suddenly and much sooner, while it was still pitch-black, startled awake by sudden violent noise at which Georg was already up and growling.
They heard a menacing hissing and sighing, and the rending of tree trunks and branches living and dead, and Stort said urgently, ‘That’s the Scythe of Time . . . we must flee this
place.
Now!
’
They struck camp in silence, without a word, each to their task. In a few moments they were dressed, their portersacs packed, their bedrolls secure, staves in hand.
‘Follow me,’ Stort ordered them, ‘and you too, Georg.’
The dog ran ahead of them.
‘
Georg!
’
But he was gone.
‘Stort, slow down, I can’t see you,’ whispered Jack, his hand strong on his stave, ready.
‘Then hold on to my ’sac!’
‘I’m doing the same behind you, Jack,’ said Katherine.
‘Right,’ cried Stort, for the hiss-whisper and loud destruction of trees was getting nearer and louder by the moment. ‘Let’s go!’
Together, struggling up the gully, with the horrible sense that the noise and rending of the trees and vegetation was fast on their heels, they made for the bare slopes above. They hoped that
the monstrous thing would not follow where there were no trees.
But it was not like that.
There were no stars, no moon, only a bitter, unseasonal wind. Nothing at all to guide them on their way but for occasional glimpses of the twinkling lights of human settlements in the vale far
below, which were no use at all.
‘I can light a lantern,’ said Jack.
‘No!’ said Stort. ‘No time. If the Scythe catches us up we’ll be lost forever.
Come on!
’
That was easier said than done.
The high fell that had been so bare when they arrived was not so now. As the three hurried on in the darkness they began crashing into gnarled and thorny branches that shouldn’t have been
there, their jerkins and ’sacs getting caught in thickets, their hose torn to tatters by brambles, tight branches of trees they could not see arching overhead, banging hard into their
foreheads, grabbing their staves. On and on, as if they were in an ancient forest and followed by ancient beasts which rent the very trees behind them, and would tear them apart too if they caught
up with them, and scatter their limbs aside.
‘We’ll make faster progress if I do make a light,’ gasped Jack after half an hour of trekking to what felt like nowhere.
‘Try it,’ conceded Stort, whose breaths were short and wheezy, ‘but be quick . . .’
The hissing and sighing crowded in on them, the breaking of root and branch deafening their ears as the wind-blown leaves stung their eyes and faces like hail.
‘Hurry!’ cried Katherine.
Jack’s first lucifer blew straight out.
His second shone briefly, showing only the alarm in his eyes, and died.
At his third, a nearby tree lost patience and whipped a branch like savage fingers down on his head, against his chest and scattered the lucifers to the wind.
Katherine fell one way, Stort moved forward another and Jack went a third, while the hiss-sigh Scythe came on, the screams of dying trees behind them and to their sides, the claws of branches,
the savage upended hooks of roots grabbing their arms and pinning them to their sides, tripping them up, pinning them down.
‘
Jack!
’
‘Where are you?’
‘Stort?’
‘I can’t see you.’
‘
Kather . . . ine!
’
Somehow they came back together, clasping each other in the murk, blood on hands and
‘The question is, why now?’ he said aloud.
He went straight to his computer and online to see if he could find out. He had only to see the headlines to know why Bohr had called.
‘Oh, dear God,’ said Arthur Foale, appalled. ‘Oh dear God.’
7
T HE S CYTHE OF T IME
A t dusk that same day the Fyrd finally gave up waiting for Stort and the others to show up. They never found their hiding place.
‘If they’re not up there tomorrow morning, we’re moving on,’ said Jack.
But they left suddenly and much sooner, while it was still pitch-black, startled awake by sudden violent noise at which Georg was already up and growling.
They heard a menacing hissing and sighing, and the rending of tree trunks and branches living and dead, and Stort said urgently, ‘That’s the Scythe of Time . . . we must flee this
place.
Now!
’
They struck camp in silence, without a word, each to their task. In a few moments they were dressed, their portersacs packed, their bedrolls secure, staves in hand.
‘Follow me,’ Stort ordered them, ‘and you too, Georg.’
The dog ran ahead of them.
‘
Georg!
’
But he was gone.
‘Stort, slow down, I can’t see you,’ whispered Jack, his hand strong on his stave, ready.
‘Then hold on to my ’sac!’
‘I’m doing the same behind you, Jack,’ said Katherine.
‘Right,’ cried Stort, for the hiss-whisper and loud destruction of trees was getting nearer and louder by the moment. ‘Let’s go!’
Together, struggling up the gully, with the horrible sense that the noise and rending of the trees and vegetation was fast on their heels, they made for the bare slopes above. They hoped that
the monstrous thing would not follow where there were no trees.
But it was not like that.
There were no stars, no moon, only a bitter, unseasonal wind. Nothing at all to guide them on their way but for occasional glimpses of the twinkling lights of human settlements in the vale far
below, which were no use at all.
‘I can light a lantern,’ said Jack.
‘No!’ said Stort. ‘No time. If the Scythe catches us up we’ll be lost forever.
Come on!
’
That was easier said than done.
The high fell that had been so bare when they arrived was not so now. As the three hurried on in the darkness they began crashing into gnarled and thorny branches that shouldn’t have been
there, their jerkins and ’sacs getting caught in thickets, their hose torn to tatters by brambles, tight branches of trees they could not see arching overhead, banging hard into their
foreheads, grabbing their staves. On and on, as if they were in an ancient forest and followed by ancient beasts which rent the very trees behind them, and would tear them apart too if they caught
up with them, and scatter their limbs aside.
‘We’ll make faster progress if I do make a light,’ gasped Jack after half an hour of trekking to what felt like nowhere.
‘Try it,’ conceded Stort, whose breaths were short and wheezy, ‘but be quick . . .’
The hissing and sighing crowded in on them, the breaking of root and branch deafening their ears as the wind-blown leaves stung their eyes and faces like hail.
‘Hurry!’ cried Katherine.
Jack’s first lucifer blew straight out.
His second shone briefly, showing only the alarm in his eyes, and died.
At his third, a nearby tree lost patience and whipped a branch like savage fingers down on his head, against his chest and scattered the lucifers to the wind.
Katherine fell one way, Stort moved forward another and Jack went a third, while the hiss-sigh Scythe came on, the screams of dying trees behind them and to their sides, the claws of branches,
the savage upended hooks of roots grabbing their arms and pinning them to their sides, tripping them up, pinning them down.
‘
Jack!
’
‘Where are you?’
‘Stort?’
‘I can’t see you.’
‘
Kather . . . ine!
’
Somehow they came back together, clasping each other in the murk, blood on hands and
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