Author: Robin Jarvis
Date: 1989-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Middle Grade; Historical; Fiction; Historical Fiction; Horror; Young Adult; cats; Fantasy; Childrens; Animals
Description: MacDonald 1998 trade edition paperback, fine In stock shipped from our UK warehouse
Publisher: Hodder Wayland

The Deptford Histories
by Robin Jarvis

Book 1: The Alchymist’s Cat

First published in the UK in 1989

Book 2: The Oaken Throne

First published in the UK in 1993

Book 3: Thomas

First published in the UK in 1995

This epub is version 1.0, released March 2016

Book 1: The Alchymist’s Cat

First published in the UK in 1989

The Beginning

It was a fine night; the full moon edged the sleeping city with silver and the deep velvet dark of the sky was splashed with stars. A perfect night for a cat to roam.

The city of London was a marvellous playground to stalk in; with its narrow, dark alleys and open drains it held countless possibilities and there were hints of adventure round every corner. The squashed huddle of houses that shouldered together uncomfortably on either side of the shadowy street were blind to the night. Only in one window was a candle steadily burning but she took no heed of that.

There was a heady cocktail of scents on the air, a blissful mingling of twilight odours, and her sensitive whiskers searched hungrily through the breeze.

Beneath the dank, green reek of the river which always assaulted the nose, she detected the movement of many creatures; the night foragers were abroad. Mice were scratching in the walls of the wooden houses—raiding the pantries too, no doubt. A fearsome dog howled near the old bearpits and its plaintive wail floated over the ramshackle rooftops like a banshee. But no, there in the dim deeps, under the straw stacked against the gates of the brewer’s yard was what she sought this night—rats.

As a spectral vapour she slunk from shadow to shadow, noiseless and determined as Death himself. Only her golden eyes glinting under the moon could betray her but she kept them half closed, leaving only slender slivers which floated over the cobbles like razors.

The thrill of the hunt was mounting as she lowered her head and padded after her prey. How strong the smell of rat was here, she could almost feel the heat of their blood burn in her nostrils. And then she waited; expert in the art of being still as stone, she held her breath—at one with the night.

The dirty straw rustled and a furry brown snout nosed the air suspiciously.

“I tells ya ’Arry,” muttered a nervous voice, “there’s summat not right in the air out there.”

“Tush Bert!” came an answering squeak. “What’s put ya in this un’appy ’umour. Y’aint been feelin proper fer days now.”

“Tain’t that ’Arry,” replied Bert retracting his twitching snout. “I swears by the Three thesselves I don’t like the whiff of the wind.”

“Dullard!” snorted the other. “I’ve a mind to dine off grain tonight and have my fill o’ m’lord brewer’s barley sacks. You stay ’ere ’an feed off dung an’ beetles but I’m away.”

Harry shuffled out of the straw and shielded his tiny black eyes from the bright moon. What a glorious night for pilfering and eating your fill. The rat thrashed his tail gleefully and hopped onto the cobbles. He did not hear her spring.

“Aaaarrrggghhh!” he bawled when he became aware of her hot breath on his neck and felt her strong claws squeeze round him.

“I’m dead, Bert!” he wailed. “Flee, while you can...” and then he was silent.

The cat trotted away contented, with the dead, juicy rat dangling from her mouth.

She wanted to enjoy this delicacy in peace and knew the very spot. Onto a rain barrel she leapt and from there jumped to a window-sill. Then she sure-footedly walked around the side of the building using one of the decorative beams set into the wall as a ledge. And so up, to the sloping roof, where she stretched herself out on the cool tiles and devoured her supper.

In the full glare of the moon she was a gorgeous creature; her ginger fur almost seemed to glow under its baleful beams. Her features were fine and delicate, having a sharp chin and small pink nose—indeed she was considered a great beauty yet none of her countless suitors had claimed her.

From her vantage point she surveyed London like an empress with a supreme look of disdain upon her proud face. The streets were quiet now, even the dog had ceased its howling; all was calm. Yet she was wise enough to know that it was on such nights as these that the most gruesome murders were committed or the direst tragedies could occur. Death and disaster were always eager visitors when they were least expected.

A man trailed through the streets below with a lantern in his hand. With her glittering eyes she watched his progress and saw him pause on every corner where he called out, “Eleven of the clock on a fine October night and all’s well.”

She hated mankind, they were ugly, stupid and cruel beasts—yet she had the wit to use them on occasion. There were at least seven houses in the city where she was known and where a spot of milk or table scraps could be had in return for a measure of play acting. A smile spread over her face as she thought how easy it was to mew prettily and press her head against their shambling legs in a mock display of affection.

“Verily, I am yours,” was the expression she always wore for the gullible fools. What simpletons they were to think they owned her, she who could hunt when there was no moon—by scent alone. She was totally a creature of the wild, untameable and ravishing as darkness itself.

Beneath the tiles she heard the muted voices of bats whispering their prophecies to each other; she had never tasted bat before and idly wondered what they were like.

The moon rose higher in the clear sky and she dozed happily with her head in her paws but even in sleep she was alert.

Her ears flicked in agitation as the nightwatchman returned. She heard the squeak of the rusty lantern chain as it swung slowly and the breath of the fat oaf wheezing out of his lungs as he prepared to call out once again. Why were people so ridiculous? her drowsy mind speculated. Why could they not feel the thrill of the hunt and prowl at night? She would probably never know.

“Midnight on a fine October even’ and all’s well,” came the voice of the man.

“Fine and well indeed,” said a different voice nearby.

She leapt to her feet at once, angry that she had missed the newcomer’s approach. She peered into the shade beneath one of the chimney stacks and quested the air to get a scent, but try as she might the identity of the stranger eluded her.

“And what a fine lady we have here,” it said from the gloom. The voice was rich and silky, oozing with charm and fascination.

Her eyes glared at the shadows and a warning rumble began in her throat.

“There’s fire in the dame too,” purred the voice with undisguised delight. “Excellent! You please me more and more, my dove.”

“Tib?” she ventured uncertainly. “If that’s you lurking there come out, or by the gods I shall swipe at thee!” Effortlessly her needle-like claws slid out and she scraped one against the tiles making a piercing sound like the screech of a stuck pig.

Soft laughter drifted over the rooftops. “I come not to fight my sweet,” the stranger told her gently, “but to woo thee and win thy heart—oh lucky heart to beat in thy breast, would it were beating for me.”

She spat her rejection and looked away; she was getting bored of this. How many times had she heard the same old thing from the mouths of all the toms from Highgate to Lambeth?

“Stay a while my treasure,” called the voice urgently. “I shall leave my cover if ’twill win thy favour.”

She turned, curious to see who had been making a fool of himself this time.

From the black shadow pits two eyes appeared and they were the most stunning she had ever beheld. Like twin emeralds they were, yet they possessed a spark, nay, a sacred fire blazed in them, the sight of which quickened her breath and set a flame of her own coursing through her blood.

“Here am I to claim thee,” said the voice and the sound of it was like music to her now.

Out of the dark he came, a slender, handsome cat, the finest she had yet seen. Like a piece of the wild night he melted from the shade, with an easy, confident gait he approached and his noble head was held high. Into the moonlight he glided and she saw with hungry eyes that his fur was sable from ear tip to tail end.

He studied her carefully for a moment and put the power of his eyes on her.

“Tell me sir,” she murmured breathlessly as she gazed at him, “from whence do you come? I have not heard of such a one as you in all my nights abroad.”

The black cat sat down beside her and his tail twined with hers and she, being too overcome by the heat of his glance, did not even notice. “This night is the first I have seen with these eyes,” he said mysteriously.

She dragged her own away and stared at the carved wooden sign which marked the fish shop opposite. Her breaths eased yet still she was aware of him and his influence; the touch of his fur next to hers was like a wound that ached to be healed.

“How are you called, my maid?” he asked.

“I have many names,” she answered with a weak laugh. “Yonder am I known as Mewler; to the grocer—China I am after the oranges that he do sell; in the merchant’s—Silky; and to the fat landlord of The Old Swan—Mouser. Tell me, Master Midnight,” she said teasingly, “which of these is mine own?”

He shook his head wisely. “You play with me, my maid,” he replied with mock hurt. To none of those vulgar callings would you answer. Too elegant and shapely are you and too sharp-witted also to suffer thus at man’s clumsy hands. May I not know the truth?”

She was accustomed to flattery, the local toms had often poured treacly words on her and all to no effect, but this one was different. She smiled and acknowledged his superiority over them all. “I am Imelza,” she replied courteously.

“Imelza,” he repeated trying the name out on his own tongue, “it does suit you well.”

She faced him coolly and inquired, “Now you know. My Lord, will you not return the gesture? What shall I call you?”

“Two names you have already give me, my pretty Imelza,” he laughed. “First, “Master Midnight” and now ‘My Lord’. I like them both well enough.” The mirth subsided and he said to himself, “And how apt they prove to be.”

“But this is most unfair,” she countered, “that you should know my true self yet you would withhold yours from me.”

The black cat turned his green fires on her. “As to that,” he purred, “if it pleases you—call me Imp, that should suffice. Yet I have many true names, more than you could guess.”

“Imp,” she muttered. “I like ‘My Lord’ better.”

“Then let it be so.”

The moon shone down on them and that night they were as one, and so the seed of terror was sown.

1 - Childhood Forsaken

“Nothing is what it seems,” Will whispered to himself, repeating a favourite saying of his father’s. The boy stared up at the sky. “Is it the usual ill-humour of November that falls—or is God weeping for them?”

Grey rain drizzled down and the small, sodden group of mourners shivered uncomfortably. A large dew drop dangled from the pale minister’s nose as he read from the New Prayer Book and his droning voice filled the drab churchyard. The downpour continued, the puddles grew and the drenched garments of those assembled became spattered with mud. Will lowered his eyes, the tears on his face lost amid the rain.

1664 was drawing to an end. The nation was revelling in the Restoration. Charles II had been on the throne for four years and the wounds of the Civil War were slowly healing. But the peace would not last for much longer. Already there were rumblings of a war with the Dutch and sweet England was about to enter into one of the most terrifying and grimmest times it had yet witnessed.

Such events however seemed a world away from that dismal ceremony in an Oxfordshire churchyard where the rain beat down.

Daniel Godwin had been well respected by those in the village of Adcombe, he had never given his neighbours cause to complain and he was a fair master to those few he employed. If it had been a lesser man who was being laid to rest then this filthy weather would have kept them all away.

Daniel had been a yeoman who worked behind the plough all his life, but the soil that he tilled and watered with sweat was his own. The titles to the land which he furrowed and nearly broke his back for belonged to him alone and not a day had passed by without his grateful thanks being offered up to the Lord. But now he was dead—the smallpox was not in the pay of the Almighty, and the righteous it claimed as eagerly as the sinful.

In all, the tally of dead on the Godwin estate amounted to five, these being Daniel, his wife Sarah, Beth and Anne—their two daughters—and a man called Shackle who was one of the labourers on the farm.

The waiting grave was deep and Will stood upon its mud-slithering brink, gazing steadily down into the blackness below. He felt as empty as it would soon be full, Master William Godwin was a slim youth. The hair which hung about his shoulders was chestnut in colour—a perfect match to his hazel eyes—and, fortunately, his lean face had been spared the usual marks which the smallpox leaves in its wake. Yet today that face was devoid of expression.

One by one the coffins were lowered. How strange to think that the mortal remains of all those he had loved were now sealed into them. He choked back a sob as the smallest of those horrible caskets descended to join the others. Anne had only been six years old.

A comforting hand patted the boy on the shoulder. “Shows them yer respects Will lad,” said a voice, “cast in some earth.”

Will blinked and turned round. A fat, heavily jowled man with a red, bulbous nose and whiskers like a badger was looking at him squarely. “There is no soil,” the boy muttered, “just mud. Look—see how it pours over the edge. Already the...” he faltered, not able to say the correct word, “...boxes are covered.”

Mr Balker, the miller, gripped the boy’s shoulder more tightly with his podgy hand whilst he reached into the pocket of his great coat with his other. “Now don’t you fret on so lad,” he told him bringing out a small bag. “I had no likin’ for the sunset yesterday—an’ afeared as I was that the day would be a wettun I got me some earth from the sexton.” He handed the bag to Will who received it gratefully. “Don’t get me wrong now,” the miller added with haste, “weren’t no special trip up ’ere that I made, I were only passin’ an’ the notion took me, ’at’s all.”

“I thank you, Mr Balker,” nodded Will. He understood—the miller enjoyed a sour reputation and was anxious that no one should see this chink of humanity in his calloused armour.

The boy took the dry soil from the bag and slowly sprinkled it into the grave. “Goodbye,” he said.

“Now let’s get you indoors,” coughed Mr Balker gruffly. “The Millhouse is yonder an’ you’ll be needin’ summat warm in yer belly, I’ll warrant.”

Will hesitated. It was his duty to thank the minister but the black-gowned figure was already hurrying towards the church. The other mourners were scurrying off also, hastening to their crackling hearths—they had shown their respect for the departed and now their thoughts were for themselves.

“Come you, lad,” urged the miller, “you don’t want to join yer folks just yet.”

Will took a last look at the deluged grave and pulled the collar of his cloak tightly under his chin. He was on his own now.

“Would you just look at the state of you both!” the bustling woman cried, throwing her arms up in distress. Muddy pools spread over the stone-flagged floor as the two squelching arrivals stamped and removed their outdoor clothes. “John Balker, take them boots off at once!” she scolded. “Never was there a more slovenly wretch.”

The miller muttered under his breath but his sister pretended not to hear. Instead she rushed to Will’s side and helped him off with his things. “Bless you Master William if you aren’t raw with the cold,” she tutted. “It’s the Devil’s own weather today. You’ll be lucky not to catch a distemper, I swear!”

Hannah Balker was, in appearance, very much like her brother. She was plump and rosy with small piggish eyes, but there the similarities ended. Whereas the miller was inclined to be crude and rather too fond of the ale jug, she was the opposite. Mistress Balker was a devout soul who possessed all the religious zeal of a Puritan. Her impious brother caused her much anxiety and she prayed for him almost constantly. With her hands fluttering over her black, woollen skirt and up to the white cap which covered her silvering hair she ushered him and Will into the small parlour where a fire had been lit in readiness for their return.

The miller grunted with pleasure as he toasted his tingling palms before the flames. Will sat in one of the large wooden chairs and watched Hannah scurry in and out of the kitchen with a large jug of beer and two tankards. She set them down on a low table, poured the brown, foaming brew then nudged her brother out of the way.

“Always underfoot,” she clucked. “Sit you down, John Balker, and let me fetch that poker from the fire.”

Stubbornly the miller remained standing so she squirmed past him and reached down to the hearth. From the leaping flames she took a long iron poker by its blackened wooden handle and flourished it over her head. “I told you to sit,” she told him sternly. “Do so or I’ll brand thee as surely as if you were a Jesuit.”

Mr Balker opened his mouth to protest but he took one look at the glowing tip of the poker and sat down at once.

His sister stared at him for a moment then went over to the table. The poker squealed and steam hissed up as she plunged it into one tankard after another. “There you are Master William,” she said kindly handing Will the warm ale, “that’ll put the colour back in you. It’s spiced with ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves—the way your dear father liked it.”

The boy thanked her and sipped it thoughtfully.

The miller eyed his sister as she left the room and hurried back to the kitchen, the keys which hung from her waist jingling like bells.

“Fuss, fuss, fuss,” he grumbled pulling himself from the chair to resume his position before the fire. “If she’s not fussin’ she’s frettin’ about popish plots.” Several minutes passed in which he warmed his posterior and took great swigs from his tankard. During this time he regarded Will most keenly. Mr Balker had a great liking for the Godwin family; he remembered how kind Mistress Sarah had been to him after he had lost his own wife. Until Hannah had arrived to take him and the Millhouse in hand he had eaten all his meals at the Godwins’ farm.

“How old be you now, Will?” he asked breaking the silence.

The boy stirred from the mellowing effects of the spiced ale and replied, “I shall be twelve years old come next July.”

John Balker wiped the froth moustache which had appeared on his lip. “Well, I know ’taint easy, lad, but you’ll have to become a man quicker ’n most. You’ve got responsibilities now—land that needs working, servants with wages to pay and that big house to run. Won’t be time fer malarkin’ about and tomfoolin’, you’m got to put all that behind you—boyhood’s over. Think you’re ready fer all that?”

Will lifted his face and gazed steadily into the miller’s eyes. “I’ve thought about this, sir,” he answered soberly, “thought about little else since... since they’ve been gone like,” He put the beer down on the table then said, “Yes, it’ll be difficult but I think I can manage the estate. I saw how my father ran things, I shall try to continue in the way he would wish.”

A great and hearty roar issued from the miller. “Bless me but you’ve some surprises in you!” he laughed. “Why, that might have been Daniel himself speakin’.” He gave a throaty chuckle and raised his tankard but it was empty. “Where’s that sister of mine with the jug?” he grumbled. “A man could die of thirst with her around.” He called her name loudly, then sat on the chair again. “Don’t you get frettin’,” he told Will, wagging a thick, chilblained finger. “I’m always here if’n you want advice or assistance. Bound to be tough goin’ at the start and that’s what I’m here fer—to give you a helpin’ hand.”

Will finished his ale and pulled a stray clove from his mouth. There was something he had been meaning to ask the miller and it had been nagging at him to mention it. “Mr Balker,” he ventured.

“Now that’s enough of that talk,” chided his host, “it’s plain John I’ll be to you from here on. We’re neighbours now an’ I ain’t no better ’n you. Mind,” he added leaning his portly frame forward, “I’m not sayin’ as there aren’t those round ’ere I am better’n.”

“John, then,” the boy continued. “What I said just now still holds true, I mean to be the man my father was but...” he lowered his eyes and looked into the fire, “but I have something to confess which shames me.”

The miller raised his eyebrows. “Oh yes?” he began with interest.

Will pressed his lips together until they went white before he managed to spit it out. “I cannot read!” he said bitterly.

The fat man’s face broke into a wide grin. “Bless us all!” he rumbled. “Why there’s nowt shameful in not knowin’ yer letters. Will; you can learn if’n you’ve a mind to. Hannah can do the house accounts fer you till then, there’s a quick little mind in that Puritan head of hers.” The mention of his sister’s name reminded him of something else and he shouted for the jug once more.

Will looked relieved; that was a great weight off his mind and he turned to another matter which had been worrying him since that morning. “Mr... John,” he began, taking a folded sheet of paper from the inside of his shirt where it had been spared the ravages of the weather. The miller looked at it in puzzlement. “It’s a letter,” the lad explained, “it arrived at daybreak, only I don’t know what it says—could you read it for me?”

Mr Balker took it and bent towards the fire in order to see more clearly. The flickering yellow light danced over his round features as the expression which he reserved for business crept onto his face and his lips mouthed the words on the page. “Well bless us all!” he exclaimed with surprise. “After all them years.” He sat up straight and peered at Will down his strawberry blob of a nose. “Ever heard mention of an Uncle Samuel?” he asked.

Will frowned and shook his head.

The miller slapped the letter with the back of his hand. “That’s who this be from,” he said. “I recall that yer father once talked about a brother. But I had to coax it out and it was the only time he ever referred to him.”

“Are you sure?” asked Will. “He never said anything about him to me or my sisters—of that I’m certain.”

Mr Balker stroked his whiskers as he strained to remember. “Seems there was bad blood ’tween them,” he said, “and I think I’m right in sayin that uncle of yours was a lot older than your father. A mite too clever for his own good was how Daniel put it when I pressed him. Well, well, fancy him sendin’ you this, an’ all the way from London too.”

“London?”

“That’s where the letter’s from and that’s where Samuel Godwin lives now it seems.”

“So what does it say?”

The miller shifted uncomfortably in the chair and, for an instant, seemed reluctant to tell the lad. “Your uncle’s heard about your sad loss,” he eventually began, “though bless us I can’t think how—it being a day’s hard ride to London from here.” He shivered as though something cold had touched his heart before continuing. “Says he knows how you must be feelin’ an’ invites you to stay at his lodgings until you’ve a mind to return as there is a matter of the most import which cannot wait to be settled. ’Parently there’s some business of a financial nature which he needs must discuss with you. He ends by askin’ you to respond swiftly as the roads will worsen as the winter sets in.” Mr Balker passed the letter back and Will wondered at the troubled expression that had stolen over his face.

“If’n you want my advice,” he said, “this be a matter best left alone—if your father never talked about him then your uncle can’t be worth much.”

Will turned the paper over in his fingers, he was not sure what to do and yet a curious feeling began to grow inside him. To be honest he was greatly excited by this invitation; a mysterious uncle he had never heard of before and the chance to see the wondrous city of London thrilled him.

“I would like to go,” he said softly, “I need only be gone two weeks—I could leave instructions for the management of the farm while I’m away.” He looked across at the miller who was studying him in silence. “You don’t think I should, do you?” he murmured.

“That I don’t,” returned Mr Balker. “I’ve been to London, lad, I know what it’s really like. The river is as stinkful as anything on the Lord’s earth and the city’s as sinful as the Devil’s bedchamber. Folks are bad there. I know—I’ve seen ’em.” He paused and looked at the floor, but his gaze penetrated beyond the rush matting and for a moment he was lost in some dreadful memory. Just as quickly the mood left him and he glanced back towards Will. “But it’s not just that vile place I’m warnin’ you of,” he told him, “there’s summat not right about that letter. Just what sort of business is he referrin’ to? I know Daniel never ’ad no dealin’s wi’ ’im. If that piece o’ paper were mine I’d cast it into the fire.”

Will was startled by the miller’s earnestness but he had already made up his mind. “Just now you told me that I must leave behind me my boyhood,” he said. “This then is my first decision as a man. The memories here are too painful for the present, I am loath to stay with the ghostly faces of my family staring out of every corner. A journey to London may well be the cure I need to shake off the melancholy which has been creeping upon me, and who is to say that my uncle’s motives are not what he says them to be? Perhaps he knows about some inheritance of which I am unaware?”

Mr Balker realised that he would not be able to weaken the boy’s resolve; he had seen the same determination in Will’s father. “Then I shall help you all I can,” he said at last. “We must answer swiftly as the letter instructs. Stay here, I shall fetch quill and paper.”

So the reply was written, but the hand which scrawled the spidery words trembled, and not from the cold.

Soon all the arrangements had been made. Another letter had come from Samuel Godwin making it clear that he would expect Will on the fifteenth of November and would meet him at the Sickle Moon tavern in Bow Lane. He also enclosed six shillings to cover any expense that Will’s journey might incur. Will’s excitement mounted as the days crept by and his spirits were lifted even more by Mr Balker’s announcement that he would travel with him to the city as he had business there of his own.

“Now’s as good a time as any to see to it,” the miller had said briskly, “and I’ve let it lie for far too long. I’ll ride with you into the city and see you safe within its walls.”

A bleak dawn saw Will clamber into the saddle. Mace was rather too large for him; she had been his father’s horse and the boy sat uneasily on her back. Still, she was a good-natured animal and what he lacked in horsemanship she was experienced enough to make up for. With a light heart he waved farewell to the servants who had gathered to see him off and turned the mare to leave.

The first hint of winter was in the chill air and a white frost covered the ground. Will was glad of the gauntlets made of soft leather which his mother had given him on his last birthday—no icy wind would nip his fingers. As he rode the short mile between his farm and the Millhouse his mind was filled with the journey ahead and who he would meet at the end of it. There were so many questions still left unanswered; the second letter had still not specified the exact nature of the business and the boy’s head was filled with fanciful ideas. But rising over all of these was the mysterious character of his uncle. What would he be like and what would he have to say to the nephew he had never seen? All these thoughts were running through his mind when he came across the stream which fed the millpond and Mace followed it obediently. The low roofs of the Millhouse came into view and he discerned two figures standing in the yard.

Mr Balker was already in his cart and shooing his sister indoors out of the damp morning mist that rose off the pond. As Will approached, he heard their never-ending squabbling and he smiled to himself. For as long as he could remember the Balkers had been at odds—yet he knew they would be lost without one another. He was too young to remember the miller’s wife; she had died before he was born but his father had told him how deeply it had affected the man.

“Get you in, woman!” bellowed the miller. “I’ll not be governed by an old spinster like yerself.”

“You’re a fool, John Balker,” Hannah ranted lifting her skirts off the damp ground. “Let the past stay in the past. There’s nothing you can do to mend matters now. She’s gone from you and won’t never come back.”

“You’ll cut yourself on that sharp tongue of yours,” he spat bitterly. “People change—I’ve changed and it’s time to find out if’n she has also.” At that moment they became aware of Will and the argument lapsed into the more usual bickering.

“Well just you mind to keep out of them inns, John Balker. A sot’s an easy target for the Devil’s arrows.”

“Mornin’, Will,” hailed the miller, sweeping off his hat in greeting.

“A good morning to you, John,” returned the boy cheerily, “and to you Mistress Balker.”

Hannah smoothed her starched white collar and beamed up at him. “Oh can’t you talk sense into my foolish brother, Master William?” she pleaded. “Make him stay here. He’s too old and too addled to go all that way, and London’s an evil place I’ve heard.”

Before he could answer, the miller screamed back at her, “Peace, Hannah! I will not be gainsaid in this! Now get you indoors!”

There was such an edge to his voice that his sister stepped back in alarm and bowed her head meekly. “I bid you farewell then, brother,” she muttered, “and a safe and pleasant journey to you, young master.”

The door to the Millhouse closed behind her and Will stared at it in surprise. He had never heard the miller take that tone with her before and he wondered at it.

Mr Balker shuffled on the board of the cart and avoided the boy’s eyes. “Won’t never get to London if we idle here,” he said clicking his tongue and twitching the reins. The old, dappled carthorse pulled back its head and began to plod out of the yard. Will urged Mace to follow and, at a leisurely pace, she trotted after.

For the rest of the day they rode side by side, the rattling of the cartwheels filling their ears until they forgot what silence was. The miller soon shook off his ill temper and the talk became less strained. They chatted freely about all manner of things until the nature of the roads forced them to concentrate solely on the journey. Many times the wheels of the cart struck unseen stones, and once the mud was so thick that it threatened to hold them firm. They met little other traffic on those rutted roads; several waggoners, a vagrant who begged for passage, two milkmaids balancing wooden pails upon their heads who giggled when they saw Will on his father’s horse, and a drover taking cattle to market.

They spent that night at a small and friendly inn where the miller restrained himself and drank only the penny ale which was weaker than the tuppenny and had little effect upon his massive bulk. Will staggered to his room with his eyelids almost closed. He had never felt so tired; his legs and backside ached from the saddle and he quickly dragged his clothes off and threw himself onto the bed. Within moments he was fast asleep, dreaming of what he would see tomorrow.

The miller’s loud voice woke him the next morning. The sun was just edging into the sky and its delicate life beams slowly stole into the room. “Up you get, Will,” he boomed, “there’s a tidy bit of ground to cover till we make London.”

After a good breakfast of bread, butter and a selection of cold meats they paid the bill and went to the stables.

“When shall we get to London?” asked Will once they had left the inn behind them.

Mr Balker yawned and picked his teeth with a splinter of wood. “Soon enough,” he replied. “At the rate we’re goin’, I fancy we’ll see it at noon an’ be there early this evenin’.”

The bright morning continued and they travelled on with the countryside opening up around them. From the woods and forests on either side of the road trails of smoke drifted up and, although Will knew that it was only the fires of the charcoal burners, the miller told him stories of robbers and wild men who dwelt in the trees. He was full of entertaining and thrilling tales and the boy loved to hear them. Even the call of a fox was woven into the story, becoming the shriek of some unearthly creature that brave men had perished trying to slay.

And as the sun rose to its highest in the clear wintry sky, they found themselves looking down into the Thames Valley and there, in the distance, was a vast blue blur.

“There she is,” breathed Mr Balker almost reverently. “London—city of cities. Where dreams and nightmares mingle and come as one.”

Will stared at her in awe; he had never beheld anything like it in his life. “She’s beautiful,” he gasped.

“So was Grandmother Eve,” commented the miller, drily, “and that’s how she seduced Adam and damned us all. It’s the same down there, lad. London might seem fair and lovely from here but the closer you get to her the more you’ll be able to discern the truth of it. First the smell’ll get yer and then you’ll see just how unlovely she really be. All them tiny houses that look so pretty from here are wretched slums an’ the streets are filled wi’ rottenness of every sort. My sister would tell you that the Devil himself stalks through those streets and I would’na decry her in that. If ever there was proof that the Antichrist was at work on this earth then London is it. Everything you never wanted to know is taught and practised in yon ravishing vision—even under the shadow of those steeples you can see pricking through the haze.” He turned to look at Will and his face was drained of colour. “It’s a terrible place,” he uttered. “Are you still set on entering there?”

But the majesty of the city, whether it was an illusion or not, had overwhelmed the boy and he nodded fiercely. “I’ll not turn back now,” he said.

“So be it then, but I’ll warn you one last time, William Godwin. Don’t you go looking to find any of your father in that uncle. I’ve a notion they were from different moulds—if not different makers.” And with that Mr Balker clicked his tongue, the wheels of the cart turned once more and, still mesmerised. Will followed.

2 - ‘Where Dreams and Nightmares Mingle’

The narrow streets closed about them and the ramshackle houses on either side jostled and fought with each other for space. Will had never seen so many squalid and cramped dwellings. Most of them were constructed around timber frames and many leaned or lurched at peculiar angles out over the bustling thoroughfare. Dominating all this, however, was St Paul’s Cathedral. It was the grand dame of all buildings; soaring almost into the clouds, it dwarfed churches and palaces for miles around. Even without its spire, which had collapsed some time ago, the central tower was the tallest thing Will had ever beheld. Surely God lived there, he thought to himself and he humbly lowered his eyes.

In the streets, the sights were strange: street traders advertised their wares in loud and harsh voices; dogs barked at the piemen and growled at the horses; an old dancing bear shambled round in a circle for the bored onlookers who had seen it all before and who poked the unfortunate beast with sharp sticks to make the performance more exciting. Children with no shoes on their feet but sly looks on their faces ran in and out of the crowd pulling at the merchants’ clothes and stealing from the stalls. A pock-marked woman with long, lank hair leaned out of an upstairs window and emptied a slop bucket onto the crowd below. In the ensuing uproar fists were raised and oaths spat out but the woman simply threw back her head and laughed—toothlessly.

Will drank all this in with wide and ogling eyes. Since he and the miller had passed through the old, high walls of the medieval city he had encountered a thousand new things. One of the most ghastly was to be found upon the walls themselves; upon those lofty ramparts there were the limbs of villains and traitors. Heads, legs and arms had been stuck on great spikes for all the populace to see and Will could not stop himself from staring at these grisly totems. A tingling thrill was coursing through his veins; seizing him like a fever it took absolute control. He was besotted with it all—fascinated beyond measure by this wealth of experience unfolding before him.

They came to a butcher’s shop and he coughed into the handkerchief which he held to his nose—the miller had been right about one thing, London stank! But it wasn’t just the stench of the dubious meat which hung from the huge hooks outside the butcher’s shop, everything smelled atrociously. The fish market filled the air with a reek that had to be experienced to be believed, and to make matters worse, if such a thing was possible, an open sewer ran down each and every street. Yet even this could not bring the boy to his senses.

Mr Balker shifted in his seat and called, “What think you of London now, Will lad? Is she as dainty a lady as you once thought?”

He only laughed in reply then asked, “How much further is this tavern?”

“The Sickle Moon? Oh, “tain’t too far,” the miller told him. “To tell you the truth, I’ll be glad of a tankard this night. The road’s been a dusty one this day.”

Through the overshadowed lanes they rode and the sun sank low behind the tiled rooftops, its pale red fire dancing in the countless diamond panes of the leaded windows all around. To Will they were like jewels and whilst they dazzled him he failed to see that the glass in which the light burned was smothered in dirt. London had cast her spell with great success, never was there a more willing victim to her charms. Yet the magic never lasted for long; she would tantalise and tease, then just as you were enslaved you were cruelly abandoned and she sought for other insects to entice into her web.

The Sickle Moon tavern was situated on the corner of Bow Lane and Cheapside. From all outward appearances it seemed to be a cheerless, almost forbidding place. It was the only building on the street which was untouched by the soft rays of the failing sun. No smoke issued from its crooked chimneys and weeds cascaded from the eaves. As soon as Will saw it he shuddered, taking an instant dislike to the shabby establishment.

“Be dark soon,” observed Mr Balker as he dismounted from the cart. “Best get indoors. Looks like the stables are through that archway. Come on, lad.”

But Will hung back reluctantly. “I don’t like this place, John,” he said. “Can’t we go somewhere else?”

“Not if you want to meet yer uncle,” the miller answered flatly before leading his horse away. He didn’t care what the tavern looked like—if the ale was good then that was enough for him.

In one of the second-floor rooms a lamp was lit and Will glanced nervously at the ruddy glow which glinted from the narrow window. An unreasoning fear stole over him. It was as if the building had awoken. “It knows I’m here,” he whispered to himself. “It’s watching me.” The voice of Mr Balker called to him from the stable yard and the boy gave a sigh of resignation. For the first time since his arrival Will wished he had not come.

Even when the horses had been stabled Will was far from happy; the straw there was filthy and the stable-lad a foul-mouthed youth who glanced covetously at Mace and ran his fingers through her mane with a wide, sneering grin on his face.

Will felt as though he were coming out of a fair dream, the enchantment which had possessed him and burned so fiercely in his blood disappeared and the scales of glamour fell from his eyes. Everything now seemed unfriendly and as the shadows lengthened in the stable yard they seemed to reach inside and a chill touched his heart. He dragged his heels behind the miller with an uncomfortable sense of dread and apprehension mounting in him.

Mr Balker pushed open the heavy, studded door and stepped inside the tavern.

The interior of the Sickle Moon was poky and small. Oak beams supported the bulging ceiling which had been blackened by the flames of a thousand candles. On one side there was a large fireplace where some logs were now burning. But the wood was wet and the flames spluttered, filling the room with smoke and the smell of damp. Sawdust was strewn on the floor and seated upon the plain benches and low stools was a collection of villainous-looking men. The dregs of London must have been there that night.

Around one of the tables sat three old soldiers fallen on hard times. Once they had served under Cromwell in the New Model Army. At Naseby one of them had lost an arm but by the end of the war all three had lost their livings. Begging and thievery was their calling now and they pursued it as vigorously as their previous careers. A gang of drunken street traders huddled together by the fire and told each other evil and bawdy stories which were interspersed from time to time by horrible guffaws. A strange-looking man with bulging eyes, tufts of red hair and a wide, slobbering mouth dribbled into his drink by the door and picked distractedly at the frayed rips in his shirt, whilst in the furthest corner two cloaked and stony-faced men stared before them not saying a word to each other—as though waiting for something to happen.

As soon as Will and the miller entered, nineteen pairs of squinting, suspicious eyes swivelled round in their direction. The buzz of talk stopped at once. Curious and aggressive faces scrutinised the strangers with undisguised interest. Will felt very uncomfortable. It was obviously a very dangerous place. Surely they had come to the wrong tavern; there must be two Sickle Moons hereabouts. He edged closer to Mr Balker to voice this opinion, but the miller hissed him into silence then clapped his hands together and waved a greeting to them all.

“Pray don’t let us stop your tippling, gentlemen,” he told them merrily. “We are but travellers who want nothing more than a bite to eat and to sample the London ale.” Gradually the crowd returned their attentions to the mugs in their hands and, little by little, the conversations began again.

“Have a care,” the miller said to Will through a fixed smile. “Don’t look so jumpy. Won’t do no good to let these folk see ye’re nervous. There’s a seat by the window over there, let’s make ourselves comfortable—that cart has shook my bones all day.”

Mr Balker sprawled on the bench and drew up a stool to rest his feet on. Will sat opposite and began gazing around him.

“Keep yer eyeballs looking this way, lad,” the miller whispered anxiously, “or you might just lose them! This is no place for the curious.” He scratched his chin and muttered under his breath, “This is plain madness, what’s yer uncle thinkin’ of invitin’ you here? He’d best come soon, that’s all I can say.”

“You don’t think he’s already here?”

“No, unless it’s that carrot-topped fellow with the face of a frog over there. He seems to be the only one of any note—oh I know he’s nothing now but them rags on his back were fine once and his lily white hands ain’t never seen hard work. Mebbe yer uncle’s down on his luck.”

Will sneaked a glance at the pop-eyed man and grimaced. “I hope it isn’t him,” he whispered, “he isn’t at all what I was expecting.”

“You never know, there are many strange paths a man might take in his life—who’s to tell what Samuel Godwin has been up to these last thirty years. I don’t think your father even knew... hush now.”

“Evenin’ sirs,” cried a strange, thin voice at Will’s shoulder. “What’s yer pleasure?”

The boy shifted on the stool to see who had spoken.

A vulgar woman of middle age was standing behind him. Once upon a time she may have been handsome but the years and the rigours of life had robbed her. Peggy Blister had lost her looks but she spent many hours in front of the glass trying to reclaim them. Sadly, the more years that passed the longer this process took. Will was so startled by her appearance that he nearly fell to the floor. She looked like a hideously painted doll and so thickly were the pastes and rouges applied that she was forced to keep her face very still in case the garish mask cracked and flaked away. Consequently she spoke very strangely as she had to keep her teeth clenched together.

The miller pretended not to notice and kicked Will under the table to mind his manners.

“A jug of your finest ale, mistress, if it pleases you,” he asked politely.

“Oooh hark at him,” came the tight lipped response. “Peg ain’t had no fancy talk like that in a month o’ Sundays. You can come ’ere again, sweetheart.” And she swaggered off to fetch the drinks, avoiding the table where the red-haired man was sitting.

Will giggled. “She looks like Mr Swales the blacksmith,” he said unkindly. “Remember when he did that mummers’ play and had to get dressed up in ribbons and his wife’s clothes?”

But the miller did not share his mirth. “Hold yer tongue Will,” he said. “She’m can’t help it.”

The boy opened his mouth to argue but before he could say anything Peg had returned.

“Here we are, my gallants,” she murmured. “I done brought you the Humming Ale, that’ll slake yer thirst and more besides—Dragon’s Milk my reg’lars call it.”

“Bless you,” nodded the miller, “this looks to be a fine brew—and so prettily presented.”

Peg shrieked with delight then leaned over and tickled the miller’s whiskered jowls. “My but yer a proper charmer, a girl has to be on her guard round you.”

Will was astonished, he had never seen this side of Mr Balker before. He knew that his weakness was the ale jug but never dreamt that he dallied with serving wenches. The boy wondered what the miller’s pious sister would say if she were here. The ridiculous-looking pair continued to laugh and joke with one another before Peg went to fetch something for them to eat.

“What are you doing?” Will asked when she was out of earshot.

The miller raised his tankard before answering. “Ah,” he breathed smacking his lips,” ’tain’t a bad little brew after all.” He studied the boy’s face and leaned across the table. “Listen to me, young master,” he said. “I know what I’m about, so just you stay quiet.” The portly man took another drink then raised his head to catch a further glimpse of Peg. Strangely enough it wasn’t desire that Will saw in his eyes but an expression of overwhelming sorrow and compassion.

A sudden commotion broke out behind him. Peg was on the way back but had passed too near to the frog-like man, who, with a delirious shout of joy, made a grab for her. “EEE!” she squealed, “Get away you ’orrid little demon!” There followed a loud ’CRACK’ as she struck his head with one of the wooden dishes she was carrying. Food flew everywhere and the man let go of her to nurse his bleeding nose. The rest of the customers laughed and she sauntered over to the miller and Will as though nothing had happened.

“Sorry luvs,” she told them.” ’Fraid half yer supper’s on the floor.”

“Dear lady, you are unharmed I hope?” Mr Balker inquired.

“Oooh listen to ’im,” cooed Peg, gripping his podgy cheeks and wobbling them between her fingers. “What a dove you are. But don’t you worry none. I’ve nought to fear from the likes o’ that over there. He’s just a barmy old loon—Verney the Adamite he is, harmless but he do tend to tear yer clothes given half the chance. Now you sink yer teeth into this my darlin’ an I’ll fetch some more.”

When she had gone Mr Balker raised his eyebrows. “So he’s not yer uncle then,” he murmured. “I wonder where Samuel Godwin can be?”

“Do you mean that you were playing up to her just to find out who that man was?” asked Will impressed by the miller’s cunning. “And I thought you were...”

“I know what you were thinkin’,” the man scowled, “an’ p’raps it weren’t all play actin’. I feel sorry for the Pegs o’ this world—’tain’t easy bein’ a single girl in London.”

Will said nothing—he thought that it was a long time since Peg had been a girl. Instead he tucked into the bread and cheese.

For two hours they sat there, waiting for Samuel Godwin to arrive, but the only newcomer was an old beggar woman who pestered the customers for money until Peg harshly threw her outside. Mr Balker drank more of the Humming Ale. He finished off the jug and called for another. Gradually a silly smile began to spread over his face and Will realised that the brew was so named because of the effect it had on your head. This tuppenny beer was far stronger than anything he was used to and after the first tankard he drank no more. Another hour dragged by with no sign of his uncle and Mr Balker’s eyes glazed over beneath their drooping lids. Will began to get very worried indeed.

“Hah ha!” tittered the miller, tipping the jug and finding it empty. “More ale,” he shouted across to Peg. “Go milk that dragon of yours.”

“Please don’t have any more,” the boy implored. “That’s two flagons you’ve had already, John.”

Mr Balker drew himself up in his seat and tried to appear dignified. “What fer you deny... denyin’ me my beer lad?” he slurred. “Ain’t a man got the right to partake of a liddle beer when the fanshy takesh ’im?”

“Of course he has but I think you’ve had enough.”

“Enough!” scoffed the miller loudly. “If’n I’d had enough I wouldn’t be wantin’ more now would I, Master Clever Britches?” and he slapped the table moodily. “Folk’ll think I ain’t got no coin the way yer carryin’ on. Well I has see. I got me a purse stuffed wi’ dinky chinky money.” To Will’s horror he stood up, swaying from side to side, and fished a leather bag from beneath his riding cloak. “Don’t you worry, Peg!” he cried over the heads of the other drinkers. “I got me plenty in ’ere to pay my way,” and he shook the purse until the coins jingled inside it.

Will dragged him back to his seat, “Are you mad?” he hissed. “What do you think you’re doing? This place is full of cut-purses and cut-throats. They’d kill for far less than what you’ve got there.” Mr Balker sulkily put his money away and Will glanced round to see if anyone was staring. Everything seemed normal, perhaps nobody had been taking any notice. No—there in the furthest corner, those two men who had not uttered a single word all evening were looking straight at him. Quickly the boy turned away, they were a fearful pair; one had a great scar down his cheek and the other was blind in one eye. Wildly Will wondered what he should do. If only the miller had not got himself drunk, as if things weren’t bad enough—this was becoming a nightmare.

“’Ere’s another jug, my duck,” said Peg. “I see it’s put a fine shine on that nose of yours.”

“Oh there’sh a luvverly lady for yer,” beamed Mr Balker. “Such a pretty, kind creature—oh Margaret won’t you come back wi’ me?”

“Margaret?” she frowned putting her hands on her hips. “I ain’t your Margaret!” Peg slapped Will on the shoulder. “What’s he rattlin’ on about?” she asked.

But the boy had absolutely no idea. “I don’t know,” he told her. “I’ve never heard him mention a Margaret before.”

A large tear rolled down the miller’s purple nose and dripped into his ale. “Oh she won’t never come back to me now,” he blubbed. “My darling Margaret—can you ever forgive me? What’sh my poor liddle baby doin’ thish night?”

Peg sniffed haughtily and the heavy black lines of her eyebrows arched with indignation. “Got another doxy has he?” she said coldly.

Will shook his head. “I... I don’t think so,” he stammered, “but perhaps he’s had too much of your Dragon’s Milk.”

Peg snapped her fingers at him and the humour died on her scarlet lips. “Oh you reckon do you, my little man?” she sneered unpleasantly. “He’ll have had too much when his money’s run out. So long as he can pay I’ll pour it down his oafish throat.” Then she tossed back her hair and walked huffily away.

Will knew that it was time for them to leave. It didn’t look as though Samuel Godwin was going to show up at all. He pulled the tankard from Mr Balker’s hands to grab his attention. “John,” he began, “do you know where my uncle’s lodgings are?” Slowly the man nodded. “Good, then we shall have to go there—we should have made for them straight away instead of stopping here.” He pushed the beer to the far end of the table and said with more confidence than he actually felt, “I do not like the way he has used us this night and I will tell him so.”

With difficulty he managed to hoist the large man from the bench. The miller threw an arm about the boy’s neck and in a slow drawl blubbered, “You’m a good lad, Will. Yer father taught you right, that he did. A good man Daniel was to his family—if only I had been so kind to mine.”

Will took no notice as he was too busy trying to get him to walk to the door. Twice they stumbled into tables and sent stools rolling across the sawdust. One of the old soldiers glared at them threateningly. “Douse him in the horse trough!” he spat at Will.

“Come on John,” pleaded the boy, “we must get out, the night air will do you good.”

“I knew a lass from Gloucestershire!” piped up the miller bursting into song.

“Not far now John, that’s right—one foot after another.”

“’Ere!” squawked Peg just as they reached the heavy oak door. “Where you two wretches off to? You ain’t paid!” The garish woman strode purposefully towards them brandishing a heavy stick in her hands.

Frantically Will rummaged through his pockets to find his money and as he did so Mr Balker slid down and sprawled on the floor. “What’s the reckoning?” the boy asked in a panic.

Peg pursed her painted lips, her face cracking a little. “That’ll be five shillings,” she demanded.

“Five shillings!” exclaimed Will. “We don’t owe you that much!”

From his position on the floor the miller broke in, “Oh I got me plenty of money—ha ha. Anyway, about thish lass from Gloucestershire.”

“There we are,” snarled Peg with menace in her voice, “your friend says he’s got plenty of money. Your tally’s five shillings.”

Will knew that the situation was getting treacherous. Fumbling, he drew some coins from his pocket. “Here,” he said, “there’s two shillings and that’s still robbery.”

Peg’s hand snaked out and caught hold of his arm. “Oh no you don’t my little manny,” she growled. “I said five and I means it. Your friend’s caused me great heartache he has, said he loved me truly and promised to marry me he did—”

“No he never!”

“Oh yes he did, and there’s plenty in ’ere who’ll swear to it. Them street traders’ll do aught fer me. Does I have to call ’em over to take it from you? They’re a ’orrible lot they are—kill their grannies fer a free drink they would.” She cackled and revealed for the first time her mottled brown teeth. Will could only stand there and watch as she slid her other hand into the pocket of his jerkin.

Suddenly Peg screeched and was yanked backwards. The goggle-eyed man with the red hair had seized her once more and dragged her onto his knee.

Will took his chance. As Peg yelled for assistance and kicked Verney the Adamite, he heaved the miller to his feet and they staggered out of the door.

It was a still night. No wind stirred the smoke which rose from London’s chimneys and the columns climbed steadily into the sky, forming a great dark canopy high above the rooftops. This thick layer of sooty cloud blanketed the heavens and obliterated the stars, and far below, the narrow streets and lanes were filled with shadow. An air of anticipation enveloped the city, its waiting calm an unnerving contrast to the chaos inside the Sickle Moon.

Into this silence came Will and the miller. Flustered and cursing, the boy propelled his drunken friend into the yard where he leant him against a post. “Just you stay there, whilst I get the horses,” he told him sternly. Mr Balker grunted and passed a sweating palm over his forehead—he was becoming drowsy.

Will peered into the blackness of the stables—they were empty. The horses are gone!” he cried in disbelief. “They’ve stolen the horses!” He looked round madly. What were they to do now?

“Don’t you... don’t you get a f... fre... frettin’,” hiccuped the miller in a sleepy voice. “We... we can walk to bad ol’ Sam... Sammy’s—not far, not far.”

“Yes,” agreed Will trying to think straight, “that’s the only thing we can do now—my uncle can settle this. He will know where to find a Justice.” Will eyed Mr Balker doubtfully. “Maybe I should douse you in the horse trough—are you sure you can lead us?”

The miller tapped his nose then took a deep breath followed by a long and purposeful stride. “John Balker always w... walks a true path,” he proclaimed. “Come, young Master Godwin.” With his legs wobbling beneath him he tottered out of the yard.

Will shook his head; since they had arrived everything had been a disaster, surely nothing else could go wrong. He ran under the arch after the miller and so did not see the light spill into the yard as the door to the tavern swung open to let out two figures.

The cobbles rang under Mr Balker’s heavy boots as he made his meandering way along Cheapside. Will caught up with him, glancing for a moment at the immense midnight bulk of St Paul’s rising behind them. Silhouetted against the dark sky even that holy place appeared to be a fortress of dread and despair—more a home for the Devil than the Almighty.

The miller was humming softly to himself, his eyes fixed on the empty street ahead. “A might... mighty fine night,” he said to Will. “Who could have woes at such a time as this?” The boy said nothing; he was thinking of the churchyard that now contained his family and in his alcoholic stupor the miller guessed his thoughts. “Aah, Will lad,” he sighed. “Look not to the past and what’s gone. They’re books bes... best left aside, their pages are too bitter for you or I to look on. It’s tomorrow we have to consider now. Let’s make that a page worth rea... reading.” He tutted to himself and the sound reminded him of his sister. “Oh Hannah,” he breathed, “I should have listened to you. You were right. I’ll not seek her out. She’d have come back long ago if she’d a mind to. You’ve a wise little head on yer shoulders, Hannah Balker, and as large a heart as any I’ve met—though I’ll deny sayin’ that if you tell her, lad.”

Will smiled; even after all that had happened the miller could lift his spirits. The large man might be brusque and foolish at times but he was a good soul. “I’ll not tell her,” Will said. “I like the Millhouse just as it is; if harmony were to settle there it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Ha! That’s true enough—never was there a truer word spoken. It’s ever been a place of discord, and that’s a truly grievous fact.” Mr Balker paused on a corner of the street and a large grin split his face. “Listen to us,” he laughed, “clucking on like two old hens. If that’s what London grog does, then I’ll not touch the infernal brew again and it’ll be a long time afore I set foot in the city after tonight. Come now boy, yer uncle’s not far.”

“Too far fer you!” hissed a foul voice.

The miller halted in surprise and peered into the shadows on either side of them—there didn’t seem to be anything there. He shook his head to try and shrug off the effects of the drink then stared into the gloom once more. “Who’s there?” he ventured.

Will stood by his side and whispered nervously, “I heard it too. Let’s leave it alone, whatever it is.”

But Mr Balker was curious. If they had come across one of the devils which his sister was always ranting on about then he wanted to see it. “Come out!” he demanded.

“As you wish,” returned the dreadful voice and from the darkness emerged two figures. There was nothing supernatural about them, they were just men—yet the miller’s heart quailed when he saw the look in their eyes.

“Run, Will!” he shouted.

But it was too late. Before either of them could move their attackers pounced.

One of them lunged at the boy and hurled him to the ground. Strong hands shoved his head back and it struck the cobbles with a horrible thud. The man pinned his arms down then sat on his chest. Will could not move, the back of his head ached and he knew it was bleeding. His eyes closed—as if sparing him the sight of the hate-filled face above.

Mr Balker staggered to and fro, the other rogue clinging to his back in an attempt to throttle him. But the miller’s neck was thick and all those years of carrying flour sacks had made him strong. With his face turning purple, he cast off his assailant like a dog shaking off a flea. The startled man sailed through the air and with a splash landed in the gutter. He wiped the stinking water from his face and wailed when he saw the fat miller charging at him like an angry bull.

The sound of the brawl echoed through the deserted streets and drummed into Will’s pounding head.

“Now, my young master,” snarled the man on his chest, “you’d best keep quiet if you want to keep yer tongue. It’s just yer money I’m after.” Will shuddered as he felt bony fingers search through his pockets. “Aha!” sniggered the evil voice. “Here we are—what’s this then? Three shillin’s! Is that it? ’Ere Jessel,” he called to his partner, “thissun’s only got three lousy shillin’s.” But the other man was too busy trying to fend off the miller to answer. “Curse it!” growled the voice above Will. “I’ll ’ave summat to say to him that’s fer sure.”

In the upstairs window of a nearby house a lantern was lit, the noise below having drawn the attention of the owner. As the sudden light slanted down into the street. Will’s eyes fluttered open and in the yellow glare of the lantern he saw his attacker’s face.

It was large and ugly, with a great scar running across the broken nose and down the cheek, but the eyes were black as coal and brimming with malice. Will recognised him at once. “You were in the Sickle Moon,” he said.

The man punched him in the ribs. “You’ll be sorry for that, lad,” he spat. “I’m not gonna leave you alive to bear witness against me.” From his belt he swiftly drew a long knife and pressed it against the boy’s throat. “I don’t care what he told us. Jack Carver won’t dance at the gallows for the likes o’ you.”

Will held his breath. The cold blade snicked into his neck and a hideous chuckle gurgled over him.

“Leave him be!” boomed Mr Balker suddenly. The miller bounded up towards Will, seized hold of the man’s shoulders and snatched him away just as the knife broke the skin. Three drops of blood flew in the air as the blade flashed in the light of the lantern and sliced a gleaming arc through the shadows.

With a clatter the weapon spun to the ground. Mr Balker made a grab for it but Will’s attacker was too quick and he kicked it from his grasp. “Let’s see how you deal with two of us!” he snapped. “Jessel—hold him.”

The one called Jessel darted forward and launched himself at the miller once more. “I got ’im, Jack,” he cried. “Take ’is purse an’ let’s scarper.”

Bony fingers closed about the handle of the knife and the man with the scar stepped into the pool of light. On the ground nearby, Will propped himself up on his elbows and saw him advance towards the miller. “Watch out, John!” he called.

Mr Balker could see the blade glinting before him. He struggled to get free of Jessel’s grasp but his strength was spent and he cursed the madness which had made him drink so much. “Quickly, get away from this place!” he shouted to Will in despair.

“Stay where you are, whelp!” commanded Carver. “Or your pig-faced friend gets it in the gut.”

Will stared up at the lit window where a frightened face peeked down at the scene below. “Help!” the boy shouted. “Help us please!”

Jessel glanced up at the troubled face. “’Urry up,” he urged his partner, “’im up there’ll have the nightwatchman down on our necks!”

“Not if ’e wants to stay alive ’e won’t,” snarled Jack lifting his sparkling, black eyes menacingly. The face withdrew from the window and the light was extinguished.

He waved the knife before the miller. “Now then, fat one,” he said in a deadly tone, “gimme yer purse.”

Mr Balker took the bag of money from his pocket and handed it over. The scar-faced man shook it and the coins jingled inside.

“Listen to that,” burbled Jessel gleefully, “there must be a few golden crowns in there.”

Jack Carver nodded. “I fancy there is,” he replied quietly, “and I can’t let this gentleman go without giving him something in return now can I?”

“I don’t want nothin’,” said Mr Balker.

“Now that ain’t true!” Jack told him. “A minute ago you wanted this ’ere knife—well now I’m givin’ it to yer!”

In one swift movement the deed was done. John Balker clutched his stomach and fell to his knees. “Margaret,” he whispered hoarsely, and then he died.

Jessel stared at the body of the miller. A dark pool of blood was oozing over the cobbles. “You killed ’im,” he stammered. “What you do that fer? You ’ad his money.” He looked nervously down the street. Others had been roused from sleep by the fight and candles shone in many windows. “Yer mad Carver!” he cried rounding on his partner. “Look, folk are stirrin’ themselves—the nightwatchman’ll come—we’re hung fer sure!”

Only now did the horrific scene before him sink into Will’s mind. Mr Balker was dead. The boy threw back his head and screamed. Then he picked himself off the ground and ran into the night.

Jack whirled round and cursed. “We’re not crow bait yet,” he told Jessel, “but we’ll not be safe with that lad runnin’ free.” With murderous thoughts now burning in both their brains they leapt over the miller’s corpse and gave chase.

Will had no idea where he was going. He charged through the streets and lanes like one gone mad. The sight of Mr Balker falling to his knees danced before his eyes and no matter where he ran he could not escape that terrible image.

Blindly he charged down an alley, tears of shock and fear streaming down his face. He had to run—he had to get away from this mad city and if he had to race all the way home on foot then he would do so. With sewer water splashing round his ankles he pelted into the shadows. He could hear the men coming after him but he was younger than them and he knew that not even the Devil himself could catch him tonight. It was fear that guided his feet and fear it was that drove him on, faster and faster.

Then he saw it, a great wall rearing above him, rising from the darkness of the shaded alley like a wave of doom, mocking his efforts to flee. He had run into a dead end.

An icy pain gripped Will’s insides as he realised there was nowhere else to go. He spun round but two silhouetted figures were already creeping down the alley towards him. The boy looked up at the sheer wall and flung himself against it. Frantically he tried to climb, vainly groping with his fingers for something to hold on to. But it was no use, the mason had been too great a craftsman, for there was no gap or niche anywhere between the bricks. Will slithered down, his fingers cut and bleeding. Sinister laughter floated on the chill air and the sound cut right through him—this was it, he told himself, his life was over.

“Poor little mite,” sniggered Carver wickedly, “gone an’ got hisself trapped—you can always tell a foreigner. They don’t know this city like what we do.”

Will pressed himself against the bricks and watched with mounting terror as the figures approached. It was too dark to see their faces, but the blade of the knife in Jack’s hand gleamed with a cold light of its own, as if it lusted for more blood.

“I’m gonna slice ’im up so good that his own mother wouldn’t recognise him!” the evil man hissed.

“Keep quiet, Carver,” snapped Jessel. “Just do it and have done. Listen, they’ve found that fool of a miller back there, won’t be long till they track us down! This job’s been naught but trouble from the start.”

“Mebbe,” returned Jack, “but I’m here to make an end to it now.” He raised the knife and Will shivered anticipating the deadly blow. But the strike never came.

“ENOUGH!” boomed a forceful voice.

Carver and Jessel whirled round, and from a narrow doorway stepped a man cloaked in black with a hood covering his face.

“Keep out o’ this whoever you are,” warned Jack fiercely, “or I’ll cut you too.”

“Let the boy be,” commanded the stranger. “He is mine. Go now if you value your necks.”

For a moment Will thought he was saved, but when he saw that the man was unarmed his relief turned to doubt. The boy wondered who the man was—he must be insane to challenge those two cut-throats. Obviously Jack thought so too for he let loose a horrible laugh.

The cloaked figure was not intimidated. Instead he sailed towards Will and placed himself between him and his attackers. Calmly he told Jack, “Assuredly, you loathsome creature, there is little cause for merriment on your part, for at this moment your very soul is in peril. The more you linger here the closer you come to being thrown into the pits of Hell itself. The boy belongs to me.” His tone was insistent and there was a disturbing quality about it which unsettled Jessel and made him take a step backwards.

“Leave it, Jack!” he told his friend. “There’s summink foul about that one.”

“He don’t frighten me!” Carver spat viciously. “I got the knife—it’s him what’s gonna see Hell first.”

“So be it,” said the stranger. A hand appeared from the folds of the cloak and pointed an accusing finger at both of the men. “I consign your miserable skins to the nightmare of perdition!” he cried flinging his arms open.

A terrific roar shook the alley. Orange flames leapt from the ground and a cloud of noxious yellow smoke exploded all around them.

That was enough for Jessel. “It’s Old Nick himself!” he howled and he fled out of the unnatural, choking fog like lead from a musket.

“Jessel!” called Jack, terrified at being left behind. “Wait fer me!” He threw down the knife and ran wailing, “Spare me, Lord—spare me!” at the top of his voice.

Will coughed; the smoke smelt like bad eggs and it stung his eyes. He squinted through the haze at the hooded figure who stood before him and felt afraid once more. What kind of creature was this? What black powers were his to command? Will almost wished Jack had knifed him—better a quick death than to be tormented by demons for eternity.

The stranger made sure the men were gone before catching hold of the boy’s arm and dragging him to the doorway he had come from. “In there,” he told him. Will was thrust inside the building and he stumbled down the unseen steps beyond the threshold. It was a large unlit room, with a wide leaded window that faced the alley outside. He moved forward but in the darkness knocked a jar off a shelf which fell with a crash on the floor.

“Keep quiet!” he was told. “The mob are coming, they are hot on the trail of those knaves.”

Will held his breath and listened; from the street outside he heard the tramp of many feet and outraged cries of ’Murder! Murder!” And high amongst those voices came the shrill shrieks of Peggy Blister. Unconsciously Will withdrew into the blackest corner and crouched down.

The cloaked figure left the doorway and darted back into the alley. A great crowd of people were streaming towards him with lanterns and flaming torches held high above their heads.

“Hold,” shouted the hooded stranger.

The thronging mass halted, holding out their torches to try and glimpse the face beneath the cowl. “A most heinous act has been committed,” a bewigged man piped up. “There has been murder!”

“Let me through!” screeched Peggy Blister, pushing others out of the way. She squeezed to the front and in the flickering torchlight her painted face looked even more startling. With her hands on her hips she eyed the black figure with suspicion. “Who’s that?” she demanded. “Get out of our way! There’s killers on the loose an’ we’ll not rest till we’ve strung ’em up. They done butchered my childhood sweetheart, they did.” For this shameful lie she received much sympathy and she basked in it like a dog in the sunshine.

“I fancy you are wrong, mistress,” issued the silken voice from the hood, “for I myself witnessed this evil deed.”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the mob. “I hope you ain’t callin’ me a liar!” shouted Peg indignantly.

“I would not presume to,” came the softly spoken reply. “What I say concerns the murderer, not your romantic mythology—I cannot call it history.” Before she had time to understand the slight and rally with a coarse answer he went on. “There was indeed only one murderer abroad this night,” he said, “for I saw this jolly miller quarrel with him in the distance as I walked to my lodgings.”

Within the nearby building Will heard this and he looked up curiously. The light of the torches fell into the room, curving round countless bottles, jars, pots and bowls. Gingerly he got to his feet and crept closer to the window.

“Who was it then?” called the crowd excitedly.

The figure pointed at the ground where Jack Carver’s knife still lay, smeared with blood. “I will tell you what I saw,” he said, “even though I despise the thought of it. The murderer of that poor man was a mere boy.”

The mob gasped as one. Peg looked stunned. “It’s that thieving little brat what owes me three shillin’s!” she snarled venomously.

“Yes, good friends,” the man continued, “a child has committed this foulness—he pushed by me three minutes since, out in Cheapside. What horrors are we breeding now? I beg of you to find this monster.”

Will could not believe his ears; that man was practically condemning him to death. If they discovered him he would be swinging from the nearest gibbet. He rushed at the door to protest his innocence but a shadow fell on the steps. The figure had returned and barred his exit. “If I were you I would not set foot out there,” he said.

“How dare you, sir!” raged Will furiously. “Why have you done this—why did you lie so? John Balker was my friend, I must get by and tell them that or I shall be a fugitive forever.”

A strong hand shoved him back into the room. “Indeed, that was the intention. Wait, the rabble is leaving—soon the whole of London will be searching for you. I do believe that the only safe place is here.” He slammed the door and sent the bolt rattling home.

“Out of my way!” Will shouted. “Let me out of this dank little hole!”

The figure ignored him and took a candle from one of the shelves. “Tut, tut,” he muttered, “I can see I shall have to tame that tongue of yours. I can’t have you speaking in that tone to your elders and betters. This may not be the palace of Westminster but it is not a dank hole. Here is where wonders are made, where dreams are spun and lives saved. Alone in this teeming city this place stands proud—a beacon of wisdom and knowledge that shines through the murky pits of ignorance.”

Will remembered the weird explosion in the alley and his anger died down. “I thought it was just some kind of shop,” he murmured.

“Some kind of shop?” repeated the man in annoyance. “This is an apothecary!”

“Well that’s a shop, isn’t it?” Will muttered stubbornly. “Who are you anyway?”

Suddenly the candle spluttered into life and in the circle of pale light the figure cast back his hood.

He was an old man with a large, hooked nose and deep-set eyes. The fine white hair which sparsely covered his high, domed head contrasted sharply with his frowning, beetle-black brows. The full lips parted into a cruel smile. “I am a doctor!” he proclaimed grandly. “Doctor Elias Theophrastus Spittle! And you are now my servant.”

3 - The Apothecary

Will almost laughed. “I am no one’s servant,” he told the apothecary haughtily, “my father was a yeoman—”

“I have no interest in your life before this,” Doctor Spittle interrupted, “and you would do well to forget it yourself.” He moved away from the door and set the candle down on a counter. “There, if you wish to leave you may, but harken to my words—step outside this place now and the mob will surely string you up. There’ll be a new puppet dangling at Tyburn before the dawn.”

Will moved towards the door but he knew that the man was right. The night was filled with the angry clamour of the mob as they hunted for him. There was no way he could escape from the city without being captured. He turned back to the apothecary who was smiling conceitedly. “What is it you wish me to do?” Will asked.

Doctor Spittle waved a hand at the jars and bottles all around. I am a very busy man,” he told the boy. The needs of my clients use up a very great proportion of my valuable time. There are herbs to collect, substances to grind, compounds to make and pills to stamp. I have found myself woefully stretched of late—that is why you are here. You shall be my dogsbody. All those tedious and loathsome chores will now be yours and I can be left to pursue my other work. Think of it as an apprenticeship if you like—unpaid of course. Whilst you consent to perform these simple and menial tasks I shall shelter you from the cruelty of English justice. So long as you serve me then your neck will be spared the noose.” He sighed contentedly and chuckled to himself. “I find this a most agreeable arrangement and I promise that you will learn a great deal.”

Will remained silent. His mind raced over the alternatives; it was impossible to find his uncle now for the address was on the miller’s body. It was maddening to think that Samuel Godwin might be living next door and he would be none the wiser. He could only agree to the apothecary’s terms, but just until the murder had been forgotten. Perhaps after a week had gone by, and there was some new sensation to distract the attention of the city, he would be able to slip away unnoticed. With his mind made up he looked at Doctor Spittle. “So be it,” he said. “I agree to work for you.”

The man nodded, “Indeed you are a wise child. What a wondrous miracle it is that has brought us two together. I would thank the Lord for this happy chance—if I believed He existed. Pray be not alarmed; I am a man of science, not a heretic.” He took up the candle once more and pointed to a dim corner of the shop where the floor was covered by empty sacks and straw. “There is your resting place, boy,” he told him. “From now on that shall be your bed. Sleep well.”

Will stared at the dirty sacks. “I can’t sleep on those,” he protested.

The change in Doctor Spittle was immediate. A mad light flared in his dark eyes and he bared his teeth like a ravening wolf. His free hand shot out and struck Will savagely on the cheek. The boy staggered backwards from the force of the blow, his face stinging. “You will obey me!” the man bellowed.

“You must remember that now you are my servant you must live like a servant! I want none of your airs, boy! Your life is in my hands. Would you rather have the rope biting at your neck this night? The choice is simple—wooden boards or the gallows, which is it to be?”

Silently Will sat on the floor, but he stared at the apothecary mutinously.

“You had better get used to this if you are to survive in the city,” breathed Doctor Spittle as he calmed down. “The life of a servant here is no better than that of a dog. If your yeoman manners show themselves once more I shall beat them out of you. Now I must retire to my chamber upstairs. The night air is bad for me. My health is a fragile thing which requires much consideration.” He moved to the back of the shop where a small door led to a steep flight of stairs. Before climbing them the doctor glanced back. “Rest easy, dog,” he said. “I assure you there is nothing to fear here.” And then he was gone.

Will heard the wooden steps creak as the old man ascended. The room was now dark, the glow from the candle diminishing gradually as further up the stairs it went. There came the sound of a door closing and it was swallowed completely.

On his uncomfortable bed Will reflected on the past harrowing hours. Suddenly his old life seemed an age away—as though that childhood in Adcombe had belonged to someone else. Nothing was left of his previous existence and for the present it looked as though he would be forced to remain in this harsh new world.

He cast himself onto the sacks and relived those last, dreadful moments with the miller. Somewhere in the city those two murderers were free, and though the blood of Mr Balker stained their hands. Will was the one accused. With the horrific image of his dead friend haunting him, he fell into an unpleasant, fitful sleep and tears streaked down his face. The hollow night engulfed London and no one heard the boy’s forlorn whimpers.

“Up, young dog!” shouted Doctor Spittle, kicking Will awake. “There are matters to attend to before we open shop.”

Will rubbed his head and tried to rise but his back was stiff from the floor and the draughts which had played over it. Yawning, he watched as the apothecary, still in a grubby nightgown, pattered to one of the shelves and returned brandishing a large pair of scissors.

“Can’t be found harbouring a fugitive,” the man told him. “One of my customers might come in and recognise you from last night—that wench from the Sickle Moon is often here looking for new paints with which to daub her ugly face.”

Roughly he seized hold of Will’s long hair and pulled it till he yelped. “What a lush growth you do have,” the apothecary said almost enviously. “A shame it has to be cut. But no servant has the locks of a gentleman.”

“Let go!” cried Will as the man’s long, yellow nails tangled themselves in his hair and pulled viciously. He was dragged to his feet and the bump he had received the previous night began to bleed again.

“Be still,” barked Doctor Spittle, “or you’ll lose an ear.”

In the dreary light of the new day, Will’s shoulder-length hair was snipped and hacked from his head. A soft heap lay about his feet when the apothecary was finished. Gingerly he drew his fingers through what was left. It was very stubbly and short. He ran to the window to see his reflection in one of the diamond panes but hardly recognised the face that stared back at him. “I look like a beggar’s brat,” he murmured.

“Not quite,” the apothecary said critically. “But get some soot from the hearth and rub it well in—that ought to finish it.”

Will bit his tongue, knowing that if he refused then he would be whipped. So, shaking the hair from his shoulders, he knelt by the fireplace and wiped his hand over the blackened bricks.

“A proper little urchin you are now,” sniggered Doctor Spittle when the boy had smeared dirt onto his face. “What does it feel like, dog, to stand on the other side of the fence?” He rubbed his hands together then took hold of the boy’s arm and dragged him away from the hearth. “Now does your apprenticeship begin,” he said importantly. “Behold my apothecary shop in the light of the morning—one day you shall know the virtues of all the herbs and plants on those shelves. What a fortunate young dog you are to have so wise a master.”

The shop was one long room, crammed from floor to ceiling with pots and vessels of all sizes. There were drug jars with diamond patterns in the glaze and covered with lids of parchment; one glass bottle contained slimy black leeches, another some dark liquid—the smell of which made Will want to retch; there were oils and spices, different coloured powders, bunches of dried leaves, numerous shrivelled objects pickled in alcohol and an assortment of lotions and preserves.

Proudly Doctor Spittle showed all these strange things to Will. “This,” he said picking up a ceramic tile shaped like a shield, “is my pill slab. On this you will roll out the pastes which I have carefully prepared and stamp out the pills for my customers. Do you see the coat of arms here? This shows that I am a licensed member of the London Pharmacopoeia. With every pill you stamp it shall remind you of my superior intelligence.” He placed the tile on the counter then took a fist-sized ball from one of the shelves. “Here is a Goa stone,” he said. “With this I can cure complaints of the stomach. It is made from musk and calomel in the Far East. And this,” he chuckled, rattling a bottle containing yellow lumps of earth, “is what I chased your assailants away with last night. Sulphur is a most useful element; it can put the fear of the Devil in the ignorant.”

He crossed to the doorway and drew the bolt back. “I have talked too much,” he muttered, “time is wasting—I should have opened already.” The apothecary then realised that he was still dressed in only his nightgown. With a look of scandalised horror he dashed upstairs shouting, “Idiot! Why did you not tell me I was still arrayed thus. I have important clients who would never come here again if I appeared to them so rudely. You have a lot to learn, young dog! And get that mess of hair cleared away before I come down.”

Will stared up at the ceiling; he could hear the old man stumbling about as he hastily pulled on his clothes. Doctor Spittle alternated between extreme arrogance one minute and ludicrous behaviour the next. It was difficult to judge which mood he would swing into and that in itself was frightening as you could never be sure what he was going to say or do. But Will did not have time to speculate further for he heard the upstairs door slam shut and he hurriedly searched for a broom to sweep the floor with.

Soon all the clippings of hair had been cast into the street. There was no longer any noise coming from the room above, so he peered through the doorway which led to the steep flight of stairs. There he found another door. This led to the yard at the back of the building in which a tall yew tree stood, and against the far wall there was a small border for growing herbs. But the apothecary was nowhere to be seen.

“Spittle!” cried a voice from the shop. “Where is the poxy man? Does he think I have all day to waste here? I have appointments! Spittle!”

Will drew back into the shadows of the stairwell nervously. What if the customer were to recognise him somehow? The impatient call came again—he had to attend to the man. Taking a deep breath he stepped into the shop once more. “A good morning to you, sir,” he began politely. “Can I be of assistance?”

The man looked at him in surprise and Will returned the curious gaze. The customer was richly dressed in turquoise silks and gold brocade; upon his dainty shoes there were bows to match and in his hand he carried a long walking cane tipped with silver. His face was oval shaped, with dewy eyes and a thin mouth. All this was framed by the thickest and longest hair Will had ever seen on a man; he did not realise that the fashion at court was to wear periwigs.

“Who—or what—are you?” asked the stranger, fluttering his lace collar between his hands.

Will was about to tell him when he checked himself just in time. “I... I work for the doctor,” he said simply.

The man regarded him as though he were something he had trodden in. “Do you indeed?” he murmured. “Well he would do well to teach you some manners, you impudent knave. Servants never stare at their betters. Now go and fetch your master—tout de suite. I dislike your squalid company.”

Reluctantly the boy gave a bow, then went in search of the apothecary.

Up the stairs he went, cursing the customer with each step. By the time he came to a small landing his face was burning with indignation. Will raised his hand to knock on the apothecary’s bedroom door.

There was no answer so he knocked again. Still nothing. Will tried the handle and looked inside.

It was a small room with an unmade bed in one corner and a large wardrobe dominating the furthest wall. Books were strewn on the floor amongst piles of old clothes and the grease of candles formed frozen drips down the sides of the low bedtable.

Will was puzzled, but behind him, on the landing, he saw yet more steps leading upwards. These ended at a door which was painted a dark crimson. For some reason the sight of it made him catch his breath and butterflies fluttered in his stomach. The paint was the colour of blood and the memory of the miller’s murder flashed before him once more. A sweet and sickly smell floated down from the room beyond. It was a nauseating stench which turned the boy’s skin to gooseflesh. Something evil lay through that door, he told himself. Yet Doctor Spittle must also be there and Will forced his legs to move forward and climb.

The stairs here were narrow and the wood rotten in places. There was no window on the landing so it was filled with gloom and Will had to strain his eyes to find his way.

“What are you doing up here?” cried Doctor Spittle suddenly appearing before him.

So intently had Will been staring at the steps that he had not seen the crimson door open and the sound of the apothecary’s voice startled him.

“This place is forbidden to you!” raged the old man. “Do you understand? Never come up here!”

Will nodded quickly then cried, “There’s a customer downstairs. He wants to see you most urgently.”

Doctor Spittle swore under his breath and brought a large key from a pocket in his coat. “Why did you not say so at once?” he shrieked, locking the door behind him. “Describe him.”

“Lots of silk, walking cane, pasty face and big hair.”

The apothecary pushed him aside and tore down the rickety steps with his hands in the air. “Lord of Death!” he wailed. “That is Sir Francis Lingley! My wealthiest and most influential client. Why did you not call me sooner?” And he disappeared down to the shop faster than Will had thought possible.

Alone on the narrow staircase the boy turned to look at the glistening red door. It really did look as though the whole thing had been freshly steeped in gore. With a wavering hand he reached out and touched it with his fingertips. He was expecting it to be wet and sticky, but it was dry as a bone. What secrets lay beyond this, he wondered? What foulness was kept inside to make such a howling stink that it rivalled that of the city itself? Cautiously he tried the handle; the lock rattled loudly but held firm. From within the sealed room there came a muffled screeching and scratching.

Will backed away in fear. There was something in there! Was the door locked to stop him entering or to prevent something escaping? Quickly he jumped down the steps and ran after the apothecary.

In the shop Doctor Spittle breezed towards his customer with his arms flung open in apology. “I crave your pardon, My Lord,” he grovelled.

Sir Francis sniffed. “I do not come here to idle away my time conversing with kitchen boys, Spittle,” he said huffily.

“Of course not, My Lord,” squirmed the apothecary. “And what may your needs be today?”

The nobleman lowered his voice. “Warts,” he whispered. “There is a rash of warts on the back of my neck. Je suis trés malade—have you a salve or a lotion which will rid me of the infernal things?”

Doctor Spittle nodded discreetly. “I shall prepare something for you. My Lord—a most uncomfortable ailment to suffer from. I shall set to work at once. If you return in an hour’s time all will be ready.”

“It had better be,” Sir Francis snapped. “If the wretched things are not dealt with soon I believe they shall spread.” He shuddered at the thought of it. “Can you imagine if they were to afflict my face?” he cried. “I would never be able to appear at court again.”

The apothecary bowed. “Rest assured,” he said confidently, “the ointment I shall prepare will not fail.”

“If that is true then you will not find me ungenerous. I go now to the coffee house to hear the news—I shall return in one hour. Adieu.” With that Sir Francis tossed his head and flounced out of the shop.

Doctor Spittle waved farewell to him through the window and when he was out of sight he scowled. “Yes sire, no sire,” the old man grumbled. “Well, my little Sir Peacock, there you go, strutting through the city in all your finery with your head held high, full of your own importance.” He paused, then a mischievous grin lit his face. “If only you knew that your affliction was a present from me in the first place.” He turned from the window and the mirth vanished, for there was Will standing by the counter.

“Did you really give him the warts?” the boy asked.

The apothecary hesitated for a moment, then tittered. “I did indeed,” he told him. “I have to keep myself supplied with customers, so when they are cured of one ailment I ensure they return to me with another. In My Lord Francis’s case I merely added a little poison from the skin of a large toad to the last ointment I made for him. I’m surprised the warts are only on the back of his neck. I was hoping for something a little more dramatic—I shall just have to squeeze the toad a little harder next time.”

Will was appalled. “That’s vile,” he said.

“I call it shrewd business sense,” shrugged the apothecary, “and that popinjay really deserves a blemish or two. Did you see his garments? Only the best for Sir Francis.” He looked down at his own clothes and pulled a sad expression for they were threadbare and grimy. “Alas I have not the means,” he sighed. “I am forced to purchase my gowns from the raghouse. No silks or velvets for Elias Theophrastus Spittle. No lace to wear at his throat, no ribbons to adorn his shoes and no merry periwig to conceal his baldness.” He passed a hand over his sparsely covered scalp and murmured, “Would you believe that once I had a full head of hair? Red as copper it was—like a lion from the Africas I appeared in my youth.”

Will doubted that and he thought ruefully of his own hair. Was that really why the old man had cut it off? Was he jealous of anyone who had something he did not? Surely no one could be that petty and envious? He watched thoughtfully as the apothecary reached up to take bottles and jars from the shelves—the more he found out about him the less he understood.

“We must hurry, dog,” Doctor Spittle told him brusquely. “A cure for warts is what we need. Hah!” He passed to Will a mortar and pestle instructing him to grind up the ingredients which he would measure out.

And so Will’s new life as the servant of the apothecary began. That first morning passed by without any further incident. When Sir Francis returned the ointment was ready for him and Doctor Spittle fawned and scraped before the nobleman in a revolting manner. Other customers came and went and the old man made sure that he was there to greet them all with sickening humility. Only when they had gone would he sneer and deride them. At noon he threw Will a crust of stale bread and some old cheese whilst he sank his teeth into an eel pie. For the rest of the day he kept the boy working hard, fetching, carrying and sweating over a boiling pot in which he made his infusions. When the afternoon was drawing to a close and the daylight began to fail, the old man bolted the door and told Will to sweep up and go to bed, giving him the last of the hard cheese for his supper.

Will ate the frugal meal hungrily. Tonight he was glad of the sacking and straw on the floor. He knew that he would sleep extremely well and he threw himself down, thankful that the day was over. As sleep crept upon him he stared at the ceiling and wondered at the silence above—Doctor Spittle must have gone to the attic.

“What can he be doing up there?” he murmured drowsily to himself. “Still, I won’t be here for much longer—I’ll give it a week...” And the boy fell fast asleep.

The following days went by much as the first and during this time not once did either of them venture outside. Poor Will hated working there; the windows were kept shut and the only fresh air that entered his lungs came in through the door with the customers.

In that short amount of time he became accustomed to the old man’s strange habits. Despite his dishevelled and threadbare appearance, the apothecary continually preened himself. Will discovered that he was terribly vain and caught him gazing at his reflection many times. He also had a very sweet tooth and devoured great quantities of marzipan and spicecakes which he kept for himself and shared not a crumb with Will. Another of Doctor Spittle’s weaknesses was his passion for gossip and he listened to the scandal of the court with his tongue almost hanging out of his mouth. From Sir Francis and a few other clients he would hear of the marvellous parties thrown by the King and he gurgled with delight if they told him in detail of the feasts that had been prepared at the palace. Yet even these tales of exquisite desserts could not sweeten his nature, for after the customers had departed he would grumble about them and hurl insults their way. It was at times like these that Will had learnt to keep his head down and get on with his work, for the old man invariably found fault with him and gave vent to his envy and malice with cruelty directed at the boy. Several times Will went hungry because some customer had told of a magnificent syllabub or an apple mousse of surpassing excellence.

“Curse their tongues!” Doctor Spittle would shriek jealously. “If I can’t afford to savour such things then why should you taste my bread and cheese? Dogs eat scraps in the street, you should do the same! Here am I forced to eat biscuits to appease my cravings when there’s folk like that plaguey Lingley stuffing his gullet with pear tarts or delicious cubes of jellied milk.” And so Will would get no dinner that day and the apothecary would storm upstairs to the attic room where the boy was forbidden to go.

Doctor Spittle spent all his spare time locked behind the crimson door. In that secret room he spent most of the night and Will wondered if the old man ever slept. The mysterious attic began to dominate the boy’s thoughts. When he was not thinking of how he could escape from the city he found himself pondering on this mystery. While he toiled in the shop his mind turned increasingly to that subject. It became an obsession with him and once, when the apothecary was busy with a customer, he slipped upstairs to see if it was unlocked. Once more he heard the faint scratchings from within but the door would not open and he darted downstairs before he had been missed. Now he was more determined than ever to find out Doctor Spittle’s secret and any fear he had at first felt was overcome by this driving curiosity.

A whole week passed by and Will was still stamping out pills and mixing lotions. The chance to return home had not yet presented itself, and besides the talk on everyone’s lips was still of the dead miller. Peggy Blister had invented such a tragic story of thwarted lovers who were separated in their youth then briefly reunited until a wicked child murdered the hero that someone had printed a broadsheet about it. Just about everyone knew the tale now and Will’s description was at the forefront of everybody’s thoughts whenever they saw a street urchin dash by. It became so bad that when customers came into the shop the boy was forced to skulk in the corner to avoid prying eyes.

Another week slid by and before Will realised, it was December. The nights became colder and he moved his sack bedding closer to the hearth, warming his hands by the fire’s embers. He really did look like a beggar’s brat now and he smelled like one as well. He hadn’t had a wash since his arrival in London and on the odd occasion he had to stir some herbs or essences into a potion, the hands that came dripping out of the perfumed water were so white compared to the rest of him that it looked as though he was wearing gloves.

It was the thirteenth of December and Will was on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Doctor Spittle was absorbed in filling a large Delftware jar with preserves, but his attention seemed to be somewhere else. He kept pausing and gazing out of the window at the sky, as if wishing for the night to come.

The door to the shop opened and when Will chanced to look up he saw a pretty young woman standing there. She was a truly lovely creature and though her striped dress was not made of silk she carried herself as though she were a countess. Her golden hair was curled upon her forehead and cascaded softly about her bare shoulders. She waved the fan in her hand at the apothecary who looked up from the jar and chuckled to himself.

“Missed me, you old rogue?” she asked with a laugh.

“Molly, my dear,” he welcomed smarmily. “It’s been a while since you visited me last. I thought you had become dissatisfied with my humble shop.”

“Get away, you old devil!” she giggled. “Save that fancy talk for the gallants and the fainting ladies that come in here. You an’ I ought to know each other well enough by now. You haven’t seen me of late because I ain’t been here—I been away on business.’ And she gave the apothecary a meaningful wink. “Still, that’s all done with now. Molly’s been dumped again but she ain’t complainin’.”

Her voice was light and sweet as a bell. Will thought she was the most beautiful thing on God’s earth and in that dingy place she seemed like an angel to him. He gawped at her and it was then that she became aware of him.

“What’s this?” she laughed teasingly. “Don’t tell me you’re taking in strays now, Spittle? I had you marked down as a rascally old skinflint—please don’t tell me I was wrong.”

The apothecary assumed a dignified air and replied, “I have taken on an apprentice.”

“Pooh!” snorted Molly irreverently. “I’ll believe that the day I turn Quaker.” She curtsied to Will and gave him a warm smile. The boy stood up and bowed shyly in return. “Treatin’ you bad is he?” she asked, cocking her head at the old man. “You want to watch him you know. Not to be trusted is old Spittle.”

“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Will piped up.

The young woman stared at him in surprise then laughed once more, but it was not done in mockery. “Well bless us all,” she cried, “this lad’s got better manners’n most I could mention.”

Doctor Spittle frowned; the woman was too frivolous. “Get back to work!” he told Will. The boy knelt down obediently and resumed scrubbing the floor.

Molly sighed. “You are a villain,” she scolded the old man, “I bet you work that poor lad till he’s spent.”

“If you please,” the apothecary began, “have you come just to annoy me and distract my apprentice or will you purchase anything?”

The woman did not answer; instead she wandered over to a shelf and peered at the bottles there. “Do you have any rue, camphor or henbane?” she asked eventually.

“What tricks are you up to now, Molly?” inquired Doctor Spittle.

“Same as before,” she answered sweetly, “taking care of my friends—there’s no one else who will and shame on them for it.” The woman picked up a jar and shook it. “These ginger roots are past their best,” she commented.

The apothecary muttered an oath and hurried forward. “Enough!” he said. “I shall not stand for your tampering, I have told you this before. I am the apothecary, not you!”

He speedily brought out the things she had asked for and as she paid him an insolent smile curled on her face. Turning to Will she said, “Have a care, young apprentice, old Spittle doesn’t like to think anyone is as wise as he. If you learn too much of his trade then feign ignorance for the sake of his moth-eaten pride.” With that she gave an impudent laugh and trotted out of the shop.

From the window Doctor Spittle watched her step jauntily down the alley. “Devil take her,” he grumbled. “Too smart for her own good is Molly—it’ll be the undoing of her one day. Well, she might think she knows a thing or three about physic but nothing she’s got stuffed in that pretty little head of hers is a match for my brains.”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and a quick grin lit his face. “Night will fall soon,” he whispered excitedly. The apothecary stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat and brought out a large bunch of keys. “Call me if anyone comes in,” he told Will, “but I doubt if we shall have any more custom tonight.”

But even as the words were spoken a small figure burst into the shop. “Apothecary!” the man wailed. “Come quick, my master needs you! He lies ill of fever and the physician is nowhere to be found.”

Doctor Spittle wavered. He hated visiting the sick—he was always afraid that he might catch their illnesses. Usually he refrained from making such calls but this man was known to him; he was the servant of a rich merchant whose cook was renowned for her splendid confections. He stole a glance up the stairs and decided that his other work would have to wait that night. This was a job that would undoubtedly pay well, unless the patient died, of course, and he might even get the chance to taste a syllabub.

Licking his lips he hastened to the counter and pulled his seldom-used apothecary box from beneath it. “Take me to him,” he told the anxious man and in a moment they were both gone.

Will scratched his head. It wasn’t like Doctor Spittle to venture near a sickbed. He put down the scrubbing brush and stretched. That was enough; the floor had never looked so clean. The boy sat on the counter and wondered when the old man would return—if he put the leeches on the patient then he might not be back for hours. He stared about him in a bored sort of way until his wandering gaze rested upon something which made him jump off the counter with amazement. Beside him was a large bunch of keys.

Will picked them up in disbelief. In his fluster Doctor Spittle had forgotten to take them with him.

In a trice the boy dashed up the stairs—this was his chance to discover the apothecary’s secret. Breathlessly he stood outside the blood-red door and placed one of the keys into the lock. It turned with a smooth click and Will gulped as he tried the handle. Already he could hear the scratching sound from within. Gingerly he opened the door and looked inside. With his mouth open in amazement Will looked around him.

The attic was a tiny place, made even smaller by the equipment the apothecary kept there.

A vast number of ancient leather-bound books and parchment scrolls covered the walls and reached up to the sloping ceiling. The skull of some large animal grinned down from a high ornate shelf and its macabre stare was mirrored in a silvered ball of glass which hung from the rafters, next to which was the shrivelled body of a puppy and two wooden cages. There were scientific instruments of gleaming brass with which to study the heavens, bunches of strange plants that the boy had not seen in the shop below, bottles of acid with skulls painted on them and small bags, which to his disgust he found contained human teeth. A chart depicting a five-pointed star was pinned to a rare space on the wall and a long telescope pointed out of the window. In the small fireplace a black pot bubbled, giving off bright green smoke that trailed and curled up the chimney.

Will coughed. So that was where the dreadful smell originated! He covered his nose and tried to find out where the scratching noise was coming from. There over his head! He stood on tiptoe and peered into the two wooden cages he had assumed were empty. Inside each was the furry body of a rat: one was brown, the other black. They had been frantically scratching at the floor of their cage but now they stared at him in surprise.

The boy laughed, so there was no monster up here after all, this was just Doctor Spittle’s study where he read his books and examined the stars. But a doubtful voice at the back of his mind whispered to him, “Are you certain? Look again.” A coldness suddenly washed over Will—this was no ordinary place. He looked once more at the magical symbols on the wall, at the bottles containing eyeballs and the esoteric patterns gouged into the sill of the window. Now he understood. Only a magician would keep such things. Doctor Spittle was a sorcerer!

The boy shuddered. Everyone knew that magicians were in league with the Devil. The imagined fear he had felt before now congealed into a very real terror. Of all the horrors in the world. Will was most afraid of witches and wizards—yet here he was living under the same roof as one. Doctor Spittle’s apothecary shop was just a cover for his real, evil work. It was too much. Will would rather take his chances in the city than remain here one more night. It was well known that wizards used the blood of children in their spells. Will put his hand to his throat and strangled the cry of panic that was welling up.

“I’ve got to get out! I’ve got to get out!” he squeaked in fear. Spinning on his heel the boy rushed to the door, but it was too late. There within its crimson frame stood Doctor Spittle.

The old man’s black brows bristled with fury and a deadly glint flashed in his dark eyes. He ground his teeth together and growled, “Dog! Why have you dared to defy me?”

Will could only stammer and gabble in reply. “I won’t tell anyone,” he cried. “I promise. Let me go, please!”

“Only my eyes have ever beheld this secret chamber!” stormed the apothecary wildly. He drew himself up to his full height and his shadow stretched menacingly up behind him, reaching over the rafters and towering above the boy’s head. The fire in the grate crackled and the flames blazed more fiercely than before. From the pot the green smoke billowed into the room and wound about the old man’s legs, spiralling up to his chest until he was wreathed in a glowing mist.

Will cowered. Doctor Spittle had become a nightmare. Sparks leapt from his eyes and a chill breeze stirred the folds of his coat. A hellish light lit his face from below. “Now pay the price for your inquisitiveness, boy!” he raged. “You have outlived your usefulness!”

A terrible howl issued from the chimney and a savage wind tore into the attic. Will staggered before its violence and stumbled into the window pane. The rats in the cages screamed as their wooden prisons rocked and were nearly plucked from their hooks. Books and parchments were seized in the gale and flapped about the boy’s head like birds caught in a storm. “Stop!” he yelled. “I can help you still! Wait!”

Unseen hands pulled at the window’s latch and it flew open, cracking several of the diamond panes. Will was lifted into the air as the unnatural tempest thrust him onto the sill. But before it could hurl him outside he caught hold of the frame and held on for dear life. Far below him he saw the street and he snapped his eyes tight shut.

“Peace!” called the apothecary abruptly.

A still calm descended on the room, papers and books fluttered to rest on the floor and when Will scrambled away from the window he found the old man studying him with fresh interest.

“An interesting notion, young dog,” he said. “There are indeed certain... items I need for my experiments which prove impossible for me to collect myself.” He reached up to stop the cages swinging and poked a yellow fingernail at one of the rats inside.

“You... you’re a wizard, aren’t you?” gasped Will catching his breath.

Doctor Spittle steadied the mirrored globe before answering. “There are many things I have... studied,” he began slowly. “It is true that I have had considerable success with my forays into the black arts but that is too narrow a field of study.” He ran his fingers over the books which had remained on the shelves. “Magic is an easy art to master,” he said dismissively. “Something all cheap-jack scholars can learn—providing they are willing to sacrifice something in return. No, I do not call myself a magician—my true dreams and desires lie in another direction.”

“What direction is that?” ventured Will.

Doctor Spittle made a sign of humility. “I am an alchemist,” he whispered. “The science of the ancients is my particular and especial interest. For most of my life I have pursued my goal and at times I have been close to achieving it.” With a sigh he sadly shook his head. “But always there was something missing. Continually at the end of my experiment I would be thwarted and the Stone would elude me once more.”

“Stone?”

A far-off smile spread over the old man’s face. “The Philosopher’s Stone, boy,” he uttered as though speaking of something holy. “That is what I seek; that perfect element which transmutates base metals into gold. The ancients knew of it, and down the ages I believe others have discovered it, but alas, as yet, I have not. The Stone is always just out of my reach, but one day, one day I shall attain it and then the world shall see. The star of Elias Theophrastus Spittle will rise and I shall have more riches than the King himself. We shall see who will bow and scrape then, oh yes. All my life I have been forced to serve others; when I possess the Stone all that will change.”

Will’s breath was less laboured now, but he was still uneasy. He had bought his life with rash promises that he had no intention of keeping. There was definitely no doubt about it—Doctor Spittle may be a magician but he was also out of his mind. Even he knew that nothing could change base metals into gold—if that was possible then there would be hordes of wealthy witches swanning about. He eyed the door as the apothecary stepped aside but the old man caught his glance and chuckled.

“Thank you for reminding me,” Doctor Spittle said. He took the key from the floor where it had fallen and turned it in the lock. “Now you can stop wasting your time plotting an escape,” he told him. “I have too many little jobs in store for you to let you go now. Even if you do manage to slip out of my net, rest assured, boy, that I will find you. There are many methods I can employ in the search and many agencies at my command to fetch you back. If you thought your work hard before, then you were never more wrong. That will seem like a May revel compared to what awaits you.”

He moved to the open window and squinted at the sky. The night had fallen and the earliest stars were pricking through the heavens. “But first things first,” he admonished himself. “I have been waiting all day for this moment.” He rummaged through a great pile of papers and unravelled a rolled-up chart. On it was marked all the stars of the heavens with their names written in a flowing script beside them. Doctor Spittle yelped with glee as he traced a line with his grimy fingernail and pulled the large telescope closer to the window.

Will watched in silence as the old man put his eye to one end of the brass cylinder and carefully adjusted the focus with hands that trembled with excitement.

“A perfect night,” he drooled, “absolutely perfect. No clouds in the way—in fact you could even get a clear view without this apparatus, but for a closer inspec... aha!” His whole frame tensed as he peered through the lens. “Magnificent,” he said joyously. “Undoubtedly the best sighting so far.”

Will leaned forward and looked up to where the telescope was trained. There in the twinkling night was a comet. It shone brighter than any star and its tail pointed over the rooftops like a wintry dagger. The boy had never seen one before and he marvelled at it.

Doctor Spittle pushed himself away from the eyepiece, then hunted in his astrological charts. “It is a sign!” he proclaimed. “Nothing traverses the heavens without due reason. Such celestial omens can herald the birth of a Messiah or announce terrible disasters. Something is afoot as surely as fish have scales and I mean to discover what.” In a fever of excitement he pored over the chart, linking one mystic symbol with another. Then he froze and sat bolt upright.

“Hah!” he screeched, slapping his hands on the window-sill. “You see that comet, dog?” he cried, grabbing hold of Will’s arm and pointing upwards. “That is a harbinger of doom!” And he threw back his head to let loose a high, wicked laugh. “A terrible calamity is about to befall this miserable world.”

4 - A Hideous Task

The church of St Anne at Blackfriars was a plain, stone building. At this late hour its stained glass windows were dark and all was quiet within its cold walls. High in the belfry bats were whispering to one another, nodding sagely and repeating their ancient prophecies. They knew what was to happen this night.

A grim silence lay over the churchyard. It was an untidy, creepy place. The upkeep of the cemetery had been too much for the last minister—what with the war and all the problems that it had brought. He had died a troubled man and now his bones lay in the very soil he had neglected. The subsequent minister had not attempted to tame the jungle either, he was more concerned with saving souls than reclaiming old tombstones from the wild tangle outside. It was Nature herself who now ruled the churchyard. Inside St Anne’s the gospels were preached but beyond its walls the dangerous realm of the old goddess flourished.

A sharp frost laced the night airs. Imelza pulled herself further into the bramble thicket, yet the keen fingers of early winter continued to chill her and she shivered uncontrollably. A large, forgotten headstone was at the heart of the thorny bush and she crawled over to it for shelter. There, beneath the granite scales of a twisting dragon, the ginger cat looked down at her swollen belly and knew the time was near.

“Where is that midwife?” she cried in distress. “The word should have spread through the chain by now!”

The Widow Mogs ambled through the narrow streets. She was a fat old tabby, whose fur was brindled and moth-eaten with age. Her face was framed by folds of flab and her eyes were almost hidden beneath the abundance of skin that surrounded them. She was a slow, dirty animal but her importance in the feline hierarchy could not be denied.

In the entire city of London there were only two cat midwives—the Widow Mogs and Old Ma Wackette. These ugly and miserable creatures were in constant demand to deliver the kittens to first-time mothers. Over the years they had attended innumerable births, yet these two old cats had never clapped eyes on each other. Each had her own territory and woe betide the foolish feline who requested the services of the wrong one. London was thus divided into two camps: those delivered by Widow Mogs and those by Old Ma Wackette. It was a strange loyalty that lasted throughout a cat’s life: if they had been a Mogs’ kitten then so would their children and the same was true for a Wackette’s.

The tower of St Anne’s now reared above the Widow Mogs and she blinked her tiny emerald eyes at its tall black shape. “Stupid ruddy place to choose, isn’t it, Peachy?” she said scornfully. “What silly little bint ’ave we got tonight then, my old chuck? They don’t learn, do they? These young know-it-all missies are all the same. We seen each an’ every one, ain’t we, Peachy?”

Widow Mogs always talked like this. Peachy had been the pet name for her husband who had perished long ago. But from the day he died she had continued to chat to him. It was a harmless habit of hers and nobody minded so long as she continued to do her work properly—besides, Old Ma Wackette was supposed to be even battier than she was.

Muttering in this fashion to her long-dead mate, the midwife entered the churchyard and passed through the deep shadows of the brambles and headstones. “Mogs is here!” she cried. “Where are you, my petal? Mogs can’t help you if she can’t find you! Mew up, my sweet.”

Imelza flicked her ears and raised her head. “Here!” she called. “Over here!”

“Fine place for a litter, we don’t think—do we Peachy?” grumbled the Widow Mogs pushing through the thorns. “What’s wrong with a nice dry attic or stable loft, that’s what we’d like to know. Never heard of such a thing, out in the cold an’ with winter settin’ in as well. Shame on the little madam. Oooh, there you are, chucky.”

At last the midwife had found Imelza. She plopped her bottom on the cold ground and eyed the beautiful ginger cat with a professional glance.

“Seems the chain was right for once then,” she said drily. “Makes a change that, doesn’t it, Peachy? You are near ain’tcha, darlin’?” She stretched out a paw and touched Imelza’s large stomach. “Them’s ready to pop right out,” she clucked knowingly. “We got ’ere just in time. Now don’t you worry none, I know what I’m doin’. Just get comfy and breathe easy.”

Imelza felt better now that she was not alone. She lay her head down and did as she was told.

“Wait a bit, wait a bit!” the midwife said in an agitated manner. “I don’t do nothing fer free, you know. Before I starts I wants payin’. You know the conditions, dearie—Mogs always dines before she delivers. I don’t want to appear callous but what if something should go wrong and you snuff it my love? I’ll have come all this way fer nothin’. Fair’s fair as my Peachy always says.”

Imelza clutched her stomach as the pains increased. A loud miaow issued from her throat but she struggled to control the agony for a moment. “Here,” she began haltingly, “see, I keep my... my part of the bargain.” Carefully she rolled over and dragged a dead sparrow from under her. It was the only thing she had caught in days and to part with it was a terrible wrench, yet she knew she must.

The midwife’s eyes shone as she snatched it from her. “Ooh look at that, Peachy,” she cackled. “Nice birdy—your favourite, remember.” The fat old cat spent the next few minutes crunching and chewing on this delicacy, whilst Imelza groaned and cried beside her.

“There now,” said the Widow Mogs as she pulled a feather from her lips. I’ll see to you my little one. Put your trust in me. I’ve been seein’ to kit-kits since before you were born.”

The minutes ticked by as the midwife assisted Imelza. “Won’t be much longer now,” she said soothingly, “and then you’ll have a lovely little family all yer own.”

Many times the ginger cat threw back her head and screamed with the pain. Her teeth ground together and her eyes rolled in the sockets as she snatched in her breath. She had never imagined it would be like this and at one point thought she would faint away. Then, as she strained and pushed, her golden eyes stared up at the night sky and beheld the comet swinging over the city. Its fierce white light was mirrored in her eyes and curved over them, blazing and dazzling into her mind. Suddenly all her pain vanished. All she was aware of was that cold radiance above and nothing else seemed to matter.

“Lovely!” chirruped the Widow Mogs gleefully. “Look, my dear you’ve a fine little lad—a stronger little tyke I ain’t never seen in all my years of wifferin’. He’s a beauty, with your very own colour.” Holding up the tiny bundle she began licking it clean. The kitten wriggled and squirmed at the touch of her rough tongue and before she could finish the job he leapt from her grasp and nuzzled against his mother.

Imelza stirred from her trance-like state and shook the memory of the comet from her mind. A great smile split her face when she saw her fine young son rubbing his chin against her.

“Ooh,” called the midwife excitedly, “here’s another, my dear. Why ’tis a little girl. My but she’s a darlin’ honey—turn many a head she will when the time comes.” This kitten she clutched tightly to herself and would not let go till every inch had been cleaned.

She was a lovely creature whose fur was a subtle tortoiseshell and when she opened her tiny mouth to mew it was the sweetest voice ever heard in that dreary churchyard.

The Widow Mogs placed the newborn next to her brother and congratulated Imelza. “There now, t’weren’t so difficult was it, my pretty? You’ll make a fine mother I’m sure. What a perfect little family you got, makes my old eyes glad to see it does. Well now you’re bedded down I’ll leave you in peace, but you make sure you find some shelter and soon.”

Imelza purred contentedly as she gently turned her children over with her nose. They were indeed a beautiful pair of kittens and she felt herself truly blessed. Suddenly her eyes widened and she gasped as a new pain seized her. “It is not over yet!” she cried. “I feel one more inside!”

The midwife frowned. “Ooh Peachy,” she whispered, “did you hear that? It don’t sound good that don’t. Let me see, Mogs’ll help yer.”

Imelza screeched and her claws ripped up the soil around her as she gulped the air down. With a concerned look on her face the midwife stared at the kitten which was emerging. One more squeal from Imelza and it was through.

A feeble lump of skin and bone lay motionless on the ground. Widow Mogs sniffed at it and sneered with disdain. “Runt,” she muttered scornfully.

“Let me see,” begged Imelza.

“Don’t you worry yourself over it, petal,” the midwife told her sternly. “Such things do happen. The nasty thing has no place in the wild world. You’ve two lovelies already there, pay no heed to thissun—it won’t last long. The sooner it perishes the better for all.”

Imelza was horrified. “Give me my child!” she yelled.

The Widow Mogs blinked at her in surprise. “It won’t do you any good, dearie,” she told her flatly. “Sickly little things like this are best left to die. No use bringing weaklings into the world now, is there?” She leaned forward and whispered casually, “If you wish, I could take it away with me, save upsetting yerself. I knows how to get rid of rubbish like this.”

The ginger cat stared at her; she knew exactly what this vile old creature would do with her baby. “Get away from me!” she screamed. “Get you gone, you hideous old bloodsucker! Go find some other prey before I sharpen my claws on your face!”

The midwife scuttled out of the thicket fearing for her life. She had never been spoken to like that before. Why was the mother taking such offence? Everyone knew the privileges that came with wifferin’. Once she was safely out in the churchyard she stuck her tail haughtily into the air and strolled away with all the dignity she could muster.

Imelza pulled the runt towards her and gazed at it. The trembling kitten was another boy, only his fur was black as sable. She smiled ruefully; he had his father’s colouring and that endeared him to her. Tenderly she licked him and his thin voice bleated up at her. “Seems your brother got all your strength,” she sighed, “and your sister all the good looks. Well, I’ll not see you die, little one.”

With her three children tucked round her, Imelza gave thought to the weeks ahead. She had to find shelter, yet how could she leave them to do so?

Will looked warily about him; the dark streets did little to ease the dread which filled his heart. Strange how this, the first time he had been allowed out of the apothecary’s shop, should terrify him so. But the errand he had been sent on would make the strongest shiver in his boots. He tried not to think of it but the grisly thoughts were impossible to shake off.

Over a week had passed since the comet had faded from the sky and during that time Doctor Spittle had been true to his word. Will had been made to work even harder than before. His duties now included helping the alchemist with his unnatural experiments and he spent many a sleepless night watching the noxious mixtures bubble and boil. His eyes smarted from the fumes and his throat was sore from the endless clouds of coloured smoke.

He had been practically useless in the shop lately and on one occasion actually fell asleep whilst grinding some herbs. Grey circles ringed his bloodshot eyes and he seemed a shadow of his former self. The only person who had noticed this and cared enough to mention it was the young woman, Molly.

She had visited the shop twice since he had first seen her and on both these occasions she had exhibited a great knowledge of all the things on the shelves. Molly had taken one look at Will and immediately upbraided Doctor Spittle for overworking him.

“You’ll slave him straight into the grave, you old demon!” she had stormed. “Look at the poor lad, he’s almost done in. Give him food and let him rest.”

Her words may have had some effect on the alchemist for he became more generous with Will’s meals and the nocturnal vigils grew fewer. Will liked Molly enormously; she was the one bright ray that entered the dismal shop. Once, when Doctor Spittle was engrossed in the attic room, she and Will had spent half an hour chatting amiably. It was marvellous how she managed to put him at ease and he almost blurted out all his tragic history without realising. Luckily they were interrupted by another customer, yet for a long time afterwards Will found himself wondering if he could have trusted her. With so much treachery and deceit in the city it was odd that there should be someone like Molly. Perhaps next time he would tell her something of his past.

His footsteps echoed through the grim gloom. It was not far now. What a ghastly mission to be on. It was past midnight, all godly folk were in bed and only a few windows were still aglow. Along Paternoster Row he trailed, then down Warwick Lane until the high walls surrounding Ludgate came in view. Here he stopped, daunted by the gruesome and disgusting task that lay ahead. If only he could run, all he had to do was keep going through that gateway and not turn back. But the face of the alchemist flitted before his eyes and the words he had spoken before despatching the lad hissed in his ears once more.

“Should you decide to seize this chance and escape me, know that I shall not rest till all the devils of Hell have tormented you and fetched you back here.”

Will’s stomach turned over. He had to do this horrible thing and he bitterly regretted those hasty words he had spoken to Doctor Spittle that evening in the attic room. Yes, he could certainly go places the old man could not, but he had no idea that those rash promises would lead him down this dark and damning road. Quietly he prayed to God for courage and strength.

Ludgate prison was silent at this late hour. The narrow, barred windows were blind to both the night and the boy who ventured into the courtyard before them. Stealthily he tiptoed nearer, his attention fixed on that which had drawn him. There it was, the terrible structure which had taken the lives of so many men, women and children—the gallows!

Starkly it rose before the impregnable walls, an ugly black scaffold. It was a frightening and imposing threshold to death and there, swinging gently from the cross beam, was its most recent victim.

Will thanked the Lord that the moon was clouded this night, for if he had seen the face of that unfortunate man he would have surely died himself.

With his heart in his mouth he crept up, mounting the wooden stairs to the platform, until the fearsome apparition was within reach. The dark silhouette suspended above him cast a horror over his soul and he could not believe that he had actually come this far. The dead man’s feet were level with his chest and Will noticed with disgust that someone had stolen the corpse’s boots. He cursed the unknown thief then realised that he was no better. Doctor Spittle’s orders were clear and the boy knew what he must do. The alchemist had sent him out to fetch the hair from a hanged man’s head.

Shuddering, Will crossed to one of the main support beams and began to climb. Up he went, splinters from the rough wood jabbing into his palms and spiking his cheek, until he was high enough. From here he could reach out and... a trembling hand delved into his pocket and pulled out a pair of scissors.

“Forgive me, Lord,” he murmured, “I do not wish to harry the dead.” His shaking hand stretched towards the downcast head and the scissor blades opened. “Please sir,” he said, “do not haunt me for what I am about to do.”

Snip.

A lock of lank hair fell into his palm but at that moment the clouds drew away from the moon and the ghostly light fell directly upon the dead man’s face.

It was a terrifying mask of death: the tongue lolled from the bloodless lips and the skin was ashen grey. Yet what petrified Will the most were the man’s eyes. They bulged out of their sockets and were turned straight towards him in an accusing stare.

The boy screamed and fell from the beam, landing with a crash on the platform. The rope which held the man creaked and the shadows that danced over the hideous face made it look as though he were laughing. Will screamed again and in an instant lamps were lit in the windows of the prison.

“Who’s that out there?” called a guard.

“There’s someone messin’ about at the gallows—look!”

“Call the nightwatchman!”

“Catch the miserable little fiend!”

An answering call came from the other side of the courtyard as the alerted nightwatchman came running, wielding a stout cudgel in his fist.

Will scrambled from the stage but Arnold Strogget, the nightwatchman, had seen him. “Stop, in the name of the King!” he bawled. The boy took no notice and fled into the street. “Come back here you devil!” snarled Master Strogget and he chased after for all he was worth.

Down the narrow lanes Will ran and behind him he heard the grunts and fierce shrieks of the nightwatchman. A desperate terror was on the boy and he spurred himself on. But the conditions he had been forced to endure soon took their toll. He was tired, undernourished and his legs were weak. Realising that his strength was failing he searched for somewhere to hide. But the moonlight flooded every corner of the street, banishing the shadows and denying him refuge. With the blood thumping in his temples he turned a corner and saw his salvation.

There was the church of St Anne—but Will had eyes only for its graveyard. Into the wild forest of bushes and brambles he tore, leaping over tombs and diving under branches. Feverishly he wriggled into a dense clump of gorse then curled himself into a ball and held his breath.

He could hear the nightwatchman panting up the road. With any luck he would continue right past and not think to search the cemetery. But fortune was not smiling on Will that night, for as the man slowed down to catch his breath he gave thought to the cover the churchyard might give. He peered up the street just to make sure, then smiled. If the boy was still running he would surely be able to hear him. There was only one place he could be now. Arnold Strogget tapped his cudgel expectantly against the church wall and entered.

From his hiding place Will could hear him stride through the grass. He dared not move for he would give his position away and before he had crawled out of the gorse bush the man would be upon him. He was in a terrible state and with the shock of what he had just done still reeling in his head, the sweat which streamed down his face was icy cold.

A dreadful crashing sound made him cower even further into the gorse. The nightwatchman was sweeping his cudgel through the bushes as he advanced. Will sobbed from fear. Soon he would be discovered and dragged away to join that poor man on the gallows. His fingers closed about his own throat as if he could already feel the rope tighten round his neck. Still Master Strogget advanced, drawing nearer with every swipe and thrust.

Master Arnold liked to give felons a good bashing and he put all his might behind the swings of the cudgel. The thickets bowed before him and he grinned with pleasure—that perishing little ghoul deserved all he got. “Disturb the dead would yer?” he shouted at the undergrowth. I‘ll learn yer not to thieve. Break yer fingers for it I will.” And he lashed out even more viciously as if to demonstrate.

“AAAEEEOOOWWW!”

The nightwatchman froze. He had never heard a sound like that before. It was a horrid, shrill cry that screeched round the churchyard and curdled his blood.

“What was that?” he muttered.

“AAAEEEOOOWWW!!”

“Save us!” he stammered glancing nervously about him. “That does sound like nothing from this world.” Perhaps what he was chasing was not a person after all. What if some undead horror had wormed out of its cold grave to visit the living? “Steady Arnold,” he told himself, “don’t let your brain get overheated. Things like that don’t happen.” But he was woefully ill at ease and his flesh crawled. The graveyard now appeared sinister and full of deep shadows where anything might be lurking. A breeze swayed the branches of a gnarled oak tree and the bushes all around began to rustle. The man clutched his cudgel with both hands. “Where are yer wits?” he asked himself. “’S only the wind, nought to be sceered of...”

“AAAEEEOOOWWW!”

That was it. With a final shriek Arnold Strogget leapt into the air and hurtled from the churchyard.

Still in his hiding place Will bit his lip—he wanted to get away too. The sound was nightmarish. Was it one of Doctor Spittle’s demons come to torment him? Bravely he waited till he was sure the nightwatchman had gone, then squirmed out of the gorse bush.

The high-pitched wail was sent up again and Will staggered through the thorns to escape the unseen monster. And then the cry changed. This time it was sorrowful and forlorn, sounding like an animal in pain.

Will halted. Should he find out what it was? If there was indeed some poor creature lying there in agony he could hardly ignore it. Hesitating, he moved towards the sound, hoping it was not a devil playing a trick to lure him into its den. One more plaintive whimper convinced him that it was not and he made for a great bramble thicket at the rear of the cemetery.

Kneeling on the damp ground he stared through the knotted twigs and his heart was moved to pity. For there, by an ornate tombstone, was Imelza—half dead with the cold and starvation. Alongside her were three kittens, but they looked as though the midwinter death had already claimed them. The ginger cat lifted her once lovely face and gazed unsteadily at the boy. One feeble mew was all she could manage before her head slumped onto her chest and her eyes closed.

“Poor puss,” Will tutted, “all alone with your little ones.” Glumly he sat back and for several minutes stared at the pathetic little group in silence. Then, before he realised what he was doing, he found himself dragging the brambles out of the way.

It was a difficult, painful task and his fingers bled from the sharp thorns. But at last a space was made wide enough for him to reach in. Holding the kittens in his cupped hands Will breathed his warm breath on them. They were all still alive—but only by the slenderest of threads. Gently he popped each one into his pockets then took the mother in his arms.

“Don’t you worry now,” he told her. “I can take you somewhere dry and warm tonight, though I don’t know what old Spittle will say.”

Imelza snuggled into the crook of his arm. The past week had been the worst she had ever experienced. Never had she been so hungry or so weak. The kittens seemed to have drained all her energy and she found hunting impossible. One puny mouse was all she had eaten in the last fortnight and no longer was she the fairest cat this side of the river. Now her once beautiful, well-defined features were pinched and careworn and her ribs showed through the fur.

She had finally given up all hope and was about to surrender herself to ‘He that walks in darkness’—that terrible presence which waits in the shadows and whom every cat knows it will meet one day. It was to this grim spirit that Imelza was calling, submitting her life to him, acknowledging his claim to her at last. This unearthly invitation was what the nightwatchman and Will had heard. But when Imelza had looked up to see the face of the dreaded one, she had beheld only that of a human child.

Sighing, she thanked whatever chance had brought him to her—people did have their uses after all.

Will stroked her softly and made his way out of the churchyard. Ludgate was buzzing like a stirred up wasps’ nest so he avoided the area and skirted round St Paul’s on his way back to the apothecary shop. All he had to do now was persuade the alchemist to let them stay.

The face of Doctor Spittle was pressed up against the window when Will arrived. It looked like a comical gargoyle but wisely Will did not laugh. The old man blinked when he saw the boy and scowled at the bundle in his arms. Hastily the face withdrew and he rushed to open the door and drag him inside.

“Where’ve you been?” he roared. “It’s taken you an age. Did you get it? What’s that you have there?”

Will answered the questions all at once in a rush of explanation. “I was chased by the nightwatchman, I had to hide, yes I’ve got it though I didn’t like doing it and this is a cat.”

“Well get rid of it!” snapped the old man. “Let me have the lock of hair.”

The boy placed Imelza on the sacking in front of the dying fire and, one by one, took the kittens from his pockets.

“More of the vermin?” squealed the alchemist, agitated to distraction. “Take them out of my shop at once!”

When all the kittens had been placed round their mother Will gave Doctor Spittle the hair he had cut from the dead man’s head. The old man snatched it greedily and gave it a tentative sniff. “You sure he didn’t have the smallpox?” he asked with a sudden suspicion. Will nodded and the alchemist almost skipped with glee.

“I want to keep them,” the boy said daringly. Doctor Spittle glared at him but quickly he carried on. “They’re cold and starving; they would have perished if they’d stayed outside one more night.”

“Better that than come in here stealing heat from my fire. Let them die. Put them in a sack and drown them in the Fleet.”

“I will not!”

The old man stepped forward, his eyes gleaming. “Defiance is it, my young dog? Well, we know what happens if you don’t obey me—don’t we?”

“But I thought you would be pleased,” Will cried.

Doctor Spittle stared at him confused. “Pleased? Why should I be pleased to have flea-bitten animals brought under my roof?”

“You’re a magician, aren’t you?”

“Alchemist—I’ve told you before.”

“Well, don’t they have familiars?”

There was a pause and the old man ran his fingers over his bald patch. “Here’s a notion,” he mumbled. “A familiar. Yes, all the greats possessed familiars—why not I? Interesting, I wonder if anyone has ever measured the intelligence of the feline. It would be fascinating to see how far I could train one.” He took a fresh look at the kittens and stooped to examine them. “This female won’t do, and as for the runt, I find his ugliness distasteful. I could never work with it—the nasty little leech. What have we here though? A fine specimen this is—see how much stronger the ginger kitten is? Yes I like him. There is some blue milk upstairs—they can have that. They will not sleep down here. I don’t want my customers tripping over them in the morning. They shall remain in the attic—I have my experiments to continue with tonight so I can keep an eye on them up there.” With that he scooped up the cats and ascended the staircase.

When he was alone Will sighed with relief. He understood the whims and vanities of Doctor Spittle enough by now to know how to get round him. At least the cats would be warm and fed tonight—he just hoped the old man wouldn’t get bored with them. What would happen when he realised a cat could not be trained in the magic arts? Yawning, he decided that this was a problem which he would have to solve some other time. At the moment he was far too tired to think any more. It had been an exhausting and perilous night for him and, as soon as he curled up on the sacking, the boy fell into a disturbed and fitful sleep.

5 - A Dragon in the Rags

The dawn was grey and cold; its dismal light poked through the diamond panes of the attic window and fanned across the cluttered room. Imelza opened one eye and took in her surroundings. She and her kittens lay by the hearth, where a pot bubbled over the fire and sent peculiar blue smoke up the chimney. For a while she was content merely to gaze at the cheering flames and be glad they were all still alive.

“So, you’re with us at last, madam,” came a voice behind her.

Imelza turned her head. Amid the bizarre clutter of the room she saw an old man and then she remembered, it was he who had fed her the previous night. The cat did not like the look of him. She had known enough humans to be able to tell which of them were trustworthy—this one appeared cruel and shifty. Warily she watched as he cackled and addressed her once more.

“I hope you spent a pleasant night in my attic,” he said, “I have grand plans for that fine son of yours. He could be of the greatest use to me.” Doctor Spittle crouched beside her and reached down to stroke the ginger kitten.

Imelza eyed him with caution and her claws slid out in readiness. Her son struggled uncomfortably at the touch of the old man’s hand but he picked him up anyway. Imelza’s ears flattened against her skull and she hissed at the human to return her child.

“Tush, tush,” Doctor Spittle muttered, “I won’t harm him.” He stared at the kitten in his grubby hands then gave him back to his mother. “A remarkable youngster you have there, madam,” he told her, “but I must give him a name. A familiar must be called something dignified and noble. A character from legend perhaps, Zeus or Hermes? No, I always preferred the Roman gods—they were more vengeful and merciless.” A wide and toothy grin cracked his face as he clapped his hands together. “Aha!” he shrieked. “Henceforth your son shall be known as Jupiter! A fine and glorious name indeed.”

Imelza licked her son’s face and he raised his tawny eyes to her. She thought ‘Jupiter’ sounded ridiculous. Still it was not up to her to name her children. Cats are peculiar creatures, they never name their young. It is their belief that a kitten should choose its own when the time is right. They can go through life with a thousand titles but having only one true name. Gently Imelza purred into the small ginger ear which rubbed against her chin. “Jupiter will do for the present,” she whispered. Take it to please the human, so that he will give us food. When the winter is over we shall leave this place.”

Doctor Spittle studied them keenly, wondering what thoughts, if any, trickled through a cat’s mind. He congratulated himself on his choice of familiar—that one would grow up to be the strongest of the litter. The smile faded from his lips however when an ugly, black face reared over Imelza’s side. There was that puny little runt. Its head was too large for its sickly body to support, so it wavered and wobbled like some poisonous plant bending in the breeze. The alchemist pulled an unpleasant expression—it really should have been drowned or had its scrawny neck wrung.

“Look at it,” he spat. “See how it gazes round. I hate the wretched, loathsome thing. ’Tis more of a slug than a cat! Leech is the name I give to thee!”

Imelza put a paw round her weak child and comforted him. “Fear not, my dear one,” she purred. “I shall let no harm come to you.” The runt blinked, then his livid green eyes slid slyly towards the alchemist. Something spiteful and malevolent was kindled in those emerald depths but quickly he buried his face in his mother’s fur.

The sound of footsteps came pattering up the stairs and the crimson door of the attic slowly opened. Will peeped in and was obviously relieved to find them all still alive. Doctor Spittle lifted his eyebrows and looked at the boy questioningly. “What is it, dog?” he grumbled. “Have you not got enough to occupy yourself?”

“I was just... wondering how the cats were,” he replied.

The old man sneered. “Wondering if I’d killed them, you mean,” he chuckled nastily. “Well I’ve been too preoccupied with my work to do that.” He dragged his hand wearily over his eyes and waved at the pot over the fire. “Another failure. For my very life I can see no way forward in this; my experiments have come to nought. It would seem that the Philosopher’s Stone will be eternally out of my reach.”

He pointed at Imelza and said, “At any rate, madam there has been fed and so have her young. You can see they are all hale and hearty. The ginger one I shall train as my familiar. Jupiter is his name now, after the Roman supreme ruler of Heaven—Jovis Pater. Oh yes, and the runt is called Leech.”

“What about the other?”

Doctor Spittle turned his attention to the girl kitten. “The markings of the tortoiseshell are very beautiful,” he grudgingly admitted. “The subtle dabs and splashes of cinnamon on her lustrous coat are quite magnificent. And yet I have no interest in her. Jupiter I named because it is only proper for a familiar. Leech was a different matter. I hate the vile abomination—and you cannot curse what has no name.”

He leaned back in his chair and took up a faded manuscript mumbling, “If you wish, you may name the girl yourself. I must pore over my work to see where my research has gone astray—perhaps there was something I overlooked.”

The boy knelt beside Imelza and scratched behind her ear. She liked that and pushed against his hand for more. This human was better, she told herself.

Doctor Spittle grunted to himself as he studied the scrolls before him. He was so engrossed that he was oblivious to everything, in fact he had forgotten they were there at all.

Will patted the tortoiseshell’s head then tickled her under the chin. “I think because of your markings I’ll call you Dab,” he said.

From the shop below there came an impatient cry. A customer had arrived. Both Will and Doctor Spittle ran out of the attic and rushed downstairs.

Imelza breathed deeply; it was good to be alone at last with her children.

“Hoy!” squeaked a voice from above.

Imelza started and looked up at once. There was so much hanging from the sloping rafters that it was some time before she found where the voice had come from.

“Hoy! You! Tigerstripe!”

“Sshh!” urged another.

At last her gleaming eyes fell upon the two cages and poking out of one of them was the furry face of a black rat. At once Imelza’s hunting instinct tingled through her. It was kind of the humans to provide her with live food. She rose and stretched herself before prowling beneath the cages.

“Flesh,” she purred hungrily. “Flesh that dangles from above—most tantalising. I desire to prick it with my claws and let the blood spurt out.”

“Hah!” scoffed the rat fearlessly. “You tigers always after Heliodorus’s bones. Well he not let you have them see, not never. I tell you now to keep well clear of him. He have long teeth to nip off your nosey.”

“Why don’t you hush up, you daft ’ead?” came the cry from the other cage.

“Pah!” snorted the black rat. “You cringey coward—I not afraid not never.”

Heliodorus was a proud black rat. He spoke with a thick accent, picked up from all the characters he had met throughout his life. Before the alchemist had captured him he had been a nomad—one of those solitary individuals who make no place their home and who travel endlessly. There was nothing he liked better than starting a new journey, climbing the mooring rope of a great ship and scurrying into the dark hold. His bright, beady eyes had seen strange exotic sights and his ears had been scorched by tropical suns. Yes, Heliodorus could tell tales of the mysterious East and of the monstrous creatures that live in the boundless seas. But now he was a prisoner, trapped in a tiny cage.

Imelza laughed at his threats and paced restlessly beneath him. Her muscles tensed and she leapt into the air. The cage lurched and tipped as her sharp claws hooked round the bars. The ginger cat dangled precariously from it, but the thrill of the kill was burning in her now. It had been too long since her last hunt.

“Prepare for death,” Imelza gurgled.

Heliodorus stood back as the large ginger head reared into view. The golden eyes flashed maliciously at him, but to her consternation he seemed unafraid. She glanced at the other cage and saw there a fat brown rodent who was visibly shaking with terror. That was more like it—she’d teach this foolish one that that was the proper way to behave.

Imelza pushed her nose through the bars and bared her fangs. The black rat did a strange, brazen sort of dance then lashed out with his claws, slapping her nostrils and roaring with laughter. “Away, foul Tigerstripe!” he boomed. “You not chew on me today!”

The cat let out a startled squawk at this assault to her nose and lost her grip on the bars. With a wail she tumbled backwards and fell to the floor.

Heliodorus crowed with glee and blew a loud raspberry. Imelza glared up. She had never met with such impudence before.

The rat turned to the other cage and chattered to its occupant. “There!” he proclaimed. “That is the way to face the enemy. I snap my fingers in its face and defy it! Heliodorus knows—he strong. Tigerstripe not eat of him. He not be in cat belch—not never!”

Imelza curled up before the hearth with her children. One day, she promised herself, she would grind that rat’s bones.

Days and weeks slid by and the calendar moved into January. During the day the apothecary shop was very busy. All manner of folk streamed in to find cures for colds or agues brought on by the bitter weather. Whilst in the dead of night, the only window illuminated in the whole of London was that of the attic room. There Doctor Spittle pursued his alchemical dreams, but all to no avail. Experiment after experiment ended in failure and his disgraceful language was hot enough to melt the frost on the windows.

Will witnessed a gradual change in him as time went by. He became more desperate and despairing as each attempt to find the Philosopher’s Stone resulted in disaster. His black tempers became more frequent and sometimes the boy would awake in the middle of the night to hear the old man crashing round the attic room screaming at the top of his voice. Then he would hear the screech of a cat as it was kicked from corner to corner. There was nothing he could do to prevent this, for he knew better than to go against Doctor Spittle when he was in such a mood. Instead he would block up his ears and try to think of something else, some fairer time when his parents were still alive and he had never heard of London.

All this while the kittens grew and flourished, but they learned to mistrust the old man who brewed his formulae over the fire. Except perhaps Jupiter—the alchemist was kinder to him than to the others. As he measured out the ingredients for his doomed quest he would talk to the ginger kitten, explaining what he was doing. And Jupiter would sit on the table beside him listening, fascinated and intrigued by the great knowledge the human possessed. He wished with all his heart that he could know only half as much.

Imelza was not sure if she liked her son taking such an interest in human affairs but she said nothing while the winter was still upon them. Dab was content, like her mother, to sit before the hearth and bide her time. She was already becoming a graceful and beautiful creature and her lustrous coat grew more lovely every day. Doctor Spittle left her alone so she had no strong dislike for him. Leech, however, despised the old man with every waking moment. He often bore the brunt of a failed experiment and came to fear the alchemist’s slippered feet. Never was a kitten more afraid of its master, yet a further shadow was beginning to blacken the runt’s heart. Leech was jealous of the way Jupiter was being instructed and he began to harbour a bitter grudge against his brother.

Then, one day, fate stepped in and events began to take a more ghastly turn.

It was a bright wintry morning in the apothecary’s shop. Will was just sealing a large jar of preserves when Sir Francis Lingley sauntered in. He was dressed more richly than usual, having had good fortune of late and rising higher in the esteem of the King. His silks that morning were the colour of daffodils and his velvet cloak a luxuriant wine red.

When Doctor Spittle hastened to assist him Sir Francis stepped back in disgust. “Mon Dieu!” he cried. “Look at you, man! Vous avez l’air d’un mendiant. Are your finances so bad that you needs must dress so shabbily?” With his forefinger daintily extended, he pointed at the alchemist’s grimy clothes. They were stained with chemicals and burned by acids. “Vous êtes une disgrâce!” he laughed scornfully. “I might just take my custom elsewhere—it is not fitting for someone in my position to be seen dealing with the likes of you. Bonjour!” He turned on his heel, took a sniff at a lace handkerchief as if dispelling the memory of so odious a confrontation, then left.

Doctor Spittle’s face was terrible to behold. His lips were drawn back in a hideous snarl and his cheeks flushed a dark purple. Will thought he was going to burst. As soon as Sir Francis passed out of sight the alchemist bellowed and the force behind his voice made the very pots on the shelves shake and clink together.

“How dare he!” he stormed. “How dare that poxy Jack-a-Dandy come in here and ridicule me with his simpering French phrases!” He coursed through the shop, kicking over jars and bottles until one smashed and a quantity of black syrup oozed over the floor.

“I’ll give him something to worry about! It’ll take more than a toad squeezing to fix him this time. I’ll have to think up something truly uncomfortable for him to suffer from.” The old man shook his fist at the door then paused as he caught sight of his frayed sleeve. “Alas,” he moaned, “my garments are indeed the worse for wear. Too long have I been absorbed in my work.”

A smile quickly lit his face as though he had come to a sudden decision. “Yes, that would do it—better than a thousand warts. But I shall have to be patient.” He crossed to the door which led upstairs. “Clean this mess!” he ordered Will before rushing up to his bedchamber.

Will could hear him dragging all his clothes from the wardrobe and flinging them around, screaming at the top of his voice. “Tat!” he bawled. “Nothing but threadbare rags—that’s all I ever wear! I’d burn the lot if the flames would deign to take it. Hang the Lingleys of this world! One day I’ll have money enough to buy more silks and frills than his miniscule mind has ever imagined.”

The boy knelt down and busied himself cleaning the floor. He did not hear the door open, so when the friendly voice said, “A merry morning to you,” he jumped and fell flat on his face, right into the sticky syrup.

“Oh, forgive me!” Molly apologised helping the boy to his feet. Will groaned; treacly, black goo covered his face and dripped from his nose. With a shiver he felt it slide under his collar and down the back of his neck. The young woman gasped at the state he was in; but gradually a grin appeared which in turn was replaced by a titter, then a giggle, until she was laughing and holding her sides.

Will glared at her indignantly but then he too collapsed in a fit of laughter. All the tension and strain vanished during that mad moment and for a short time he felt like a young boy again. He was seized by that carefree joy which he had not felt since the day he had assumed the mantle of adulthood in Mr Balker’s parlour. Molly’s laughter was infectious and every time she caught a glimpse of his glistening, syrupy face a fresh, uncontrollable fit took hold of her.

Their mirth was suddenly curtailed when Doctor Spittle raged downstairs. “What—you again?” he yelled at Molly. “Have you no better occupation than pestering my apprentice?”

The giggles subsided and Will hid his smiling face in case the old man thought they were making fun of him.

But the alchemist was too preoccupied to notice as he hurried to the door with a look of grim determination. “See to this customer then send her on her way, dog!” he said with a scowl. “Only take care she pays for what she takes!” Then he strode out of the shop and hurried down the alley.

“Nice to see you too!” Molly called after him. “What’s rattled him this day? I ain’t seen ’im in such a hot temper for a year or more.”

“He’s feeling sorry for himself,” Will explained.

“Sir Francis Lingley was in before.”

“Oh that one,” she tutted.

“Do you know him then?”

“I did once,” she replied and the smile faded from her lips. “When I first came to London he was... a friend of mine.” She fell silent and stared out of the window, remembering those days as a wide-eyed girl seeing the great city for the first time. A lot of things had happened since then; her heart had been broken three times by men who had deceived her, and those beautiful eyes of hers had cried themselves raw on many occasions. Molly finally knew the cruel ways of the city and how to deal with the harshness of life. She had been forced to learn the hard way, yet somehow had managed to survive. She was wiser now, and a little older. No man would take her for a fool any more and her fractured heart was impervious to honeyed words and a dashing smile.

The young woman stirred and shook her blonde hair, banishing those painful times with one quick movement. “Still, that was an age ago,” she told Will, “and I’m right glad of that. Thought more of his own looks than he ever did of mine. He ain’t no proper gentleman either—meaning he ain’t got no land nor nothin’. All he owns is a chest full of fancy clothes and a couple of rooms near Whitehall. That’s how the court works see—you gets all these hangers-on who flatter and fawn till they get noticed by the King who shows his pleasure by givin’ ’em titles and whatnot. No, that Frank is no better than you or I—worse most like, seein’ as how he was born the son of a Stepney innkeeper.”

“Stepney?” Will echoed. “But I thought he was French—the way he talks.”

“French! Him?” gurgled Molly. “If he’s French then I’m the Queen of Spain! Bless you Will, that’s just a fashion at court. The King lived in France for some time you see, whilst old Crommel was still alive. So His Majesty likes things to be Frenchified. Frank might spout a few easy phrases here an’ there but he couldn’t hold a proper conversation with a true Frenchy. Nothing is what it seems, Will lad—that’s a lesson you ought to learn if you work for old Spittle.”

A cold shudder passed through the boy. “Nothing is what it seems,”—that was what his father used to say. It unnerved him hearing it now in that dank shop.

His reaction was not lost on Molly. She put her hand on his and asked gently, “You all right? Did I say summat I shouldn’t? I’m not saying’ old Spittle’s a saint but he wouldn’t hurt you I’m sure. Don’t fret now.”

Will wiped the syrup from his face. “It wasn’t that,” he said. “I was just thinking of my family.”

She wrinkled her pretty nose at him. “Ahh, won’t that old skinflint let you go an’ see them? I knowed you were here at Christmas—couldn’t he have spared you even then? I’ll bet your mother misses you something dreadful. Whereabouts do your folks live then?”

The boy coughed back a sob and hastily dragged his sleeve over his eyes. “I come from a village called Adcombe,” he mumbled.

There was a pause; for the briefest of moments Molly seemed taken aback. Then she collected herself and breathed, “Adcombe—sounds a small enough place. I’ll wager nothing much happens there.”

“All my family are dead.”

Molly stared at him. “Oh Will,” she sighed, “I’m sorry. It’s not easy when you’re alone, is it? Here, let me get the rest of that stuff off you.” She took a cloth from the counter and dipped it in some water. Then, very gently, she began to clean his face.

Will gazed levelly at the young woman and decided to tell her all about the tragic circumstances which brought him here. “Can I trust you?” he asked abruptly. “Trust you not to tell another living soul what I’m about to say?”

“Course you can,” Molly replied. She was surprised by his earnestness but could see that he was desperate to tell her something. “I cross my heart and hope the Devil gets me if I break a confidence.”

Will stared at the treacly floor. “You know that story about the miller?” he began.

“What, the one where he gets done in by that wicked lad? Oh yes, that’s a favourite of mine that is—gruesome little tale ain’t it? I’ve no liking for millers, they’re always fat and richer than they ought to be. I liked the way this one got...” Her voice faltered as she saw Will turn a deathly pallor. “What is it?” she asked.

“The boy in it was me!” he sobbed. “But it wasn’t like it says. I never killed him. It was those two men. They did him in.”

Molly frowned. “What do you mean. Will? Are you saying that story was about you?”

He nodded fiercely, the choking sobs racking his body. “It was months ago now,” he confided miserably, “but that first night in London was awful. First the horses were stolen and then the miller was murdered. There was nothing I could do and now I’m trapped here and Mr Balker’s dead!”

Molly pulled herself away and the face she turned on Will was paler than his own. “This Mr Balker,” she began in a thin, bleak voice, “was he from Adcombe too?”

“Yes, he was my friend. He travelled with me to London.”

The young woman knelt on the floor and tightly gripped his hands. “Listen to me!” she began sternly, “I want you to tell me everything—from the very beginning. Do you understand?”

Will looked at her doubtfully—there was a dangerous light shining in her eyes and it scared him. He had never seen her like this before and the change was frightening. Her hands were hurting his wrists and though he struggled he could not get loose. Was she going to take him to the magistrate? “You promised not to tell anyone!” he cried. “You swore!”

“Just do as I say!” she shouted furiously. “Or it’ll be the worse for you!”

It was a busy day in the city; horse drawn coaches laboured between the countless, stubborn traders who thronged together. As the carriages ploughed by, the pedlars jostled with each other to reach the window and raised their wares for the occupant to inspect. Very often the milk-white hand of some great lady would throw them a coin or stop the coach altogether whilst she purchased some trinket or other. The narrow lanes were dreadfully congested and the going was slow for both horse and human traffic.

Doctor Spittle pushed his way down the crowded streets. He was like a great black thundercloud charging across the summer sky. Without a care for anyone else, he barged and shoved, kicking those who were not swift enough to get out of his path. Several angry street vendors whirled round when the toe of his boot struck their heels but on seeing his face they leapt aside and let him pass.

“Call me a beggar will he!” the old man fumed. “One day he’ll rue those words.” Scowling with an expression that would curdle cream he left Cheapside, marched up Ironmonger’s Lane and made for Throgmorton Street. After a brief walk, made the briefer by his impatient long strides, the building he sought came into view.

It was a ramshackle, dilapidated hovel, situated on the sharp corner of the road. Long ago it had been daubed a brash, bright blue but now the paint was peeling and cracking from its walls—it was the raghouse.

This was where all the second-hand clothes, curtains, bed linen, wall hangings, handkerchiefs, hats, sacks, carpets, wigs and slippers found their way. Anything remotely useful or even useless could be found within that scruffy little dwelling—but you needed a strong stomach to hunt through its flea-ridden glory.

Doctor Spittle had such a stomach—so long as it was cheap then he would wear it. He had discovered a number of bargains over the years and been the proud new owner of many a hardly used nightgown found in that establishment. Practically all the garments he was wearing that day were originally from there. He had a nose for finding just what he needed and would hunt through the grimy rag heaps like a pig snouting after truffles.

Eagerly he pushed open the faded blue door, stooped under the low lintel and stepped inside.

The old man blinked and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was always dim and gloomy in the raghouse; bundles of dirty material were piled up against the broken windows and blotted out the light, as if in sympathy for the moths that fluttered endlessly around. In this perpetually twilight world the alchemist gazed about him. On every side huge pinnacles of cloth soared up and touched the oak-beamed ceiling. They were great islands of rag, looming out of a tattered, filthy sea of shreds. Not one inch was left uncovered, even the beams had garments dangling from them, and strung from corner to corner, like the web of an immense spider, was a network of twine which in turn supported the weight of a thousand pieces of grubby linen. It was a bizarre spectacle, like the ghostly banners of some ancient coronation or perhaps the washing lines of a hundred witches. Doctor Spittle had often reflected with a wry smile that this place made his own cluttered attic look positively spartan. There was nowhere in London, or probably the world, to compare with this mass of neglected lumber.

He wiped his nose and ducked under one of the grotesque washing lines. The air was stale in here and it stank of rancid fat. On the rare occasion his feet came in contact with the bare floor, it was found to be sticky with the innumerable years of accumulated grease that smeared the endless supply of clothes. Doctor Spittle was used to this, however, and he merely wiped his sole on a nearby stack.

After venturing a little further into the ragged forest he put his hands to his mouth and called out, “Gobtrot?”

Instantly he heard a scuffling, followed by a series of excited barks. The alchemist peered into the gloom ahead and from the shadows there emerged a panting whirlwind of a terrier. It raced over the bundles, scattering handkerchiefs and old ribbons in the rush. Doctor Spittle backed away in alarm, this was not what he was expecting.

The dog flew at him, leaping up as high as it could, his little jaws snapping and trying to bite the old man’s fingers. Once it must have been white in colour but its wiry fur was now grey with dust and dirt.

“Down!” wailed the alchemist raising his arms to avoid those needle-like teeth. The terrier yapped and barked at him, dancing on its hind legs to see where the fingers had disappeared to. Doctor Spittle would have run back to the door there and then if his hands had not become tangled up in the twine above and brought a smelly curtain down on his head. The dog loved this and he seized a corner of the cloth with his teeth then shook it ferociously.

“Bunter!” came a voice. “Stop that at once!”

The terrier took no notice and gave the curtain a terrific yank. The rotted fibres tore and the dog rolled head over heels into a pile of rags. A tatty heap crouched down and picked up the wriggling imp. “Just you behave now,” it said crossly.

Doctor Spittle dragged the curtain from his head and saw the walking bundle shamble towards him.

“Ah—Gobtrot,” he wheezed. “I did think you would not arrive in time. That little cur attacked me!”

From the summit of the unwholesome mass of cloth a face appeared through a tear in the material. The proprietor of the raghouse was a small, fat man. His many wrinkles were clogged with grime like the gutters of a tumbledown house and his pale eyes watered constantly. Wisps of fine, grey hair poked through the hood which covered his head and stiff bristles spiked out of his blobby nose.

“Why, Apothecary Spittle!” he exclaimed, bowing politely. “’T’as been a tidy while since you honoured us with a visit. Don’t worry none about Bunter. He just has a neat little way of welcoming customers he does. But what am I thinking of? I must fetch Mistress Gobtrot and smartish—she’ll be awful glad to see you again.” The exceptional-looking man bowed for a second time, then, with the terrier under his arm, he picked his way between the mountains of jumble that reared around him to an unseen part of the shop.

While he waited. Doctor Spittle fell upon the nearest pile and ferreted through it greedily. Over his shoulder flew all manner of garments as he frantically searched for something suitable. But the only interesting items that his rooting brought to light were several old bones. These he cast distastefully away.

“Ooh, I see Bunter has been up to his little tricks,” came a frail voice. “He’s a treasure really and keeps the rats down something wonderful.” The alchemist turned and there was Mistress Gobtrot.

She was dressed very like her husband, wrapped in the same shabby cloth that made them both resemble supernatural troll creatures from some darkling wood. From these filthy bindings only her head and hands ever appeared. She even looked like Mr Gobtrot, right down to the bristling nose. The only major differences between them were that she was very much thinner, and had also taken to wearing a wig recently. It was a large, wild rook’s nest of a creation that slipped over her eyes if she moved too suddenly. To prevent this happening Mistress Gobtrot had developed a habit of leaning her head back. But this artifice made her look as though she had either broken her neck or was gazing at something fantastically interesting on the ceiling.

Doctor Spittle staggered to greet her. “Madam,” he declared, “how good it is to see you once more. You are a definite tonic to this weary old man.”

She fluttered her dirty hands coyly before her face and lowered her eyes demurely. Immediately the wig slithered down and obscured her vision.

Her husband laughed beside her; this was the way Doctor Spittle always greeted his wife. He had heard it countless times but it never ceased to amuse him. “What’s this?” he chuckled. “Enough of your polished talk, sir. You’ll turn her pretty little head.”

The woman moved the wig back into position and continued the conversation, her grimy face cocked at an awkward angle to prevent further landslides. “Anyways, sir,” she addressed the ceiling, “what was it you wanted this day?”

“A spotless nightgown perhaps?” suggested Mr Gobtrot.

“Sheets maybe?”

“No, no, no!” Doctor Spittle told them, making a grand gesture with his arms. The terrier’s ears perked up as the alchemist’s sleeve brushed past. Doctor Spittle eyed the dog cautiously to make certain it was secure before he carried on. “I’m sick and tired of my mundane wardrobe,” he complained to the Gobtrots. “I want something special. Give me silks—or velvet if you have it.”

“Ooh,” remarked Mistress Gobtrot, clasping her mucky hands in front of her as she pictured the spectacle in her mind. “You’ll look a real diamond in that.” She enthused, “We’ve got a trove of velvet, ain’t we? Just you stay here a moment, Apothecary.” Eager to please, the woman hitched up her grimy skirts and clambered over the tall heaps nearby.

The Gobtrots knew the exact location of everything in the raghouse—nothing existed in that place without their being aware of it. So in tune with their environment were they that they could find the smallest button within five minutes of its being asked for—even if they had not seen it for a year or so. As trees and rivers possess in-dwelling spirits so the Gobtrots were surely the genii of that establishment.

She knelt upon one of the great piles and began dredging into it like a demented rabbit digging a burrow. “Here we are,” she piped up, “lovely green curtains. No? Well here’s a delicious purple cloak—look.” She held it up for the alchemist to see.

“What is that gash down the side?” he inquired.

“’Tis only where a sword stuck into the previous owner, sir,” she replied brightly. “I could easily sew that up for you and I should think those blood stains would come out.”

Doctor Spittle declined the offer.

“What about this then?” she asked holding up a coat of royal blue. “Still got most of its buttons too.”

“That seems to be adequate,” agreed the alchemist.

The woman threw it over to her husband and Doctor Spittle inspected it. The coat was just what he wanted—he would certainly cut a dash in that. Mind you, it did give off a very strong and pungent odour. He shot an accusing glance at the terrier but the little dog wagged its tail innocently.

“Nevertheless, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,” he told himself and, sighing with resignation, he thrust his arms into the sleeves. “Devil take it!” he bawled. “The wretched thing is far too small—do you think I am a dwarf?”

“Don’t you worry now,” assured Mr Gobtrot respectfully, “we’ll scour the shop from top to bottom to supply you with your needs.”

His wife resumed her delving. “There’s an opulent red piece here—oh sorry, it’s a dress. Here’s another cloak—a black one this time.”

As she lifted it up a vast cloud of moths flew from the folds. They were the fattest the alchemist had ever seen and had obviously gorged themselves on the proffered cloak. All that was left of it was a series of tattered strips. “Ooh my!” exclaimed Mistress Gobtrot falling backwards and losing her wig altogether. “They’ve had a good nibble of this.” She rummaged further down and wailed. “They must have been a chomping for years, there’s nothing but scraps under here now.”

“Don’t throw anything away, wife!” called her husband anxiously. “You never know when a certain bit might be wanted.”

“Have you nothing else?” asked Doctor Spittle, swatting the bloated insects which flitted overhead.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” returned Mr Gobtrot glumly. That were all the quality stuff we had in that pile. We’ll be clean out of velvet now. Them moths know a good thing when they bite it.”

“Hang your horses, husband!” called Mistress Gobtrot as she retrieved her rook’s nest and waded back to them. “You’re forgetting that load what came in yesterday. We haven’t shown the apothecary that yet.”

“Well strike me down for being a dullard!” he cried, slapping his temples. “I pure forgot about that. Come with us, sir, we’ve not given up yet.”

So the three of them, not forgetting the terrier, wound their way deep into the heart of the ragged landscape.

Through a range of squalid mountains they trailed, until they came upon a small open space which served as the Gobtrots’ living quarters. It was covered by a canopy of rat-chewed silk that hung from the ceiling. This bizarre awning gave the impression of some windswept tent, pitched in a high, craggy pass. Beneath it there were two stools, a threadbare rug and very little else. The Gobtrots had no bed, for they slept each night upon a different cloth heap. Their wants were simple and few and this way of life suited them admirably.

In the manner of one proudly showing another his home the proprietor showed the alchemist theirs. Then he pulled a heavy metal chest from beneath some sacking and prised the lid open. “Now, sir,” he said, “I’ll not embarrass the gentleman what brought this to us by telling you whence it came. Just take a peep at this.”

Doctor Spittle looked down into the open chest. A mass of dark red velvet met his eyes. Drooling, he caught it up and hastily tried it on.

It was a magnificent long robe and, although it was rather old-fashioned in style, the quality was superb. Swirling arabesques of fruit and flowers were sewn onto the shoulders, twining about the scaled body of a long dragon whose eyes were set with shining stones. Even the lining was richly decorated, being silk and heavily embroidered with a curious pattern. The glorious effect was further enhanced by a trimming of silver lace which edged the wide sleeves and ran all around the hem. Doctor Spittle felt marvellous. He stroked the soft velvet and almost wept with the unbearable bliss of it.

“An immaculate fit, sir,” applauded Mr Gobtrot.

“Why it could have been made for you,” agreed his wife. “Makes you look positively royal it does. A proper prince indeed.”

“I must view myself!” gabbled the alchemist. “Quickly, have you a looking glass?”

“I have the very thing,” nodded Mr Gobtrot wandering off for a moment. With Bunter still under one arm, he returned carrying a large oval mirror in a damaged gilt frame. “Now then, sir,” he breathed, “gaze and be amazed.”

Doctor Spittle stared at his reflection and let out a squeal of delight—it was true—he looked magnificent. Striking noble postures he regarded his mirrored self and adored what he beheld. Flushed with conceit he turned to one side and admired the effect from a different angle. He was breathtaking. Craning his neck he gauged the rear view and was satisfied that that too was gorgeous. He was beside himself with glee and gave little hops as he preened and pouted.

It was then that he noticed his thinning hair and he scowled at the looking glass. “Why must age rob you of your finest features?” he cried. The Gobtrots looked at him sympathetically. “It really was thick and plentiful once, you know,” he informed them, “and a fierce, fiery red too.”

“How about a periwig, sir?” suggested the woman cheerfully. “I could always run and have a look for you. Bunter’s been playing with them of late so they’re a bit scattered but I could quickly find them.”

“No,” he replied with consummate sadness. “I have a very sensitive scalp—I do not think I could wear one all the day.”

“Pity,” she clucked, unconsciously scratching her own, “they make them so well these days too. No one would know you was wearing one.”

Doctor Spittle said nothing but drew his fingers through his white locks. Then he peered more closely at the mirror and his face assumed an awful aspect.

“Whatever is it, sir?” asked Mr Gobtrot. “Have you been taken ill?”

The alchemist certainly did not look well. For a while he remained in exactly the same position, then he moved and pointed at his reflection. “See there!” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. The Gobtrots stared in the direction he was pointing, but all they could see was the lining of the robe. “Do you not realise?” he cried. “Look! Can you not see the writing? There in the embroidery!”

They looked again and to their surprise the old man was right. Hidden amongst the fancy sewing that spread over the lining there were indeed words. They were cunningly placed in and around the decorated vines but they were there sure enough. “Why so there is,” admitted Mr Gobtrot. “Why didn’t we notice that afore?”

“Because it can only be read in a mirror,” Doctor Spittle muttered. “It’s been painstakingly done in mirror writing—but why and by whom?”

He swept the robe off his shoulders and exposed the rest of the lining to study it more keenly. Very slowly he began to read.

“I Magnus Augustus Zachaire, by divine grace and everlasting mercy, herenow set down the true and actual definition of that which is called The Tincture of the Philosophers in all other wise known as the Philosopher’s Stone...”

His voice failed as he grasped the significance of what he had discovered. With his hands quivering he read on. The passage purported to be a translation of a medieval manuscript which gave the exact formula for making the Philosopher’s Stone. Doctor Spittle choked back a cry. He had in his hands the solution to all his problems. The dreams he had dared to crave were now within his reach. If what this said was true then nothing could stop him becoming fabulously wealthy.

Trembling with excitement he turned to Mr Gobtrot. “Where did you get this?” he cried.

“Hah now, sir,” the man answered with a wink, “you knows I can’t divulge that. As I said before. I’ll not embarrass my sources. Why I’d not get any new stock if folk didn’t trust me to hold a confidence. So I’ll just keep mum if you please.”

“I demand to know!” shouted Doctor Spittle.

“Ho ho, that I’ll not tell,” chortled the man. The terrier under his arm growled and bared its teeth. It didn’t like anyone shouting at its master.

The alchemist grabbed Mr Gobtrot’s filthy clothes and shook him violently. Bunter yapped and wriggled forward, his jaws straining to bite. Doctor Spittle spat at the dog contemptuously then mumbled a string of Latin words under his breath. At once the terrier began to shake and its tail drooped. With a yelp it fell to the floor and scampered under a stool where it buried its snout in its paws.

“You will tell me, you imbecile!” stormed the alchemist furiously.

“You let Mr Gobtrot alone!” squeaked his wife in outrage. “I’ll tell it—you black-hearted villain! That hoard came from a big house in the city.”

“Which house?” pressed Doctor Spittle turning on her. “Was there any more to be had there?”

The woman shrugged. “Don’t know which house and that’s definitely all there was to be had. We don’t ask too many questions of our suppliers—it’s rude to be over-inquisitive,” she said pointedly.

“You must know something!”

“Only that it had been empty and shuttered up for many years. No one had wanted to buy the place see. Not with the memory of him what lived there still fresh in memory.”

“Who—Magnus Zachaire?”

“Mm, a wizard or witch he was, so they say. I doesn’t believe in such things myself. We haven’t never seen anything out of the ordinary, have we Mr Gobtrot?”

“That we never have, wife.”

Doctor Spittle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was obvious that she knew nothing more. He took a deep breath then his manner changed and he was wreathed in smiles. “Pray forgive me if, in the urgency of my asking, I forced you to surrender any informations which you were unwilling to part with. I humbly apologise and crave your pardon, kind sir and most gracious lady. Now, I should like to purchase this handsome garment. What is the price?”

“One shilling,” said the woman.

The alchemist counted out the money and bowed when he gave it to her. Then he courteously made his farewells and found his own way through the labyrinth of rag heaps.

When he heard the door close, Bunter sidled out of his hiding place and gave a tentative bark. Then, when he was sure the stranger had indeed gone, he charged round the tattered mountains and yapped to his heart’s content. After that he methodically marked out his territory once more.

The Gobtrots looked at each other.

“He’s an odd one that apothecary,” he observed.

“Yes, but what a precious way he has with words,” she sighed dreamily twisting the hair of her wig between her fingers.

“I can see I shall have to keep my eye on you, Mistress Gobtrot,” he chuckled. “You’re too pretty to be left on your own—I don’t want someone stealing you away, do I?” And he put his arm round her shoulder and lovingly kissed her dirty cheek.

Doctor Spittle burst into the apothecary shop and charged up the stairs. He did not see Will sitting unhappily by the counter. Into the attic the alchemist barged, cats scattering before him. He threw the robe over the back of a chair then disappeared down to his bedchamber from where he dragged a long looking glass. This he positioned against one of the walls so that he could read what was written on the robe’s lining and hunted for a quill and paper.

Imelza sniffed at this interruption and resumed her position before the hearth, gathering her daughter to her once more. Dab gave the old man a curious stare but settled down with her mother. “Why is he so cross all the time?” she asked.

“He is human,” Imelza explained.

Leech prowled round the room, slinking from one corner to the other, not daring to show himself in case he was kicked once more. From the shadows he watched as his brother padded towards the alchemist and began clambering onto the table he was working at.

Jupiter crawled over the edge of the table top and gave a small miaow.

Doctor Spittle was busily copying down the cryptic message but he glanced up and cackled to his familiar. “I have it,” he crowed. “At last the secret is mine.”

Jupiter put his head questioningly on one side and twitched his whiskers.

An hour ticked by at the end of which the alchemist threw down the quill and clapped his hands together. “Here it is!” he gurgled, clutching the paper delightedly. “My life’s work is almost ended.” So pleased and happy was he that he patted Jupiter’s head. “I knew I had heard the name of Magnus Zachaire before; he was a noted mystic and conjurer of the last century and immensely wealthy. Unfortunately his reputation as a dabbler in the black arts was too great, for he frightened the London mob and one morning they dragged him out of bed and drowned him in the River Fleet. What a tragic waste of all that wisdom and knowledge. Still, at least he had the foresight to create this robe—and now it has come to me.”

He studied his own copy of the instructions and nodded enthusiastically. “It has been written in code,” he told the attentive kitten. “Such was the practice of the ancient wise men; they would veil the true meaning of their work in case of discovery. Should the wrong person get hold of their formulae all was safe because they would never be able to decode the complicated ciphers that had been used.” He slapped himself on the chest confidently then coughed. “However,” he cried, “I have studied the intricacies of this art for the whole of my life—it should prove no problem for Elias Theophrastus Spittle.”

The alchemist leaned over to the row of shelves and snatched down every volume that touched upon the subject. By the time he was finished the table groaned under the weight of them.

“Now,” he mumbled, glancing at the paper, “I already know most of the terms described here. The dragon we all recognise as mercury. Then there is the king, his son, the grey wolf, the black crow, the lion, the unicorn and the royal marriage. Yes, those I am already familiar with—but these others: the withered tree, the divided circle, the halt-footed mare and all the ones that follow I am not aware of.”

He took the first book from the pile and eagerly turned the pages. Jupiter watched him, absorbing every word and every action. All afternoon Doctor Spittle pored over his books, making notes and consulting his manuscripts—but, little by little, his confidence began to wane. At one point he shrieked, “Listen to this meaningless drivel! ‘When the crowned king marries the red daughter beware the leper that rides upon the lion’s back.’ Just what in thunder is that supposed to signify?”

The hours rolled by and the pile of books grew less, but behind him discarded volumes littered the floor. He was no closer to solving this nauseating little riddle and the truth of it galled him. That he could be confounded by the cunning of someone who had lived in the last century was almost more than he could bear. How could such a thing be possible? He had devoted most of his life to studying this very subject—it was infuriating to be thwarted when success was a hair’s breadth away. Doctor Spittle pulled at his own thinning hair and thumped the table despairingly.

Creeping out of the shadows. Leech summoned up all his courage and approached one of the books. The esoteric symbols intrigued him and, with his sickly green eyes opened wide, he stared at the pages. But the writing was meaningless to him and he could not guess what it all signified. Enviously he glared up at his brother and wished it was he sitting there. “Why can I not be trained also?” he whispered to himself.

In the shop below, Will sat before the fire and gazed at the glowing embers. The evening was drawing in and he had already locked up. He did not hear the ranting and raving of the alchemist upstairs—he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

That morning he had told Molly everything, from the time he and Mr Balker had left Adcombe to that night in the street where the miller had met his end. She had listened to everything with a cold and impassive face, making no comment and offering him no comfort. Only once did she interrupt him and make him repeat a portion of the tale, and that was the description of the two murderers. Then, without saying a word she had left the shop and he had not seen her since.

For a while Will wondered if she had believed him. He was half expecting the Justice to turn up to arrest him but the remainder of the day had passed uneventfully. Perhaps she did not want to be associated with someone suspected of murder, even if he was innocent. Whatever the reason, he had seen a side of her today that he did not like and found himself wondering if he actually wanted to see her again. The expression on her face when he told her about the miller’s death was something he could never forget and the memory of it made him shiver.

The fire fell in upon itself and Will stirred. It was dark outside now and even darker in the apothecary shop. He foraged for a candle and lit it by the dying fire.

“Damn it down to the depths of perdition!” bawled the voice of Doctor Spittle from above. The attic door slammed, followed by the sound of something being thrown down the stairs, then the heavy footfalls of the old man stomped into his bedchamber.

Will could hear his curses and wondered what had gone wrong this time; he had not given the alchemist much thought all day. An unpleasant idea started to creep up on him. What had been hurled down the stairs? He prayed it was not one of the cats. Taking the candle, he went to see.

The stairwell was pitch dark when he ventured to look and the candle flame sent a host of tall and severe shadows towering over the boy’s head. Will walked up to the steps and glanced at the mysterious thing that the alchemist had cast down.

The robe of Magnus Zachaire lay sprawled over the steps. Will picked it up and brought the candle closer so he could inspect it. The splendid arabesques on the shoulders caught his attention and he marvelled at the detail. With his finger he traced the scaled spine of the dragon that twisted in and out of the stitched foliage, then he held his breath.

The shining stones of the dragon’s eyes threw back the guttering candlelight so that they seemed almost alive. Will moved the flame to and fro and the stones blazed back at him, sparkling and dazzling. It was a terrific game and he would have continued, only—he looked at the shape of the dragon once more. Why did it remind him of something?

A figure moved through the darkness beyond the circle of light, descending from above.

Will racked his brains. Somewhere he had seen this same dragon before—but where?

The face of Doctor Spittle floated into the circle of light. His glowering eyes were fixed upon the boy, wondering what he was doing.

“Where have I seen this?” Will said aloud.

The alchemist flew down the remaining steps in one leap. He fell upon the boy, grabbing his arms and shoving him against the wall.

Will was too startled to resist; hot wax splashed over Doctor’s Spittle’s face as the candle fell from the boy’s grasp. The old man snarled at him and Will found himself staring into his mad eyes.

“What do you mean, you’ve seen this before?” demanded the alchemist.

“I... I don’t understand.”

Doctor Spittle shook the robe under the boy’s nose and squeezed him by the throat. “Tell me where you have seen this before, dog!” he commanded.

“I can’t remember!”

The alchemist screeched with rage, “Then I shall make you!” He flung back his arm and made a fist ready to strike him.

Will closed his eyes anticipating the blow. The fingers about his throat tightened as the alchemist tensed in readiness—he had imagined such a sensation before—then it came back to him.

“Stop!” he shouted, ducking and flinching. “I remember!” The fist was lowered but the throttling grip around his throat remained. The black brows of the old man raised expectantly. “It was in the churchyard where I found the cats,” Will told him gasping for breath. “This dragon was carved on a gravestone there.”

Doctor Spittle released his vice-like grip. Digesting this news he rubbed his hands together as he considered what to do. As if seeking divine inspiration he raised his eyes and stared up into the darkness of the stairwell, then a horrible smile lit his face. The old man took up the robe and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Then, dressed in a fashion that was a hundred years out of date, he rushed up the stairs to the attic.

Will slid to the floor and rubbed his neck where the imprints of the alchemist’s fingers were already turning to bruises. Why was he so interested in that dragon anyway? “He must have gone completely mad,” he whispered croakily.

“Mad!” hissed Doctor Spittle returning down the stairs. He was laden with bags and sacks and in the crook of one arm carried a bewildered Jupiter. “Oh no, my young dog,” he sniggered wickedly. “Far from it. Here, take this.” He thrust the bag into Will’s hands and snapped his fingers. “Come,” he urged, “this cannot wait.”

“What can’t?” asked Will. “Where are we going at this time of night?”

Doctor Spittle grinned unpleasantly. “You are going to take me to this churchyard,” he muttered. “The time has come for me to call on Magnus Augustus Zachaire.” Then he gave a hideous laugh and extinguished the candle.

6 - Necromancy

Jupiter purred with excitement as the sumptuous and mysterious scents of the moonless night tantalised his nose and whiskers. Like little lamps shone his eyes as he peered out from the arms of Doctor Spittle. The deeply shaded streets were intriguing for he could sense the teeming life which crawled through the darkness and heard the pit-a-pat of innumerable tiny hearts. The ginger kitten longed to stalk through the secret lanes and savour the delicacies that the night brings forth; but there were other, more urgent matters to attend to.

Jupiter was learning a great deal—his knowledge was increasing with each passing day. He took in everything his master told him and thirsted for more. He gazed up at the alchemist and pressed his head into the velvet of his robe.

The old man’s face was grim—he was deep in thought, running over ancient rhymes and incantations in his mind. There was much to do this night and he prayed that before dawn he would have the answer. A twinge of fear thrilled through him for a second but he shook himself crossly and banished the sensation. Such emotions were for the ignorant and foolish—he was neither of these. No, there was nothing to shiver at; so long as he did the thing properly and did not balk at the crucial moment all would be well. He stared at the boy in front of him and his black brows knitted together: there was the only weak link in tonight’s drama—he would have to keep a close watch on him.

Will walked ahead with the bags slung over his shoulder and a dark lantern in his hand. It was not far to the churchyard now. He had no idea what the alchemist was going to do but he was wise enough to be afraid. Looking cautiously about them the boy hoped they would not meet anyone for the hour was late and they were a suspicious sight. A nightwatchman would ask questions and these would be very difficult to answer.

Soon the tower of St Anne’s church rose above the trees. Will steeled himself for whatever ordeal lay ahead and slowly approached the gates.

Pausing on the threshold of the graveyard. Doctor Spittle surveyed the rambling jungle beyond. “Interesting,” he mused, scratching Jupiter’s ear, “that there should be such an untamed corner in the heart of the city. Can you feel it my familiar—can you sense the wildness which reigns within? Almost as if some power older than man has reclaimed this once hallowed plot of land.”

Jupiter stirred in his arms as he recognised his birthplace. He had no liking for that knotted tangle of tombstone and briar. The memory of hunger and suffering was still fresh and his tail twitched in agitation. What was his master bringing him back for? Had he done something to anger him—was he going to be left here?

“Let us enter,” the alchemist said. “Show me the headstone.”

Will nodded and they passed inside.

The cemetery was quiet and still. There was no breeze tonight to stir the branches and no moonlight to shimmer over the brambles, yet a restless and brooding atmosphere charged the air. The instant Will crossed into that country of the dead he was aware of it. It was as though the churchyard knew he would return and had been waiting. This was an unpleasant idea and he quickly applied himself to the task of finding where the kittens had been born.

Doctor Spittle glanced round with a surly fascination for everything. “A most curious location,” he muttered. “I do not profess to have a scientific explanation for the disquiet which I feel. There are many forces abroad in this world, Jupiter, few of which we understand. Science is still a very young flame, as yet it has only illuminated a fraction of the great mysteries. But so long as men are driven to discovery then they shall feed that feeble fire until it shines into the darkness like a beacon.” He smiled at the kitten and said softly, “Until then the likes of you and I will be forced to use whatever methods are at our disposal to pursue our goals.” He glowered at the bags Will was carrying and sighed, “Even if we stray occasionally from the straight path of science and revert to cruder but equally effective routes.”

“Here it is,” Will hissed quickly. He drew back the brambles and there was the ornate tombstone he had briefly glimpsed once before.

Doctor Spittle moved forward and uncovered the lantern. Its yellow beam spilled out over the grave, chasing the shadows which fled into the thorny depths of the bushes nearby. The soft light curved over the twisting body of the dragon that twined about the headstone, picking out the weathered detail of the scales and the black hollows of its eyes. The alchemist grunted; it was indeed identical to the one on the robe. “Clear more of the thorns away, dog,” he commanded. “I must be certain Magnus Zachaire is buried here.”

Will did as he was ordered and the suspicion that had been growing now seemed to be confirmed. “God’s mercy,” he whispered to himself, “let my fears be unfounded. Surely the old devil isn’t going to dig him up. I may have taken a dead man’s hair but I shall not rob a grave.”

When enough of a parting had been made in the thicket the alchemist put Jupiter on the ground then knelt down. Bringing the lantern closer to the stone he passed his hand over the carvings. “There is an inscription here,” he murmured, squinting at a moss-covered patch. “Some of the letters have worn and crumbled, the others are clogged with soil.” He fell silent as he clawed the grime of nearly a hundred years away with his fingernails. “There,” he muttered, “that ought to be... aaah, yes. Listen to this.

“Under me lie the mortal bones of Magnus Augustus Zachaire.
May the Grace of God Almighty give mercy to his blackened soul.”

Doctor Spittle gave a small chuckle of satisfaction then struggled to his feet. “All is well,” he announced to Will. “Now that I am certain, we can begin.”

“Do you mean to... to dig him up?” asked Will nervously.

The old man regarded him with some surprise. “And what use would that be pray?” he cried. “Do you think he was interred with his secret written on the lid of his coffin? I should think that highly unlikely—I am more than fortunate to have found his resting place. The mob might have left him in the Fleet to drift out to the open sea. No, there will be no use digging up old bones—I have another plan in mind.”

Will felt cold; it was obvious that the alchemist would definitely have made him dig if he thought there was anything to gain by it. Was there nothing this wicked old villain would stop at? The boy looked down at the kitten and wondered why it had been brought—was Doctor Spittle really attempting to train it as a familiar?

“Give me the bag!” the alchemist said abruptly. “It is now well past midnight and we have much to do before sunrise.” He took the bag from Will and foraged inside. “Book, candles—one, two, three, four—chalk, string, banishing bell, knife, powders, containing vessel, wand. Yes, I think we can begin.” He took out a large book, bound in battered old leather, and flipped through the vellum pages. When he had found the desired place, he lay the volume on the grass and brought the lantern a little closer.

Will peered at the open pages; there were no words there—only intricate patterns. The old man looked up and saw the puzzlement on his face. “I believe I told you of my intentions this night,” he began.

“You said you were going to call on Magnus Zachaire.”

“That is still my aim.”

“But he’s been dead for years and years!”

The alchemist grinned and nodded slowly. “Even death is no barrier to one who has studied as I have done.”

“I don’t understand,” breathed Will although the truth was beginning to dawn on him.

“I told you it was no use digging up old bones,” cackled Doctor Spittle. “Far better to speak to the man himself. Do you not agree my young dog?”

Will gasped, “That’s impossible!”

“For you and the rest of the rabble in this stinking rat hole of a city perhaps,” returned the old man pompously, “but not for Elias Theophrastus Spittle!” Taking a knife and a small pouch from the bag he rose and, with a dramatic sweep of his arm, wrapped the robe about him. “Enough talk!” he roared. “We must commence.”

Brandishing the knife over his head the alchemist called out, “Bless this blade O Illuminati, guide my hand that it may cut straight and true.” From the sack he pulled out a quantity of black cloth; it resembled the habit worn by monks and he folded this, then lay it upon the ground before the headstone. Around the garment he proceeded to inscribe a large triangle in the soil with the knife and declared, “Let this be the appointed gateway.”

With the hairs rising on the back of his neck, Will watched as Doctor Spittle delved into the pouch and sprinkled some grey powders into the narrow furrows. “What is that?” he ventured.

“Simply a mixture of charcoal and salt,” the other replied, “harmless to us but effective against—other forces.”

“What forces?” the boy asked with a sick feeling in his stomach.

Doctor Spittle turned a grim face on him. “I am going to summon up the spirit of Magnus Zachaire,” he whispered. “Now be silent! I shall need all my wits about me for the next procedure.” He took another look at the book and studied the designs on the page. “Should I make one mistake in marking out the field of force then we are doomed. Stand here and bring Jupiter with you. Now take hold of this.” He passed one end of a long piece of string to Will and tied the other around the handle of the knife. “Keep it pressed firmly to the ground,” he instructed. “On no account leave go or your very soul shall pay the consequence.”

Carefully he drew a large circle with the blade, making sure that the line was unbroken. Then he wound some of the cord around the handle so that the next circle he traced was smaller. With great pains Doctor Spittle gouged esoteric marks and symbols in the space between the two rings, scrutinising his work keenly to be certain all was perfect.

“Now heed my words,” he told Will. “You must not move outside these markings until I give you leave. Do you understand?”

The boy swallowed nervously and nodded.

“Very well, and be sure to keep my familiar with you—if even he breaks the circle all is lost.” Will took Jupiter in his arms and held him tightly. The alchemist then poured the powders into the grooves he had laboriously etched into the soil.

Will shuddered—this was worse than digging up a grave. He had heard about conjurers and necromancy but he had never thought to meet one let alone participate in such a frightening ceremony. He was afraid to stay, yet even more afraid to run.

Now Doctor Spittle placed the four candles around the outer circle and lit them from the lantern. In this eerie ring of light he took up a slim wand and said to Will, “How strong is your courage, dog?”

“I am not certain, sir,” the boy replied warily. “I used to think I could meet any peril that this world might fling at me but...”

“Just so,” hissed the old man. “You are wise to make the distinction. What you may see tonight will require a steady nerve for you must remain silent throughout. Do nothing to distract me once the ritual has begun and on no account cross the outer circle.”

Doctor Spittle then stroked Jupiter. “And you my little familiar, you must also remain where you are. Your task tonight is to watch and learn—see how your master achieves his goals.” The kitten purred back at him, its golden eyes following his every movement.

The alchemist held up the wand and began the incantation. “Here me O lords of the Underworld!” he shouted. “Elias Theophrastus Spittle invokes thee! All you sufferers of good and creators of evil listen now to my words!” He called out several Latin phrases then pointed the wand at the candles. The flames spluttered and sparked. Spitting white fire they grew taller and tapered high into the dark heavens.

Will shrank to the ground, his lip trembling with dread. He bowed his head and prayed to be spared this night. “Mercy on us,” he breathed.

Doctor Spittle flung his arms out and with a commanding voice boomed, “Magnus Augustus Zachaire! I call you from the cold earth. Escape the bonds of Death and come forth. By the great names of power I summon you. Enter the Sign of Fire and appear before me!”

Abruptly the trees and bushes began to sway as a strong wind rushed through them. It gusted around the churchyard and tore between the tombstones.

“APPEAR!” Doctor Spittle commanded forcefully.

The very ground trembled at the sound of his voice; the candles began to shake and their flames dwindled down to their normal size. The alchemist held his breath and stared intently at the triangle in front of him.

Within that simple shape a faint mist began to form. At first it curled up out of the ground, softly hissing from the soil, gathering into a thick carpet of grey fog. Yet it remained within the allotted space, forming a perfect triangle; and although it bubbled and billowed upwards it could not cross those lines drawn by the blade. Gradually it stole over the black gown that had been placed there. Fine wisps of smoke pulled at the cloth and then, very slowly, the garment began to move. The grey mist engulfed the material, smothering and oozing through its folds until it soaked into the fibres.

Will watched in disbelief as the habit rose off the ground and was lifted into the air. The pale mist wreathed itself about it and, by degrees, the shape filled out. It was as though some invisible figure had pulled the gown over its head. But beneath the hood there was no face—the unearthly vapour swirled where the head should have been and between the hem of the gown and the grass below there was only empty air.

Doctor Spittle surveyed the faceless spectre appreciatively. With a pleased smile on his lips he lowered his outstretched arms and asked, “Is this in truth the shape of Magnus Zachaire that stands before me?”

From the darkness under the hood there came a soft, sibilant answer, “In truth it is.” The voice was hollow and echoed as though calling from a long way off. Goose-pimples pricked out over Will’s skin for that sound chilled him to the marrow—it was like hearing a snake speak in a human voice.

“Do you know why I have called you from the grave?” asked Doctor Spittle.

“I do.”

“Then tell me the solution to the riddling message. Reveal unto me the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Verily it shall be done,” said the apparition. “Rivers of gold shall flow under thy hand. Thou shalt be blessed with wealth undreamt of by mortal men. The treasuries of all the kingdoms in the world will be as nothing compared to thine. The key to the ultimate fortune is the prize I offer to thee.”

“Yes! Yes!” drooled the old man feverishly. “What is the answer to the riddles?”

“Give me a parchment and the means to write and the secret shall be thine.”

The alchemist rubbed his hands together and gave a greedy chuckle. Crouching down he snatched up the book and tore out one of the end pages.

A sleeve of the habit reached out and a ghostly hand formed at the end of it. The long fingers extended and groped the air impatiently. “Give it to me,” the disembodied voice told him.

Doctor Spittle was still hunting for a chalk in his pockets. “Beyond the dreams of avarice,” he sniggered to himself.

Will was terrified, yet his eyes were transfixed upon the supernatural figure which beckoned the old man forward. In the boy’s arms Jupiter wormed and struggled to get free. Then, with one great kick of his hind legs, the kitten darted out of his grasp and before Will could stop him, ran between the alchemist’s legs.

“All the wealth of the world,” Doctor Spittle chuckled. “Here good spirit, yield thy knowledge to me.” He moved towards the phantom figure when suddenly a fierce squeal stopped him in his tracks.

The old man glanced down, startled out of his all-consuming greed. There was his familiar—he had trodden on his tail. Doctor Spittle growled angrily at the cat for getting underfoot, then he choked. Only now did he realise the enormity of his folly. The perimeter of the outer circle was only a fraction away from the toe of his boot. He had been about to step over the line!

Quivering with alarm he dragged himself back into the safety of the inner circle and Jupiter hurried after him. The alchemist stared at the kitten with overwhelming gratitude then glared at the wraith that still waited with its hand outstretched.

Trickster!” he bawled. “Thou evil fiend, begone from this world—I did not summon thee. Thy time is over, return to the Pit from whence thou earnest.”

Foul laughter issued from beneath the hood and the figure leaped into the air. “I am not so easy to dispel, puny mortal!” crowed the wailing voice.

The mist flowed out from the gown and beneath the hood two points of light glimmered into existence. The voice continued to laugh, only the sound was clearer now and grew louder with every passing moment. Plumes of thick, black smoke shot up from the candles as they crackled and the flames became red as blood.

With the infernal glow glinting in his ginger fur Jupiter snarled and arched his back. His hackles stood on end and he prowled around the inside of the circle pawing the air with his claws as the apparition took on its true form.

With a rush of blistering heat, fierce flames shot out of the soil and blazed within the triangle. The reek of sulphur flooded the churchyard and the gowned creature stamped its hoofs on the baking ground, revelling in all its evil splendour. Then, at last it threw back the hood and fixed its gleaming eyes upon the fools who had summoned it.

Will’s scream pierced the night itself as he fell to the ground and hid his face. Doctor Spittle cowered back from the awful sight of the fiend before him. All his strength drained away as the horror he had released unfurled great wings of darkness and towered over him. In a panic he stumbled backwards, tripping over the bag in his haste. A dull ring sounded as his boot struck something metal. The alchemist hesitated, staring down at the thing which rolled out by his foot. As the shadow deepened about him and as the vile, nameless creature beat its wings, the old man raised his head and a defiant grin lit his face.

“Begone!” he shouted. “Avaunt from my sight!”

Only cruel, mocking laughter answered him and the hellish fires burned more furiously than ever.

Doctor Spittle snatched the object from the ground and waved it over his head. At the touch of the cold metal his old confidence returned. It was a brass hand bell that he held aloft and in a steady voice he said. “Now do I banish thee!” And he rang the bell with all his might.

The clanging noise had an immediate effect upon the nightmare that confronted them. It covered its ears and shrieked with pain and then, it was gone. An empty black gown dropped to the ground.

The cemetery was as quiet and still as if nothing had happened.

Doctor Spittle dragged his hands over his eyes and let out a relieved and thankful sigh. “It is over,” he told Will. “You may look about you. Our unwelcome visitor has departed.”

Will lifted his head and peeped through his fingers. The candle flames were back to normal once again and there was not a trace of that eerie mist or the awful stench of sulphur. But the earth inside the triangle was black and scorched.

“What was that thing?” he stammered.

The alchemist cleared his throat. “That, my young dog, was only one of the minor demons. They are forever artful and always try to deceive. I fear that I am too credulous; for a moment I was deluded. If I had stepped outside the circle then... well I won’t make myself ill by dwelling on that.” He bent down and picked up his familiar. “How fortuitous that Jupiter was more vigilant than I. A happy chance it was that joined the separate threads of our lives. I bless the night you brought this little fellow to my shop. Do you realise that he saved both our souls? Well done my fine furry friend.”

Jupiter purred and rubbed his chin against the old man’s hooked nose.

Will hugged his knees; it was colder than ever now. “Can we return to the shop?” he asked.

“Return to the shop?” cried Doctor Spittle. “Have you forgot our task, dog?”

“But you’re not going to continue?”

“I most certainly am,” he sniffed. “One mischievous demon isn’t going to put me off. Besides, we shall see no more of those tonight. This entrance is closed to them now—they cannot abide the sound of bells you know.” The old man pulled the robe about him to keep out the chill, then brandished the wand again.

Chanting the same incantations he made curious signs in the air and roared, “Magnus Augustus Zachaire—come forth! I grow weary of this charade but am prepared to continue till judgement day if need be!” And he stamped his foot petulantly.

The blackened earth of the triangle groaned and a small crack appeared along the breadth of it. Out of this fissure a shimmering blue shape emerged. It was not mist this time, more like the surface of a river when the moonlight strikes it. Tiny stars of sapphire drifted up through the ground and zoomed in the air like angry fireflies.

Will gaped as this new manifestation crept out of the cindered soil. Who would believe the horrors he had witnessed this night? he thought to himself. He had come a long way since he left the peaceful village of Adcombe, and the road had been a dark and forbidding one. With every desperate turn the path of his life seemed to get grimmer, although he doubted if he would ever again be as afraid as he had been this night.

A glimmering cloud now hung in the air. The stars within it pulsed and flashed, their soft radiance falling upon the boy’s face.

“Who is it that calls Magnus Zachaire?” came a weary voice.

“Elias Theophrastus Spittle.”

The stars dimmed. “I do not recognise that name. Did I know thee in life?”

“I was not even born when you were of the body.”

“What year is this?”

“1665.”

The shapeless cloud stirred. “Hath it indeed been that long?” came the distressed and sorrowful voice. “Why dost thou wrench me from my rest? Who art thou to disturb me so?”

Doctor Spittle folded his arms. “I have come to discover your secrets,” he declared, “if you are in truth who you claim to be.”

At the centre of the glowing vapour the light welled up as the stars melted into one another. From this brightness a face appeared, as clear as blue glass, yet with all the features well defined. It was the face of a man.

He was lean, with a large Roman nose and piercing eyes. A neat little beard covered his sharp chin and the dark hair was swept far back above his forehead. About his neck there was a ruffed collar, of the type worn many years ago when Elizabeth was England’s monarch. The cloud dissolved into a damasked doublet that was slashed at the sleeves to show the silk underneath. This vision floated above the ground, flickering from time to time, fading then shining.

“Verily I am Magnus Zachaire,” it snorted, “or rather was.”

“Excellent,” murmured Doctor Spittle, “then you shall tell me—”

“Hold!” interrupted the spirit. The deep blue eyes glittered as they regarded the alchemist. “That robe you wear—is that not mine own?”

Doctor Spittle was a little put out by this interruption. “It was,” he blustered, “but has since passed on to me. I have read the message you left and wish to—”

“Thief!” denounced the spirit angrily. “Thou knave! Thou iniquitous rogue! Your robe holdeth a secret thou canst not imagine.”

“Oh, but I can,” smirked the alchemist. “Tell me Magnus, when did you discover the Philosopher’s Stone?”

The spirit stared back at him then smiled. “So, thou dost understand a little,” it said, “but not all or I should still be sleeping.”

“Tell me the meaning of the riddling words,” demanded Doctor Spittle. “I need to know more so that I may recreate your work.”

“My work,” repeated the shade and there was a bitterness in its tone. “Money is not the answer. Leave this path thou hast chosen Elias Theophrastus Spittle! The golden idol is a severe taskmaster—serve it not. True rejoicing is to be found in thyself alone, look not elsewhere for happiness. The heart that be enslaved by greed is a dead heart.”

The old man tapped his fingers with irritation. “What say you?” he cried indignantly. “Speak no pious words to me. In life were you not a covetous miser? Did gold aplenty not fill your coffers?”

The blue light failed. “I learned too late,” it said with regret. “I have learned much on the other side. Heed my words.”

“Spare me your concern,” scorned the alchemist, “and unlock the secret.”

“For thine own sake I cannot.”

Will had been listening to all this with great interest. He felt sorry for the spirit; it was so sad and melancholy. As Doctor Spittle shouted and shook his fist at it, a distant sound drew the boy’s attention. He shifted on his haunches and turned away from the developing quarrel. The noise had come from outside the churchyard, some way down the street beyond. He strained his ears and peered steadily through the branches of the trees and thickets. The heavy tramp of boots on cobbles was coming nearer and a dim light swung to and fro. It was the nightwatchman.

Will whirled round to Doctor Spittle and tugged at the robe. An annoyed hand slapped him away. “Do not bother me, dog!” snapped the old man. “Can you not see I am occupied?”

“But—”

“Silence!” shrieked the alchemist. He gave the boy a warning growl then turned back to the phantom.

“I shall never tell thee what thou desirest to know,” said the spirit. “Release me at once—let me have peace once more.”

“Never!” yelled Doctor Spittle. “You shall surrender the secret to me!”

“I refuse.”

“You cannot!”

“But I have.”

“Doctor Spittle, please!” Will pulled at the robe a second time.

“In Heaven’s name, dog, why do you plague me so?”

“A nightwatchman!” Will explained hurriedly. “He’s coming this way.”

The alchemist stared over the cemetery wall and saw the lantern of Arnold Strogget slowly swing as the burly man swaggered down the street. As yet he had not seen the bizarre group in the churchyard for he was plodding like a drudge and gazing stupidly at his feet.

“Hah!” scoffed the spirit. “Unless the laws have changed much in sweet England since I passed on, thou wilt have to flee, alchemist—conjuration is punishable by death. Either that or thou shalt be ducked as was I, which amounts to the same in the end. A sorry dilemma it is, and just as we were getting acquainted with one another. Now thou wilt have to release me.”

But Doctor Spittle was not finished yet. He took one more glance at the approaching nightwatchman and reckoned that he had time enough before they were spotted. “So pleased you were enjoying our exchange,” he said treacherously to the spirit. “I too would like to further acquaint myself with a fellow scholar such as yourself.”

“A pity it is,” Magnus chuckled, “yet the briefest of meetings are oft the most memorable.”

“I see no reason for it to be curtailed so soon,” the old man cackled. He rummaged inside the bag and brought out a small bottle of smoky glass.

A tinge of doubt crept into the spirit’s voice when it saw the vessel in his hands. “Release me this instant!” it demanded. “Thy time runs out—the nightwatchman yonder is almost here. Should I call out, the buffoon will surely hear me.”

“Then I must see to it that you keep silent,” Doctor Spittle told him. He uncorked the bottle and placed it upside down on the ground. Then with one eye on the street and the other on his work he hastily inscribed a small circle by his feet and cast the charcoal and salt over it.

“What mischief is this?” cried the spirit, but there was no reply. The alchemist had closed his eyes and was muttering strange words under his breath.

Will looked from one to the other. The spectre appeared frightened whilst his master seemed triumphant. Steadily the blue light began to diminish and with a horrified look on his ghostly face, Magnus realised what the other was up to.

“Nooo!” he begged. “Thou canst not imprison me in... AAAGGHH!”

Screaming like a banshee, the shade of Magnus Zachaire was sucked down into the scorched soil once more. With curses on his lips he struggled to escape the powerful forces which dragged at him—but it was no use. Presently the last of his shimmering vapour disappeared down into the cracked ground and his protests were swallowed by the earth.

Doctor Spittle sniggered and pointed the wand at the small circle by his feet.

Will leaned forward. Bright points of light streamed out of the grass and flew up the neck of the small bottle. The glimmering essence of Magnus Zachaire filled the glass vessel until it contained all of him and shone like a fragment of the summer sky.

At once the alchemist was on his knees. He grabbed the bottle and, before the spirit could escape, rammed the cork back into the bottle’s neck.

“Snuff out the candles, dog!” he told Will quickly. “We must be silent now and let the nightwatchman pass.”

Will obeyed and just as Arnold Strogget peered over the cemetery wall he remembered to cover the lantern.

“Two of the clock on a cold January night and all’s well,” came the cry.

They waited for the footsteps to disappear down the street before daring to speak.

Doctor Spittle held up the glass bottle and shook it gleefully like a cruel child tormenting a captured wasp. “See what I have here,” he chortled. “How gratifying to rescue a trophy from tonight’s work.”

The angry face of Magnus’s spirit pressed against the dark glass and his fury kindled the light inside. “Release me!” the muffled voice demanded.

The alchemist tutted churlishly and tapped the bottle with his fingernail. The brilliance of the soul within welled up through the skin of his hand. “You must learn to speak with more respect,” he said. “Would it not be pleasant to conduct this interview in a more agreeable and relaxed atmosphere? I suggest we return to my apothecary shop forthwith.”

With the enraged spirit hurling abuse at him. Doctor Spittle popped the bottle into his pocket. “I believe it will be safe to leave the circle,” he told Will. “Collect everything and return it all to the bag. It is time to return home. After these last few hours I believe I could sleep for a week; never have I felt so drained.” He patted the pocket which held the bottle and gave a forced laugh. “I do not think our new friend is going anywhere for the time being. I must have a fresh mind if I am to pursue the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Stooping, he picked up his familiar and gathered the robe tightly about him. “Come along!” he urged. “Jupiter and I need our rest.” Doctor Spittle did not wait for Will. He strode through the graveyard and left the boy to follow when he was ready.

Will shoved the last candlestick into the bag. The only thing left to pack was the black gown that the demon had worn. Cautiously he prodded it with his finger, just to make sure there was nothing of that nightmare still lurking within the folds. Fortunately, no claw reached out to grab him and no mist poured from the cloth. With great speed Will pushed it into the sack and heaved it all over his shoulder.

As he trailed between the tombstones he glanced back at the magical signs still visible in the ground. What, he asked himself, had he done to deserve this dangerous and deadly life? Wandering back through the dark London streets the boy had no idea that the worst was still to come.

7 - Playing with Fire

Imelza stretched out lazily. The logs in the grate had turned to ash and those embers still aglow would soon be consumed. She rolled onto her side and basked in the cherry-red warmth, blinking and idly tapping the tip of her tail on the floor.

A speckled bundle uncurled at her side and Dab yawned widely. “Are you still awake, Mother?” she asked rubbing the drowse from her eyes. “Can you not sleep?”

“The hours of darkness are not for sleeping, my daughter,” Imelza told her. “The night is the hunter’s country—we ought to be out there, not cooped inside this stinking attic. But have no fear, for soon the time will come when we can leave this place and I shall teach you the ways of the wild.” Imelza raised her head and stared into the remains of the fire, yet the light which sparkled in her eyes was no reflection. “The day blinds most creatures with its vainglorious show,” she whispered, “yet the night cloaks all in mystery. The scents and sounds of the velvet dark can strike a fire in the blood and set your mind reeling.” She shuddered as a delicious tingle washed over her. “To be one with that all-encompassing gloom is the only reason to live. Hours uncounted have I remained still as stone, melting into the shadows, waiting for my prey.”

Dab listened with growing discomfort, not sure if she liked this sort of talk. As yet she had never had to kill to eat and the thought that one day she might made her queasy inside. The tortoiseshell doubted if she would ever find murder as easy as her mother described. However, she disguised the revulsion which was creeping upon her and tried to make herself look attentive.

Imelza was smacking her lips, remembering all the dainty bodies she had savoured throughout her life. That was the rightful meat to feast on—not the woeful scraps served here. How she longed for the delight of sweet flesh between her teeth once again. “Oh daughter mine,” she breathed, “how I tire of this place.”

“Hoy, you, Tigerstripe!”

She glared up; it was that insolent black rat again. She had grown to hate the jeering wretch. It was agonising to have live bait constantly dangling from above and not be able to satiate her blood-craving. It had taken great self-control but Imelza had learned to ignore the disrespectful rodent—if only he would leave her alone.

Heliodorus scoffed irreverently. Teasing the tigers down below had become his favourite pastime of late. He turned to the occupant of the second cage which hung from the rafters and called, “You join Heliodorus in happy jesting—yes?”

The podgy brown rat opposite shook its head fearfully. Beckett was a timid animal; he was frightened of everything—even the moths which fluttered in through the bars alarmed him and he would cringe in a corner until they flew out again. “Don’t ’ee wind ’er up so,” he gibbered across the gulf between the two cages. “Yee knowed it fustigates ’er into a wicked temper.”

“Tigerstripe not get Heliodorus, not never!” the black rat shouted down. “Ho, ho—she sad sight most certainly. Oh yes, poor M’Lady she have no sharpy claw no more! Where her backbone got to eh?”

Imelza gritted her teeth and flicked her ears. Was she to be tormented like this every night, she asked herself. With the scornful voice of Heliodorus screeching through her she turned back to Dab. “And where is Leech, thy brother?” she asked, keeping her voice level as though nothing was bothering her.

Her daughter was gazing upwards. She rather liked the black rat. She thought he was funny, although she would never dare to voice this opinion. When Imelza addressed her she had to swiftly collect her wits. “Why, I know not,” she answered distractedly. “He was here when the old human took Jupiter away with him. I recall that Leech was most upset afterwards. Where he might be now I cannot guess; he is always slinking off on his own.”

Imelza glanced round the attic. It was in a worse mess than usual for in his frustration the alchemist had flung books everywhere. The ginger cat narrowed her tawny eyes into slits and pierced the shadowy recesses of the room. “I see him,” she uttered in an unhappy voice. “My son lies asleep in yon corner. It grieves me that he keeps so much to himself.”

Dab pouted in agreement. “My poor brother feels most the anger of the human; he loves him not at all.”

“And yet Jupiter is doted on,” mused Imelza sorrowfully. She looked steadily at Dab. “Promise me,” she began, “that should I ever be taken from you, you shall watch over your brothers. My heart forewarns me that some terrible wedge shall come between them. Swear that you will do all in your power to heal whatever hurts they inflict upon each other.”

“I promise Mother,” stammered the tortoiseshell, startled by the earnestness of the request.

Heliodorus chose that moment to emit a long and raucous raspberry. Both felines looked up and there was the rude creature, squeezing his bottom between the bars and wiggling it to show his contempt.

As he hooted and collapsed helplessly onto the floor of his cage Imelza twitched angrily—these gibes were really beginning to get to her. Dab hastily turned away, for she did not want her mother to see the great smile that had lit her face.

The shop door rattled far below and all knew that the alchemist had returned. Heliodorus ceased his mirth and listened as footsteps clumped up the staircase. Imelza and Dab shifted uncomfortably, wondering what kind of mood the old man would be in, and in his dark corner Leech was roused from sleep as the key clicked in the lock.

The attic door was hurriedly opened and Doctor Spittle breezed inside. He was in the lightest of humours, cradling Jupiter in his arms; he even chuckled when he saw the state of his workroom. “Twould seem a tempest has rampaged through here,” he laughed. “I can see there is much to do on the morrow.” Raising his familiar to his lips he startled the kitten by giving it a kiss. Then he placed it on the floor next to Imelza. “There you are, madam,” he cried, “the prodigal has returned safe and sound. I begin to marvel that I ever managed without his aid.”

Imelza sniffed her son; the night still clung to him and she envied his excursion. In the corner. Leech pressed himself against the wall and as the alchemist pattered closer, he eyed the old man’s boots warily and looked for an escape route. But the kicks he was expecting never came.

Doctor Spittle reached into his pocket and drew out the small bottle. At once the cold blue light filled the room. The old man lifted it over his head and danced around as though drunk. “What a pretty bauble,” he declared proudly.

The frail and anguished voice of Magnus Zachaire called out to him, “Release me thou blackheart!”

“Not yet my shining one,” came the tittered reply. “You know the conditions of your freedom—meet them and on my oath I shall let you go.”

The pale face against the glass was twisted in despair; the spirit longed to return to its peaceful rest—every moment in the living world was a torment to it. Magnus’s glittering eyes glared balefully at his captor but the intense gleam dimmed as he slowly realised there was no choice. Through the smooth walls of his prison he viewed the attic, recognising much of the equipment and all of the wall charts. A terrible regret tore through his being; memories were already flooding back, instants he would rather lose in the eternal sleep of oblivion. He could not bear it. Images of his unhappy life invaded his thoughts, relentlessly taunting him unto the edge of madness.

“I submit,” he moaned, “the secret is thine, just consign me to the grave once more—deliver me from this accursed torture.”

Doctor Spittle grinned callously. “I shall,” he said in a superior tone, “but not at this late hour. I need my rest—the morning is a proper time for the unravelling of coded messages.” Still smiling at his own cleverness this night, he placed the bottle onto one of the low shelves, amongst the other jars and vessels.

“Stay!” cried Magnus piteously. “I cannot abide another hour of this agony. Stay I beg of thee!” But the crimson door had already closed and the alchemist’s footsteps trotted down to his bedchamber.

The spirit wept softly to himself, penitent beyond measure for all his sins—but it was too late to spare him the pain of remembrance. The blue light faded as he brooded in his melancholy and the attic returned to darkness once more.

Imelza gave the bottle a curious look then dismissed it. “Jupiter, my son,” she began, “are you unhurt? Did the human treat you well?”

“Mother!” he exclaimed. “You would scarce believe what I have seen this night. Truly my master is well versed in secret arts. You should have seen how—”

“Master?” snapped Imelza angrily. “Why for do you call him so?” A growl rumbled in her throat and in her eyes a furious gleam shone. “Have I not taught you the Hunter’s Creed?”

Jupiter looked down abashed.

“What is the way of things?” she demanded.

“Trust no one,” he mumbled shamefully.

“And?”

“Beware of the one that waits in the darkness...”

“But of the most important teaching?”

Jupiter groped for the answer—it was on the tip of his tongue. It was difficult with his mother’s reproachful eyes trained upon him. The seconds dragged by as he sought for the correct words, fearing what she might do to him if he failed.

Imelza was incredibly stern—this was extremely serious. A cat must know these important lessons; they had been handed down through innumerable generations from when the world was young. Never had they been flouted and her child was not going to be the first to do so. The threatening noise in her throat grew louder and her eyes became slits—she would claw it into her son if need be.

Jupiter trembled, knowing the trouble he was in. Wildly he glanced over at his sister. Dab too was afraid. Violence terrified her and to see her mother snarling at Jupiter brought her close to tears. Hastily she stole a nervous look at Imelza then mouthed the answer to her brother.

“A true hunter would rather be dead than tamed!” he shouted hurriedly. “Tooth and claw is the only discipline!”

Imelza’s eyes widened and she purred with satisfaction. “You would do well to take those teachings to heart,” she warned. “Do not forget who and what you are, my son. A hunter you shall always be—that is the rightful destiny for us all, not to dance and perform at the human’s pleasure.”

But Jupiter made no reply for he knew she was wrong. There was another path open to him.

Imelza licked herself and cleaned her whiskers. It was time for rest; the wild night would have to do without her yet again. Now that they were reconciled she smiled at Jupiter and bedded down to sleep.

Jupiter waited until he heard the softest of snores and beckoned Dab over. The tortoiseshell tiptoed across to him with a look of reproof on her face. He did not wait for her to scold him. “Bless you Dab,” he thanked her the moment she stood at his side, “you saved me a vicious beating back then.”

“Perhaps it was unwise of me,” she teased. “Your pride could do with a few knocks, brother mine.”

He laughed at that then turned to check on their mother. “Follow me,” he told his sister, “I must tell you of tonight’s adventure.”

So, the two kittens padded over to the far wall where they hoped their talk would not disturb Imelza.

“Was it really beautiful outside?” Dab asked. “I can’t remember the time before we were here. I should like to see the outside world.”

Jupiter nodded eagerly. “Oh Dab!” he enthused. “The city is a fantastic place, there are so many distractions that my head swam. I wanted so much to rush off into the shadows but my master constrained me.”

“Hush!” cried Dab appalled that he should use the word again.

“I care not!” he hissed defiantly. “Mother does not know everything—I want to be more than what she wishes. Oh Dab, there are such secrets to be learned, far more important than the Hunter’s Creed. Do you know what I have discovered already?” His sister shook her head, not sure if she really wanted to know. “Magic!” he declared. “I am beginning to understand some of that hidden craft. Why I believe that even the squiggles in my master’s books are becoming clear to me!”

“No!” Dab breathed in horror.

“Yes,” he assured her, “whilst I sit beside him he traces what he reads with his finger and speaks the words out loud. I have watched and I have learned until I too can recognise some of what is written.”

“But what use will this awful knowledge be?” she asked. “No good can come of it surely?”

“Let me tell you what happened tonight and you will see what I shall be able to do one day.”

And so Jupiter related all that had happened in the churchyard that night. Dab listened in amazement and her eyes were soon large and goggling. From the shadowy corner Leech strained his ears to catch what was said. If only he had been there, if only he could read the human’s writing. Silently he crawled out of the darkness and crept ever closer to his brother and sister.

When Jupiter had come to the end of his tale Dab tutted. “As I said, no good can come of that. There is no kindness in disturbing the natural order—you should leave well alone, brother.”

“Tish!” he retorted. “Watch this. I’ll show you what I am capable of.” He stared intently at the ashes in the dimly glowing grate and began to chant peculiar words. His whiskers quivered as magical forces channelled through his small body and his golden eyes blazed with force.

The cold ashes stirred over the dying embers. Jupiter squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated hard, his ears flattened onto his skull and his voice became strained.

With a deafening whoosh, fierce tongues of flame burst from the grate and roared up the chimney. The fire which volcanoed there was blinding. It filled the attic with its brilliance and the heat beat from it as though it were a furnace.

Before the hearth Imelza sprang to her feet, claws ready. The clamour of the blaze had startled her from sleep and the blistering waves of flame almost scorched her. She leapt backwards, away from this confusing and fearsome enemy. Fires were meant to bring comfort not frazzle the fur off your back.

From the cages above there came wailing. Beckett shrieked in panic as the temperature in the attic galloped and soared to a degree that was stifling. A pot by the fireplace began to smoke ominously and then ’CRACK!” it exploded into a thousand pieces. Heliodorus peered down and fanned himself with his tail. On his travels he had been used to hot climates but never had they been this severe.

By the far wall the three kittens watched aghast. Jupiter had no idea the powers he had unleashed would be so mighty. Speechless, he gawped at the torrent of flame blasting from the grate. Even at this distance the heat was unbearable and to his consternation he saw that the books strewn on the floor were beginning to smoulder.

“Make it stop!” yelled his sister.

Leech stared about him in astonishment. That all this should come about simply by the use of a few words bewildered him. He sneaked a look at his brother; he had never guessed that Jupiter was capable of such a magnificent feat and a jealousy which burned more ferociously than the magical fire consumed him.

Jupiter closed his eyes again and recited the correct words.

Immediately the roasting fire disappeared. The attic was plunged into darkness and swallowed by the gloom.

“What has happened?” cried Imelza fearfully as she came to join her children. “What devilry is this?”

Nobody answered her. Jupiter was too afraid and Dab did not want to get him into trouble. Leech, however, saw an opportunity here for spite. “If you please, Mother,” he piped up, “it was Jupiter who did this. He was showing off what his lord and master has taught him.” His brother shot him a despising glance.

“What mischief have you been up to, my son?” Imelza asked. “Was this in truth your work?”

Jupiter nodded. “I intended no harm, Mother,” he told her, “the spell was stronger than I expected. I did not mean to wake you.”

If he was expecting his mother to scold him he was surprised. Imelza merely gave him a blank look for she did not know what to say. Magic spells were beyond her experience. All she could eventually manage was a stammering, “Take more care next time.”

Jupiter stared at her hopefully. “Does that mean you no longer have any objections to my being taught by the human?”

“I deem that would be pointless,” she replied with weary resignation. “Perhaps I was indeed misguided. Maybe there is a higher calling for you, my child.”

Leech snorted with disgust. He had hoped Jupiter would be soundly punished. This he saw as a definite reward for his brother’s irresponsible actions. With venomous thoughts seeping through his mind, he slunk away from the group and made for the fireplace.

The embers were almost cool now. Sitting back on the still steaming floor he recalled the sight of those tremendous flames, bitterly coveting the power Jupiter had shown. Slyly Leech turned his ugly head and his eyes swivelled round so that he could keep a watch on his brother.

Dab was laughing nervously. “I could have died!” she gasped. “I thought we would sizzle for certain. You are clever Jupiter.”

A smug smile twitched over her brother’s face. “Indeed I am,” he boasted, “but that was only my first essay into the secret ways. The more I endeavour to learn, the greater I shall become.”

“And the larger shall your head swell,” observed his mother.

Jupiter would have laughed, but just then he caught the eye of Leech. Quickly the runt averted his face but Jupiter remembered that here was a debt which needed repaying.

“Try to get me into trouble would you?” he whispered. “Very well, I think I shall use my gifts a second time this night.” Under his breath he began to utter another simple spell. When it was done he turned to his mother and sister. “An unguarded fire is surely a danger to the unwary,” he said. They looked at him curiously, not understanding his meaning. But Jupiter merely raised his eyebrows and nodded towards Leech.

The runt was sitting with his back to them when suddenly a great commotion erupted in the grate. Leech made ready to run in case the fire returned—but it did not. The ashes spluttered and with a loud popping noise a large, red-hot spark whistled from the fireplace and flew towards him.

Leech squealed in fright. Turning tail he scuttled away as fast as he could. But the fizzing cinder shot after him like a guided comet. It bounced on the floor, cutting bright arcs into the gloom, and homed in unerringly on the terrified kitten. Pots and scrolls clattered down as Leech dived onto one of the shelves to escape this tenacious and fiery hornet but it was no use. The spark sailed straight and true and zoomed right down onto his tail.

The poor runt’s howls were dreadful to hear. In his bedchamber. Doctor Spittle, who had been oblivious to all else, turned over in his messy bed and grumbled into the pillow. “Curse those minor demons, will they never leave me in peace?”

Jupiter giggled helplessly, but Dab was not laughing. She could see now what her mother had meant. It would certainly be difficult to keep her brothers on friendly terms at this rate. If the quarrels continued they would be at each other’s throats before long.

Imelza looked over at the shelf where Leech wept and nursed his smoking tail. “Come child,” she called, “let me see...”

“I won’t! I won’t!” he bawled back at her. “It’s not fair! Why do I always have to suffer?” And he buried himself under a pile of parchments where he sobbed great tears of self-pity.

Imelza sighed, “Perhaps we should let him alone; he needs time to himself.” Then she chided her other son. “You should not bully your brother,” she told Jupiter crossly. “He is not as strong as you. It is no easy task to be the runt; could you not show him more kindness?”

“Me, be kind to him?” cried Jupiter in disbelief. “Believe me when I say I’ve tried. Mother, yet every time I’m nice he does something vile in return. Leech is horrible!”

“Then you must try harder,” she said.

Jupiter only laughed.

Dab watched them wander over to the hearth where they prepared to go to sleep. As she pattered over to join them at the fireside, her pretty little head was full of misgivings. Some terrible strife lay ahead for her brothers and she knew the outcome would be an evil one.

The tortoiseshell lay on her side and peered across at the shelf where her brother had hidden himself. “Goodnight Leech,” she called softly. There was no response and Dab settled down to a troubled night’s sleep.

It was black as pitch under the sheaves of parchment. Leech preferred the dark; no one could see him there and no one could see how ugly he was. The only times he was remotely happy were those rare occasions when he was alone. During these isolated periods he could imagine anything he desired, he could be anyone he wanted. His ugliness did not matter when he was estranged from the world and he pretended that he was handsome like his brother. Unfortunately these moments did not last long—there was always some rude awakening from his daydreams and there would be his mother gazing at him with pity in her eyes. He knew she was sorry he had ever been born. She had never said as much but he knew it all the same. This had saddened him at first, but it did not matter any more. At that moment he hated everything in the world and resentful tears streamed down his nose.

“’Tain’t fair,” he repeated, quietly snivelling into his paw. “I must have been born under a sorry star indeed. Why does Jupiter get all the attention and all the indulgences? Why doesn’t anyone like me—’tain’t my fault I’m the runt—I never asked for it to be so.”

Wallowing in his dejection. Leech blew on the tip of his singed tail—it was still smarting. Miserably he muttered, “How I loathe my brother; it’s always Jupiter this, Jupiter that. Why must he be the one to have all the power and get all the praise?” He lifted his odd, angular face at the memory of that marvellous spell. How the fire had rushed up the chimney! In spite of his grievances Leech grinned—undoubtedly that had been a grand spectacle. The joy of it was extinguished however when he recalled that it was Jupiter who had contrived it. For several minutes he sat sullen and wretched until a fantastic idea came to him. If Jupiter could do it then why couldn’t he?

Leech poked his head out of the parchments and stared at the dead fire. He had been careful to memorise exactly what his brother had said and surely it was only a matter of concentration?

He closed his eyes and recited the words his keen ears had heard. Bracing himself for the magic to course through him he gripped the shelf tightly and waited.

Nothing happened.

Leech opened one eye. Perhaps he had overlooked something. Taking a deep breath he tried again. His forehead crinkled and the frowns hooded his eyes completely. The words rasped from his mouth as he ground his teeth together, putting all his strength into the spell.

Still nothing happened.

The runt paused for breath and found that his head was pounding with the strain.

“Ho, ho,” came a soft voice behind him.

Leech whirled round as though stung by another cinder. “Who is there?” he asked timidly.

“Thou wastest thy time and effort,” the voice said.

The kitten sniffed the air; he could not detect anyone. Only the musty scent of mouldering parchment and the withered scent of dried herbs met his nose. Perhaps the acrid smell of his own burnt fur had dulled his senses. Who then had spoken?

Could one of those impudent rats have escaped and sneaked down here to mock him? If that was the case then the foolish creature had to be hiding behind those bottles and jars. Leech was sick and tired of being the butt of so many jokes. It was bad enough when Jupiter laughed at him but to have a rat do the same was nothing short of degrading. Even now it was probably laughing till its ribs ached. He felt like catching that cruel rodent and teaching it some manners.

A wicked expression settled over the kitten; there were better things to do with rats he remembered, and he realised that he would enjoy being a hunter. Better to silence those jeers forever with one snap of his jaws, he told himself.

Assuming the correct stance, he prowled forward. “Little ratty, little ratty,” he purred with menace, “speak to me, speak to Leech that I might know where you are.”

“Dolt! I am no rodent!”

Leech stopped in his tracks and nearly toppled from the shelf. To his dismay one of the bottles was glowing and there in the midst of the swirling radiance a ghostly face had appeared.

The spirit of Magnus Zachaire drew close to the glass. Those sparkling eyes stared out at the runt and a curious look glittered in them. “I fear thou shalt never be a hunter,” it said with some amusement. “The din thou makest is enough to waken the—’ He broke into sudden laughter as he realised what he was about to say. “Well here I am to prove it!” he chuckled.

Leech fidgeted uncomfortably. Bottles that spoke were a new wonder to him and he was not sure if he trusted it. Suspiciously he turned to see if this was another trick of his brother’s. No, Jupiter was still fast asleep by the hearth.

“Have no fear,” the spirit said, “I cannot harm thee. I can do naught. See—I am imprisoned.”

The kitten moved a little nearer then reached out a paw to touch the glass. It was true: whatever that shining creature was, it could not escape. This boosted his confidence. He pulled a fierce expression and spat.

Magnus scowled at that and the light flared abruptly. Startled, Leech cringed backwards. “I suffer that from no one!” the phantom bellowed angrily.

“Forgive me!” the kitten pleaded as he hastily wiped the offensive matter from the glass. The glare dimmed and the luminous face accepted the apology. “What are you?” Leech inquired, meekly bowing his head.

“In life I was Magnus Zachaire,” returned the shade wincing at the memory, “a man of much learning. Or so it amused me to think.”

“Human!” exclaimed the kitten. “But you understand my speech. How is this possible?”

“I have been in the pathless void,” Magnus replied darkly. “Mine eyes and ears both see and hear many things beyond the range of mortal men. To converse with thee is a small matter, yet it drives away the pain. While we talk I am spared the agony of enduring recollection.” He passed a transparent hand over his brow and there was something of relief in his tone when he next spoke. “Tell me,” he began, “why art thou named Leech? Who gave thee so uncharitable a title?”

The kitten gazed at the floor. “Is it not obvious?” he mumbled. “The old human called me thus because I am ugly and the runt of my mother’s womb.”

“Elias Theophrastus Spittle is cruel indeed,” remarked the spirit. “There is naught shameful in being the runt, for weaklings grow and can achieve greatness.”

“Not I,” came the sour response. “All mock me—there are times I wish I was dead.”

Magnus’s floating head reared at that. “Jest not about the grave,” he said solemnly, “thou knowest not what death means. It is a cold emptiness that ever gnaws at thee, rush not into its chilling embrace before thy time.”

Leech shrugged, “What do I care? At least I would escape my brother.”

“Thy brother? Ah yes!” The face stared through the glass at the slumbering group before the fireplace. “I was witness to his display,” he said admiringly. “Never have I seen the like. Yonder kitten shall grow to be exceedingly strong and powerful, his strength increaseth daily. I foresee a time when even Elias Theophrastus Spittle will not be able to hold him in check.”

Leech snorted unhappily and tossed his head. “You are like the others,” he whined, “they too praise my brother—well, not me. I hate him!”

A mild chuckle issued from the bottle. “Poor, wretched Leech,” Magnus said sadly, “take the counsel I give to thee. Leave this black road of jealousy and loathing which thou hast begun to tread. Disaster and tragedy shall surely come of it.”

“What care I? Is it right that Jupiter has everything? Why should he be the only one to understand the human’s writing? Why can’t I work the spells also?”

Magnus smiled. “Hmm, I saw thy attempts afore,” he said. “Did I not say then that it was a wasted effort?”

“Why do you say that? Have I not just as much right to work magic as my sainted brother?”

“You have no right whatsoever.”

Leech pulled himself up sharply; there was a definite ring in the voice. “Why?” he asked.

The spirit wagged a spectral finger at the kitten. “Dost thou not understand the laws governing magic?” he sighed. “In any family large or small, it is possible for only one member to practise the secret arts. Jupiter has taken the choice from thee. Leech. He sought to wield enchantments before you did and thus the right has passed to him. He is the one selected from your house, you cannot compete against him. The rules cannot be broken, they have held true since creation and thou must accept that.”

“Then am I doomed to a life of servitude under my brother?”

“Perhaps,” Magnus admitted. His hands drifted up to his face and a strange look passed over him. “There is much to learn on the other side,” he muttered, “many things, past, present and yet to come, are revealed unto you. I gaze now on some distant time, when science does strangle the world and life reaches for the stars.” He hesitated as the vision unfurled and his voice trembled with amazement. “If the present path is followed unswervingly then from the darkness deep beneath the earth a living god will rise and he shall be named Jupiter—Lord of All.”

“No!” hissed Leech furiously.

The eyes of Magnus Zachaire wrenched themselves back to the present and focused on the kitten before him. “This is written,” he said, “if circumstances remain constant—thy brother shall indeed become a god.”

A hideous sneer stole over Leech. “But what if my brother were to meet with some accident?” he whispered.

“Then the power that was his would pass to thee,” answered the spirit.

Leech grinned as malice filled his thoughts and the smouldering hatred he bore for Jupiter burst now into unquenchable flames. With his tail flicking in agitation he stared across at the sleeping figure of his brother. “I shall have to see what can be contrived,” he breathed.

8 - Adieu

Doctor Spittle slept long and deeply; the past few weeks had taken their toll on him. This was the first complete rest he had allowed himself for a very long time and he was reluctant to stir from it. Through dreams that ran with rivers of molten gold he pranced, flitting like an old, fat butterfly from one heap of treasure to another. The gleam of his fortune dazzled him and as he raised his hands to shield his eyes from the glare he realised that he had awoken at last. The bright light was in truth the rays of the wintry sun which was already climbing the sky. The alchemist blinked, grumpily squinting as the delightful dreams swiftly dissolved and the grey reality of the world greeted him.

Mumbling, the old man forced himself out of bed, but when his bare feet met the cold floor he whistled through his teeth and hopped back onto the mattress. Standing there in his threadbare nightshirt. Doctor Spittle stretched and his crooked back clicked with surprise. As he scrabbled through the messy heaps of clothes which surrounded the bed he chuckled merrily at the thought of what today might yield.

“With Zachaire’s assistance,” he said, “the Stone shall indeed be mine.”

The alchemist dressed hurriedly and ran like an excited child to the door of his bedchamber, so eager was he to commence the work. But on the small landing he paused as a familiar voice drifted up from the shop below.

“Vite, boy—vite! Fetch that rascally ragamuffin of an apothecary!”

Normally Doctor Spittle would have scowled at this insulting remark but nothing could mar his happiness this morning—not even Sir Francis Lingley. With his head set at a regal tilt he descended the stairs, his face wrapped around with a very large smile.

He met Will at the bottom of the staircase and waved him back into the shop.

This morning Sir Francis was dressed in an outfit of emerald silk. A hilarious but expensive broad-brimmed hat trimmed with feathers and silver tinsel sat atop the oval head and this finery drew the alchemist’s attention at once. His smile failed as he realised that he had neglected to put on his new robe that morning, but he rallied and welcomed the dandified customer with a warmth that made Will look up sharply.

“A good day to you, My Lord!” he exclaimed.

“How good it is to see you in my humble shop once more. What service may I offer to you this chill morning?”

Even Sir Francis was taken aback by the profuse greeting. After his rude treatment of the apothecary yesterday he was expecting at least some coldness. He fingered the yellow lace which festooned his throat; how pleasant it was to be thought of so highly by the common sort. He was glad that Doctor Spittle was still well disposed towards him—it would make his request a trifle easier. Expertly he pointed a ribboned toe and gave a polite bow.

“You do me much honour, Apothecary,” he said coolly, “yet it is not your knowledge of herbs and simples which has brought me hither this day.”

The alchemist raised a bushy eyebrow. “Then what indeed has taken you from the court and led you here?” he inquired.

Will looked from one man to the other—he could sense that each was up to something. As he was considering what this might be. Sir Francis became aware of his curious stare.

“If we might be permitted to speak in private,” he whispered to the old man, nodding at Will to show his meaning.

Doctor Spittle turned to the boy and clapped his hands. “See to my workroom,” he instructed. Will left the shop and trailed up the stairs.

When he was sure they would not be overheard Sir Francis came to the point at once. “The King is giving a banquet next week,” he cried. “It is certain to be the most splendid event of the year. A childhood friend of His Majesty sails this very day from France and it is in his honour that the feast is given.

“A most perfect opportunity for advancement,” mused the alchemist perceptively.

Sir Francis gaped at him for a moment—this apothecary was a mite too sharp at times. “Exactly so,” he agreed, briskly covering his hesitation. “One who is friends with the Comte de Foybleau would also find high favour with the King.” He lowered his voice and flicked the curls of his periwig over his shoulders as he continued. “I have it on good authority that the Comte speaks little or no English and looks kindly on those with wit enough to use his native tongue when addressing him.”

“Then your future is assured,” Doctor Spittle returned mildly and the ghost of a mocking smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, “for do you not have the mastery of that language?”

Sir Francis gave him a withering stare. “You know full well I do not!” he snapped. “Was it not you who furnished me with what scraps of French I already possess?”

“It may have been,” admitted the alchemist slowly, “but you have surpassed those few words I first taught you.” He lowered his eyes and brushed an imaginary crumb from his grubby jerkin. “I do not recall including the word ‘mendiant’ in that original list—it means ‘beggar’, does it not?”

Sir Francis loosened his lace cravat to ease his discomfort and strained to keep calm. “As to that,” he mumbled, “and my tone of yesterday, there does appear to be an apology owing. But, the fact remains that I, and much of the court, know very little true French. What I do understand is merely a jumble of fragments that I have garnered from the chatter of others.”

“A most unkind chatter it must be to contain so many insults,” Doctor Spittle drily commented. “What a foul crew you must throng with, My Lord.”

The smile froze on the other man’s face; the apothecary was not making this easy. It galled Sir Francis to ask anything of this untidy wretch and his fingers twitched in their frilled cuffs, anxious to strike the impudent fellow. After a moment’s careful thought, however, the smile widened and Sir Francis was laughing nervously—this was too important a chance to let slip. He dabbed at his sweating forehead; better to let the man have his fun than miss this marvellous opportunity. “You are, are you not, a learned soul?” he asked. “A scholar even?”

Doctor Spittle gazed at him with a steady eye. “It is true, I do indeed understand more than most,” he answered archly.

Sir Francis let that one pass, but it set his teeth on edge to do so. When this banquet was over and he was close to the King, then he would deal with this insolent rogue in a fitting manner. For the present he would have to suffer these barbed words and he turned to speak once again. “Then furnish me with more than the ridiculous phrases that I and everyone else bandy about the court,” he begged. “String together sentences which one would ask a native of France.”

“But if the Comte were to speak with you, you would be unable to comprehend him.”

“No matter,” Sir Francis said confidently. “I can tell by tone of voice whether a nod or tut is needed. Just give me the rags of a conversation and I shall tailor them to suit my needs.” He looked keenly into the old man’s face then added, “I should be eternally grateful.”

Doctor Spittle bowed. “Return here on the day of the banquet and what you desire will be ready.”

“The day of the banquet?” the other spluttered. “But I must commit it to memory. How shall I do so in such little time?”

“That is a problem for you to overcome,” replied the alchemist. “Alas I can do the work no swifter.”

Sir Francis snorted impatiently then nodded as he accepted this. “So be it,” he said, “only be sure ’tis done, for I will be knocking on your door at first light that day.” With a flourish of his feathered hat he marched from the shop.

Doctor Spittle rubbed his hands together. “At last,” he cackled, “that beribboned maypole has entered my web and is in my power.” With a spring in his step he almost skipped upstairs.

Dab pushed her cheek against the boy’s palm and purred. Will stroked her head then scratched under her chin. The kitten rolled onto her side and closed her beautiful amber eyes as she yawned. From her place before the hearth, Imelza came forward. She gave the boy a wary look then sat beside her daughter.

“Stop that at once,” she hissed, “it is most unseemly—you are not tame, child.”

Shyly Dab looked up at the boy then remembered the proprieties. “Forgive me, Mother,” she said, “I forgot myself.”

“A hunter never forgets,” admonished Imelza. “The life here is too easy, that is the problem. Your instincts grow dull. When the weather turns we shall escape.”

Dab said nothing, but her mind revolted at the thought of leaving the attic. Of course she wanted to see the outside world, but not stay there and have to kill for survival.

Will watched the cats and laughed; anyone would think they were talking to one another. He gave Dab one last pat on the head and Doctor Spittle entered.

“The time has come,” he cried excitedly as he rushed over to one of the shelves. A flurry of parchments was thrown over his shoulder as he rooted amongst the jars and pots. A terrified screech issued from the shelf as a small black shape darted out and raced behind a cupboard. “Cursed slug!” roared the alchemist. “Why is it always underfoot? Aha!” He brought out the small bottle which contained Magnus Zachaire and set it spinning on the table.

A prolonged whine echoed from within and the blue light pulsed in fright. “Enough!” pleaded the spirit. “Dost thou reckon my suffering too small that thou wouldst seek to compound it?”

Promptly the old man slapped his hand upon the bottle and put a stop to its revolutions. “Good morrow, Magnus,” he uttered. “I trust you are ready to unravel the conundrums you have set?”

“I am.”

Doctor Spittle took the robe and spread it out upon the table with the embroidered lining uppermost. “Then let us begin,” he said.

The ethereal face appeared in the bottle; a fierce glint crept into the eyes as they surveyed the velvet gown and a strange smile formed upon the lips.

“What has amused you?” rapped out the alchemist sharply. “Is there a matter here to cause merriment?”

The smile disappeared and the spirit shook its head. “’Twere only old memories which haunted me,” it said quickly.

“Well, we don’t want any of that to bore the breeches off us,” sniffed the old man tapping the table in irritation. “Kindly get on with the task set.”

Magnus turned his attention back to the message embroidered on the lining. “He who wouldst seek the Philosopher’s Stone must know this,” he began.

Doctor Spittle nodded eagerly and reached for his notes as the spirit continued.

“This most wondrous element is a stone yet not a stone, it is of God yet not of God, it is flesh yet mineral also, it is secret but known to all.”

“Yes, yes, we are all aware of that tired chestnut, but of the formula? Explain the symbols you have used!”

“So be it,” returned the spirit.

For the rest of the morning they worked together. With grudging reluctance Magnus Zachaire translated the meaning of his riddling code and Doctor Spittle gleefully annotated his notes, declaring from time to time, ‘Of course’ or ’Surely not’. By the middle of the afternoon all was explained and the alchemist happily puffed out his chest.

“Now fulfil thine end of the bargain,” demanded the spirit.

The old man glanced up from his sheaf of paper and smirked. “My dearest colleague,” he said, “that would be most unwise of me. How am I to know this is the true formula? I must experiment with it first before I can be sure. No, I think you will have to be patient a little longer.”

The light inside the bottle turned almost white with rage. Thou reneging knave!” Magnus boomed. “Hast thou no honour?”

But the alchemist only laughed.

The rest of the week was taken up with the collecting of the necessary ingredients and once he was sure he had them all, Doctor Spittle locked himself away and set to work. Throughout the daytime Will saw to the shop and attended to the needs of the customers. By now he knew what went into most of the cures and philtres the apothecary sold and coped with accomplished ease.

The fourth day saw the beginning of February and the boy grimly reflected that he had been in London for nearly three months. He tried never to think of his previous life now—dwelling on that time only brought home the misery of his present situation. Adcombe now seemed to be a far-off dreamworld and the boy who had idled away his childhood afternoons there was a separate person from the one who now slaved for the alchemist.

Doctor Spittle was certainly busy during this time—Will hardly saw him as the great experiment neared fruition. Occasionally a wisp of green smoke stole down the stairs to remind him that the work was still in progress, or an evil smell enveloped the whole building and was enough to keep the customers away.

On the night of the fifth day. Will was roused from sleep by the sound of laughter. In his bedchamber above the shop Doctor Spittle was enjoying some fine joke but the noise was horrible, not the carefree, glad sound of true mirth; this was tinged with hate and wickedness. Will pulled the sackcloth over his head and immersed himself in sleep once more.

A harsh knocking awoke him the next day. He rubbed his eyes. The light was still dim and he doubted if the morning cock had yet crowed. Peering through the gloom he perceived a tall figure hammering on the shop door. Immediately Will hurried over to see who this could be. A delicate and beringed hand shoved him out of the way. This was followed by the velvet-cloaked Sir Francis Lingley, resplendent in orange satin and white frills.

The apothecary!” he demanded. “Fetch him. I have no time to dally this day for there is much to do before the court bestirs itself—and I have an appointment with my tailor who refuses to be kept waiting, bothersome fellow. I shall be at costs of twenty pounds for the coat he is making for me to dazzle them with tonight. I hope it will prove a wise investment.”

Will ran up to wake Doctor Spittle who for some reason seemed almost benign and pleased to hear of Sir Francis’s early arrival.

“You are well come, My Lord,” the old man said some minutes later. This time he sported the robe for the other to see and he swished about in it pretending to examine an earthenware vessel on a high shelf.

Sir Francis eyed the gown with some surprise and his expression was almost envious when he saw the shining stones and silver lace. But he consoled himself with the fact that such a thing was not really fashionable and brought himself to the matter in question. “Do you have what you promised?” he asked bluntly.

The alchemist took a roll of paper from beneath the robe, allowing him a glimpse of the fine embroidery within. “I have indeed,” he returned with a bow.

Sir Francis had the scroll from his hand in a trice and hastily unfurled it. Doctor Spittle had been true to his word; in one column there were a score of possible topics of conversation. These included ’I trust the weather was clement for your journey from France?’ and, ‘London is a sweeter place for the arrival of you and your delightful wife’ or ’I have heard that you have three charming children, I pray the Lord keeps them well whilst you are from them’. The opposing column contained the French translation of these worthy sentiments and it was clear that Sir Francis was overjoyed.

“Precisely what I needed!” he exclaimed. “I am ever in your debt Apothecary. I shall have a word with the cook tonight and see if there is aught he can spare for you. Some delightful dessert perhaps—a syllabub or pear tart?”

“Most gratifying I’m sure,” replied the alchemist with little sincerity. “You will see. My Lord, that I have also included several compliments which you may like to pay to the Comtesse: ‘What lovely shoes’; ‘You look radiant tonight’; that sort of thing. Oh yes, there is also something which you might care to say to the King, commenting on his noble choice of friends.”

Sir Francis squeaked with anticipation. “I cannot bear to wait,” he cried. “Oh, how I shall impress the court with my effortless grasp of the French tongue. The Lingley star will rise very high tonight, Spittle. Now I must be off and learn these divine morsels by heart.” With a rustle of orange satin and a wave of his frills he was gone.

Doctor Spittle’s lips broke into a wide grin and he went laughing up the stairs.

Alone in the shop Will scratched his head. “Now what was that all about?” he asked himself. “And why is old Spittle so happy?”

A bitter smell met the alchemist’s nostrils when he entered his workroom. The air was thick with an acrid mix of noxious chemical vapours and a crucible glowed red hot over the fire. Taking a long pair of tongs he prodded the liquid metal within. It bubbled and blew out a hideous stench.

“How much longer?” he cackled.

“At midnight tonight the Stone shall be thine,” answered the spirit.

“Midnight tonight!” echoed the old man.

“Verily, and shouldst thou add merely a few grains of it to any base metal it shall surely transmute into gold.”

“Never have I come this close to achieving my life’s work!” gasped Doctor Spittle, slumping into his seat. “I must take care; it would do me no good to overexcite myself and suffer a seizure just as the Stone is within reach.” He stared round at his cluttered attic as though it was the last time he would set eyes on it. “Gladly shall I exchange this poky place for a palace,” he chuckled. “What say you, Jupiter?”

The familiar had leaped onto his master’s lap and the alchemist stroked him fondly. “Soon you shall dine off a gold plate,” he said. “I can scarce believe it myself—after all these years of scrimping and hardship to purchase the necessary equipment, the time has come.” A big, joyful tear trickled down the hooked nose and splashed onto Jupiter’s head.

The remaining hours of daylight were painfully slow and Doctor Spittle remained glued to his chair, watching the bubbling substance in the crucible give off streams of foul fumes. When the evening came he was still there, his eyes fixed on the strange liquid. It had become transparent now and tiny crystals were beginning to form around the edges.

The light died outside the small attic window but the alchemist was insensible to the growing dark. Only the fire and what simmered there existed to him; it filled his vision and his mind. The night crept by and as midnight drew closer the cats became restless.

Imelza prowled around, anxious to escape this stinkful prison. Dab watched her timidly. Her mother was growing more agitated with every passing day—the tortoiseshell felt sure that if they were cooped up much longer then something disastrous would happen. Imelza’s yearning to roam abroad unsettled her and she crouched by the hearth, dejected and heavy of heart.

Jupiter had moved from the old man’s lap and was engrossed in one of the open books which still littered the floor. From one of the topmost shelves Leech spied on them all. Slyly he observed his brother and watched as the material in the crucible gelled and become almost solid. It had turned white and looked like a thick, salty paste, yet green smoke continued to fly out of its gurgling centre. Leech peered out of the window and knew it was nearly midnight.

“Not much longer,” breathed the alchemist in a hallowed tone.

“No indeed,” said Magnus quietly. “’Twould appear thou hast succeeded, Spittle. That is a rare feat to accomplish. Once I was in possession of the correct formula it took seven years to find the Stone. The Almighty hath looked kindly upon thee.”

“Rubbish!” hissed the old man. “It was my skill that blended the ingredients and my eyes that watched over the chemicals—no heavenly agency was at work. Man is the true lord of Nature, there is nothing he cannot achieve.”

BANG!

“Lord of Death!” cried Doctor Spittle jumping from the chair. “What was that?”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“’Twould seem that someone is most desperate to enter thy shop,” said the spirit.

“Sounds like the Devil himself.”

“I assume thou speakest from experience,” returned Magnus.

The alchemist ignored him, and leaned over to the window where he peered down at the street below. A broad hat smothered in white feathers and gold lace obscured the figure hammering on the shop door. Doctor Spittle let out a hearty laugh when he realised who it was. “Ha, ha!” he hooted. “A dishevelled Lingley has come to call! Now what has fetched him from that toothsome banquet, I wonder?”

At the sound of his voice the man tossed back his head and glared upwards. “Spittle!” he screamed. “I’ll see you hang for this!” The old, guffawing head withdrew from the window and Sir Francis was left fuming on the step. He pounded on the door again and the worried face of Will peered through the glass to see who it was.

“Open!” screeched the man. “In the name of all that is holy, unbolt this door or I shall break it down!”

The boy quickly obeyed and was thrust aside as the man barged into the shop. “Sir!” Will exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this? The hour is late—”

“Silence, lad, if you value your head!” Sir Francis stormed. He threw up his arms and shouted until he turned a violent shade of beetroot. “Come down Spittle, let me face the fiend who has ruined me this night!”

“I am here,” said a soft voice.

The man whirled round and there, with a candle in his hand, stood the alchemist. A triumphant gleam shone in his eyes and he studied Sir Francis keenly. “Well, well, My Lord,” he whispered quietly, “pray tell me the reason for this riotous disruption. See, you have woken my apprentice, and I myself was immersed in important work which should not be left unattended.”

“My Lord?” spat Sir Francis contemptuously. “Oh yes, you black villain, you know full well that I am disgraced and no longer bear that title!”

Doctor Spittle pretended to look shocked but he could not prevent a smirk stealing over his face. “Why, my dearest sir,” he began with just the hint of a snigger, “what can you mean—what unhappy event has occurred to rob you of your nobility?”

Sir Francis—or rather plain Francis Lingley as he was now—took off his hat and threw it at the old man with all his strength. “You occurred, you deceitful felon!” he shrieked. “I curse the day I ever set eyes on this hole of a shop! It is you who have brought this calamity upon me! I should kill you where you stand!”

Doctor Spittle tittered to see the man so distraught but this only made the poor fellow worse and he tore off his periwig and stamped it into the dusty floor.

Will was astonished and confounded. “What has happened?” he asked. “What has he done that is so terrible?”

Francis rounded on him and waved a piece of paper under the boy’s nose. “This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “is what brought about my doom! These ‘conversational’ sentences have consigned me to the life of a pauper! I am utterly destroyed!”

“I don’t understand...” Will stammered glancing at the giggling alchemist. “How could they?”

“Because he has cheated and lied to me!” snarled the man. “Oh yes, the banquet began well enough. The guest of honour, the Comte de Foybleau, arrived with His Majesty and we were all there ready to greet him. All day I have drummed these hateful French sentences into my head so that I would be word-perfect tonight—my God, how I shudder now to think of it, that I should have played such a determined role in my own downfall!” He paused for breath then continued, “When the feasting was complete we rose to dance and the Comte was introduced to those of note. I pushed myself forward and gave my most gracious and becoming bow. The Comte had by him a manservant versed in both French and English. This person informed me that His Lordship expressed a delight in my attire. I saw this as my chance and hastened to compliment the Comte and his charming wife in their own tongue. This I managed adroitly; they were both well pleased and wished to speak at greater length. With my pride soaring I began to use the sentences you had furnished me with, but to my consternation they both stared at me in puzzlement.”

“Why?” asked Will. “What was wrong?”

Francis snorted and pointed accusingly at the alchemist. “Only later did I discover that I was not actually flattering them but was in fact uttering the most odious insults.”

Doctor Spittle burst out with a great horse-laugh.

“Yet that was not the end of my disgrace,” Francis persisted. “The more I tried to retrieve the situation the more I dishonoured myself.” He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and tears sprang to his eyes. “In my madness I apparently told the Comte that his wife had the face of a barnacle goose and the figure of a butchered sow and if his children took after her then they must be hideous beyond imagining.”

Will drew his breath. This was terrible—greater men had lost their heads for less. His sympathy went out to the once proud and haughty lord—no one deserved such humiliation. He hardly dared to ask what happened next but Francis needed no prompting.

“Their horrified expressions told me that I had made some nightmarish mistake, yet in my stupidity I thought I had mispronounced some word or other—never did I dream that what I said was one long list of rudeness. Like some moon-kissed buffoon I gabbled on until the Comte slapped me with his glove and his wife spat at me. The whole court was listening by this time and the King himself came over to see what the commotion was.”

“Ha!” exulted Doctor Spittle. “So you uttered that last sentence, did you not?”

“Just so!”

“Hee hee! And did you compliment him on his noble choice of friends?”

“Pouvez-vous remettre un bouton à ce veston?” screeched Francis, the veins on his temples throbbing with rage. “What possessed me to trust you? Vile, loathsome creature that you are! Only then did I realise I had been betrayed! If those sentences had been provided earlier I should have had time to work out what they actually meant. Idiot though I was, I actually put my faith in you!”

The alchemist leaned against the counter for support. He was so helpless with laughter that he shook uncontrollably, making one of the pots on the table jiggle off the edge and smash to the floor.

Francis’s face was awful to look on; his lips were white and his nostrils were flaring like those of a mad horse. “You think it is funny?” he bawled. “You think that my asking the King if he can sew a button on my coat is a great jest, do you?” His hand flew to his belt and in an instant produced a small, deadly dagger.

The laughter died in the alchemist’s throat when he saw the blade advance. He glared at the man wielding it and snarled, “Sheathe your dagger, Lingley. Would you make a fool of yourself twice in one night?”

“I will be avenged!” the other declared fiercely.

The alchemist smiled. “Very well,” he said calmly. “Come and gut me.”

Francis ran at him and the dagger was raised.

Not knowing who to help, Will rushed forward. If this man killed Doctor Spittle he could escape and his heart leapt at that—he could return to Adcombe with no fear of pursuing demons hunting after him. For a vital second he wavered as the delicious idea took hold; he would finally be free to till the land on the Godwin estate and run it as his father had done till the day he died. What a heavenly release from this cruel and grim city.

Will recoiled suddenly—had he really become so callous? Could he in truth stand by and let Francis commit murder?

As he was struggling within himself a cry of anguish and fear resounded through the shop. The knife clattered to the ground and Francis fell back in terror.

“His eyes!” he spluttered. “Look at his eyes!”

Will turned to see. Doctor Spittle was cackling and an orange glow now illumined the room. It was brighter than the light of the candle and with a shiver the boy saw where it came from. The alchemist’s eyes were blazing with flame; they were like two burning coals and they glared at Francis with evil intent.

“You dare to raise your hand against me?” the alchemist cried, seeming to grow in stature. “Begone, before my anger consumes you!” He held out his hand and the tips of his fingers dripped yellow flames.

“Aaiieee!” wailed Francis. “You’re a demon!” And he hurried out of the door as fast as his feet could take him.

Doctor Spittle chuckled and crossed the shop to close the door. He was his usual self again. “I do not think we shall ever see him in here after tonight,” he said mildly, “not now he is déclassé. I wouldn’t be surprised if His Majesty hounds him out of the kingdom altogether.” He stopped abruptly when he saw Will’s astonishment. “Fear not, young dog,” he assured him. “That was only a party trick—nothing more—but it put the wind up our Francis, did it not?”

Will nodded feebly; this horrible old man frightened him more and more.

“Now get you back to rest,” the alchemist instructed. “I have my work to return to.” And he left Will staring after him.

With a light heart Doctor Spittle entered the attic; from now on nobody would deride him. He had suffered the scorn of others for too long; tomorrow he would be richer than all of them and he hummed a merry ditty at the notion.

Locking the door behind him he turned to the crucible over the fire and looked blankly down. It was empty.

“The Stone!” he murmured. “Where is the Stone?”

“The clock has struck midnight,” said the voice of Magnus Zachaire. “The Stone was here then, but thou wert not.”

“I... I do not understand,” the old man said slowly. “Then where has it gone?”

The spirit laughed. “The heats took it,” he crowed. “Did I not warn thee of the dangers involved? The Stone must be removed from the fire at the precise moment or it withers and is no more. All that work was for nought—thou wert too busy seeking vengeance to heed thine own ambition. Thy malice blinded thee to all else.”

“Then I shall begin again!” Doctor Spittle growled defiantly. “I have accomplished it once, a second time will be easier still.”

The spirit said nothing but as the face faded within the bottle an odd glitter stabbed from his dark eyes.

9 - ‘Lord Have Mercy on Us’

Days and weeks passed by, until March settled in, bringing with it warm winds and fair weather. The spring came with an abundance of lush green growth and perfumed blossom rained down from the trees which grew in the courtyards and small gardens of the city The winter had been an extremely mild one and many thanked the Lord for His leniency. A lazy, contented air lay over London and the gentry delighted in taking strolls around Hyde Park where they studied the latest fashions and talked of the recent scandals. The horrendous spectacle that Sir Francis Lingley had made of himself was all but forgotten and, as no one knew where he had taken himself off to, he was old news and the court tongues wagged to different tunes.

The war with the Dutch continued, but to the common folk it was only a rumour which had little effect on their lives. Only when the ships came to port and the haggard sailors rampaged drunkenly from one tavern to the next did they become aware of it.

Under the blue, hazy shadow of St Paul’s, March turned to April and the clement weather continued. Soon those who had thanked the Almighty for the temperate winter were muttering against Him. In the warm sun the smells of the city gradually worsened; the meat in the butchers’ shops went rotten more quickly and the sludge of the open drains flowed thick and slow in the heat. It was the ideal breeding ground—for vermin of all kinds. Rats multiplied in their thousands and armies of ants invaded houses, crawling into kitchens and marching into pantries. Hosts of large, black flies swarmed through the cramped lanes and everyone closed their windows against them.

Will was bored. He stared out of the leaded panes and fanned his face with a sheet of paper; the air inside the apothecary shop was sticky and close. It had been a quiet morning for customers—only two had come in and of those only one had purchased something. A cloud of insects buzzed past the glass and instinctively he stepped back.

“If only Molly would come,” he sighed wistfully. The pretty young woman had not set foot inside the shop since that morning in January. Will missed her cheerful and irreverent manner; a visit from her would certainly brighten his day. “I wonder what can have happened to her?” he murmured.

A thunderous noise crashed overhead but the boy took no notice. “He’s at it again,” he simply muttered.

There followed a quick succession of sounds: bottles smashed, heavy footsteps stamped up and down and a high screech cut through the stifling atmosphere. Will had been expecting the latter but he winced anyway. “I don’t know how that poor cat stays alive.”

Since that night when he had brought about the ruin of Sir Francis Lingley, Doctor Spittle had been trying to recreate his experiment. At first his confidence was overwhelming but as each attempt ended in failure he became increasingly impatient and frustrated. This had a disastrous effect upon his work: his concentration would fail at a crucial moment and the entire procedure would have to begin again. Even the arrival of a new comet in the sky failed to grab his attention and it was left to other astrologers to suppose what this would portend.

From the spirit of Magnus Zachaire Doctor Spittle had little help; it merely repeated what he already knew and on occasion the alchemist was driven to distraction by the unnecessary remarks it made about his competence.

Will kept out of his way as much as possible, for the old man’s temper boiled as viciously as the chemicals in his experiments.

A door slammed and the boy glanced upwards; quickly he made a grab for the broom and when the alchemist entered he was busily sweeping the floor.

The old man looked drawn and the bags beneath his eyes were grey from the sleepless nights he forced himself to endure. He glowered at Will and crossed to one of the shelves. From this he took down a large jar and emptied the contents on the ground. “Be sure and clean that also,” he said curtly.

At that moment the door to the shop opened and a large ox of a man squeezed inside. His face was round as a cannon ball and purple with the heat. The tufts of black hair which sprouted on the top of his head lay flat against his scalp, plastered down by the sweat which constantly cascaded over his corpulent features like salty waterfalls. A fly that had followed the stranger into the shop landed on his dripping brow and crawled down his heavy jowls. The man squashed it with an expert thumb and flicked the dead insect off his streaming skin. It landed directly at the feet of Doctor Spittle.

The alchemist regarded it peevishly then raised his eyebrows at the fat intruder.

The man coughed and blinked his pale blue eyes. Then he held up a dumpy little hand and saluted. “Be you the apothecary?” he asked in a squeaky high-pitched voice that contrasted starkly with his bulk.

Doctor Spittle pulled a face; he itched to get back to work. “I might very well be,” he answered tersely. “Whatever it is you require my apprentice can attend to it.” With the empty jar in his grasp he turned to leave.

But the stranger was not to be put off so easily. “Is the lad skilled enough to prepare a remedy that can protect against the plague?” he demanded.

The alchemist stopped in his tracks and whirled round. “What say you?” he shrieked.

“Plague!” gasped Will.

“Aye!” the man replied. “That’s what it’s feared to be. ’Tis said it has already claimed some poor soul—one Margaret Ponteous. She fell into the fever and never came out of it. This very hour I have passed a house outside the city walls that is shut up with the sickness. It was a wretched slum of a place and I crossed the street to be as far from it as possible.” He stared grimly at Will then turned back to the alchemist. “That is why I am here, in case the contagion of that house has in some way touched me.”

Doctor Spittle let out a squawk and staggered backwards. “Get out!” he gibbered. “Take your filthy person away from my shop—I have no wish to die a raving death.”

“But you are an apothecary, are you not?” squeaked the man in surprise. “I have come seeking help, surely you would not deny me aid?”

“That I most certainly would!” the old man declared. “And I shall!” In an effort to shield himself he put his arm over his mouth and snatched the broom from Will, then he shooed and prodded the large man out of the door and threw the bolt home.

Leaning against it he put his hand over his chest where his heart fluttered in alarm. There was nothing Doctor Spittle feared more than illness and disease and he took great precautions to avoid them wherever possible. “We are closed for the rest of the day,” he told Will with a trembling voice.

“Shouldn’t we have done something to help him?” asked the boy.

The alchemist’s face was pale as he steadied himself and wandered across the room. “Certainly not!” he said with a shudder. “You do not understand the nature of the sickness, boy, or you would never suggest such a thing. Now, I must retire. I do not feel up to resuming my work this afternoon. Remain here and see to it that no one enters.”

“As you wish,” Will answered.

And so the Great Plague began. Death, in all his guises, was a frequent visitor to the squalid homes of the capital. Smallpox, cholera, and countless other fevers were common enough, so, at first, the tales of one more sickness frightened few. But nobody could possibly imagine just how many would succumb to this sinister new arrival.

Like some ghastly angel of Death the plague spread its dark wings over the city, moving stealthily from house to house. Nothing could stop the insidious flow of this silent assassin. It stalked the darkened streets and searched for the living, touching them with fatal caresses and breathing oblivion into their faces. No one was safe; it cut down the destitute and the noble with equal zeal and left only misery and emptiness in its wake.

The pestilence struck as suddenly and unexpectedly as a lightning bolt—so swift a gatherer of souls that a strong man could wake up hale in the morning and be dead by nightfall.

All quaked in fear lest it chose to call on them next. More and more buildings were sealed and boarded up, with red crosses painted on the doorways along with the words, ‘Lord have mercy on us’. Weekly mortality bills were posted and to everyone’s dismay the number of dead rose steadily. Church bells tolled with increasing frequency and the desolate sound was echoed throughout the land.

In the apothecary shop. Doctor Spittle anxiously sat in his attic, fearing a visitation. He all but abandoned the great experiment and spent entire days worrying himself into a nervous frenzy. It would be just like fate to cut the thread of his life when he was on the verge of fulfilling his dreams. Not once did he step outside and walk through the streets in case the sickness was waiting to pounce. He entrusted to Will the management of the shop and, at times of particular anxiety, the alchemist would shout his instructions down to him so as to avoid contact completely.

Will became increasingly concerned about the old man. It was not natural for even him to spend so long locked away. Entire days passed by without a sound coming out of that room, and with everyone he met talking of nothing but Death the boy’s spirits sank very low.

Doctor Spittle swilled two chemicals around in a jar and examined the result. But it was only a half-hearted attempt to get back to work—he really wanted to take his mind off the plague, but that seemed impossible.

Somewhere in the night-cloaked city a death bell rang out—another life had sweated and shivered its way to judgement. The alchemist set the jar down and clasped his shaking hands together.

“What is it thou fearest, Spittle?” came a low voice. “Is it in truth Death—or what awaits thee on the other side?”

The alchemist glanced at the bottle on the table and scowled at the spirit’s face. “I am not afraid,” he lied unconvincingly. “Death shall not gather me just yet, I have too much to live for to surrender to that gentleman.”

“Ah yes,” Magnus chuckled, “gold—but where is thy fortune?”

“Enough!” snapped the old man and he stuffed the bottle onto one of the shelves, hiding it behind some books. Rattled, he sat back in his seat. At once Jupiter came to him and the cat’s presence calmed his jangled nerves.

The kittens were nearly adults now. Dab was almost as large as her mother but surpassed her by far in beauty. Leech was still scrawny and awkward-looking; any hopes Imelza might have had of him being an ugly duckling were grossly unfounded. Jupiter, however, was nearly twice the size of his mother; he was strong in both mind and body and Imelza felt that she no longer had any control over her wilful son.

Doctor Spittle stroked his familiar’s head. “The pestilence will never invade our little territory, will it?” he muttered. “No, not whilst I am vigilant.” Jupiter mewed back at him and the old man managed a faint smile. “Are you hungry, my trusty assistant? Yes, it is late and you have not eaten—come.”

He rose and took from a cupboard some strips of salted fish. He had no appetite for them himself so he doled them out to the cats who purred round him the instant the supper was produced. Only Leech hung back, watching warily from a corner. His stomach growled at the sight and smell of food but he would rather go hungry than suffer another vicious blow from those boots.

“We must not forget our rodent friends,” said the alchemist as Jupiter stood on his hind legs to take the last morsels. Doctor Spittle reached up, tossing the scraps into the two cages, and the rats leaped on them.

Heliodorus chewed hurriedly but without pleasure.

“Eeuch!” he grumbled. “I has munched better victuals than this.”

“Oh, I doesn’t know,” Beckett meekly replied, “it do seem quite a tasty bit of nosh.”

“You Englishers got no taste for finer things,” commented the black rat, “not never.”

Dab padded over to the corner where Leech cringed in the shadows. “Here,” she said kindly, “I saved some of my supper for you.” And she passed a piece of the dried fish to her brother.

The runt snatched at it and gobbled it down, bones and all. “You’re the only one with any kindness,” he said with his mouth full. “If it wasn’t for you I’d starve to death.”

The tortoiseshell shook her head. “It would never come to that,” she told him. “Mother wouldn’t let it happen—nor would Jupiter.”

At this Leech snorted. “Yes he would,” he spat resentfully, “our darling brother cares for no one but himself and that evil old human.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong,” Dab insisted.

Leech narrowed his eyes and gazed over her shoulder. “Really?” he asked. “Look at him now. There he sits on the lap of our gaoler, basking in the praise and the affection which gets poured upon him. It makes me sick!”

Dab made no answer. Jupiter really was spending an awful amount of time with the old man—he hardly ever talked to them now. It troubled her and in silence she returned to their mother.

Another distant knell proclaimed the passing of one more poor soul. Doctor Spittle’s agitation returned and he drummed his fingers distractedly on the table.

“Dost thou hear it?” called a muffled voice.

“Keep quiet!” the alchemist shouted at the pile of books on the shelf.

But the spirit laughed back at him. “Listen to the sounds of Death, Elias,” it taunted. “The bells that ring compass thee round. Thou art enclosed within a circle of disease; how much longer before it tightens and closes upon thee? When will thy bell ring?”

The alchemist thumped the table and demanded peace.

Magnus’s response to that was simple. “Why should I permit thee what thou withholdest from myself?” he uttered.

But Doctor Spittle was not listening. A new sound had reached his ears. Horses’ hooves were slowly clopping down the street outside the alley and a loud rumbling of cart wheels as they bumped over the cobbles followed behind.

A blue light shone out from behind the books and Magnus’s voice was soft and tormenting. “Hark!” he whispered. “There go the pest-waggons, taking the dead to be buried. How many bodies are carried tonight, Elias? Two—three? How much longer before more waggons are needed? How much longer before one of their number comes for thy boil-covered corpse?”

The alchemist peered out of the window to see if he could spot the grim vehicle as it passed by. Immediately he dragged himself back and stumbled over the chair.

Down in the shadows of the alley something moved; it was too dark to tell for sure, but for an instant he thought he saw the figure of a man step backwards into the gloom.

“Someone is out there!” he spluttered. “In the alley below, a figure wrapped in black—he was staring up at me!”

“Perhaps the gentleman thou dreadest hath arrived at last,” suggested the spirit.

Doctor Spittle swallowed nervously and edged towards the window once more. “Nonsense!” he said. “’Twas only a trick of the dark, nothing else—my fancies are sending shapes to delude me.” Yet his lips were quivering when he squinted down again.

The alley below was empty. “There,” he reassured himself, “the product of my addled and overheated genius, that’s all it was.” But the alchemist had no sleep that night.

Time dragged on. Only on the third of June were the minds of the populace briefly diverted from their woes. The distant report of guns boomed out over the River Thames; somewhere the English fleet was doing battle with the Dutch and prayers were, for once, concerned with matters other than the pestilence.

Will heard the far-off explosions and looked up from the spices in his hands. He envied those mariners; out there on the open sea there was no plague—only adventure and excitement and a freedom he could not begin to imagine. The noise grew fainter and he continued with his work.

Out of necessity, he was kept busy preparing nosegays from sweet-smelling herbs and dried flowers. They did nothing to ward off the sickness but when walking through the streets they were a vital relief from the reek of the pest-houses. A flourishing trade of dubious cures and phoney preventatives was springing up everywhere. Some of the other apothecaries and even a few physicians preyed on the fears of the gullible and desperate by selling these fraudulent concoctions. Most were alcohol-based, so even though they were of no use against the disease, people invariably felt better for taking them.

Doctor Spittle, however, was too preoccupied to apply for a licence to sell these mixtures. He was being watched.

That first glimpse he had had of the figure in the alley had only been the beginning. He was convinced that someone lurked in the shadows each night, spying on him. On many occasions since, he had caught a movement in the corner of his eye. But every time he turned to confront it, the figure had melted into the darkness. It was most alarming and the words of Magnus Zachaire constantly came back to haunt him and strike terror into his heart. What if it really was Death himself?

The old man became obsessed; he had to find out who or what it was and he began to lie in wait. For hours he would crouch under the window-sill until his back complained and all the feeling disappeared from his legs. Then he would pop up like a Jack-in-the-box and glare down expectantly.

It was on one of these uncomfortable nights of vigil that his patience was finally rewarded.

The hour was very late. Doctor Spittle was hunched under the window, hugging his knees and keeping his ears alert for any footsteps on the cobbles outside. Imelza was prowling about the room as she usually did and getting on the alchemist’s nerves.

“Why can’t the poxy creature settle?” he bawled throwing a book at her.

“She is a creature of the night,” came the answer from the shelf. The bottle which contained the spirit was now permanently tucked out of sight, for Doctor Spittle could not bear the insufferably smug face of that wretched spectre. “The essence of darkness calls to her,” Magnus continued, “it sings in her blood and beckons her to roam through the shadows.”

“Well she isn’t going anywhere!” retorted the alchemist. “Once out she’ll only want to come back in and I won’t have her bringing the contagion to me.”

“Elias,” said the spirit abruptly.

“What is it now?” he grunted.

“Thy friend hath arrived; I sense a presence outside.”

The old man sprang to his feet and held a lantern over his head. The light fell onto the alley and there it was.

“Lord of Death!” he cried.

A nightmarish figure stared back at him. It was dressed from head to toe in a long black coat. Heavy boots were on the feet and leather gauntlets covered the hands. The old man uttered a little cry of dismay when the lamplight fell upon the mysterious man’s face—it was not human.

A long, sharp beak pointed up at him from the centre of the head and the eyes that shone in the yellow beam were large and round like those of some monstrous fish. The figure made no attempt to hide itself, but stayed in the open, regarding the attic window and the alchemist framed within it with a horrible, glassy stare.

Doctor Spittle found this more disconcerting than when it hid in the shadows. He squealed and fell to his knees.

“He has come!” he cried. “Death is here!”

So loud were his shrieks that he woke Will in the shop below and the boy hurried up the stairs to see what had happened.

“Are you well, sir?” he called through the door.

The alchemist rushed forward and put his full weight against it. “Who’s there?” he gibbered.

“It’s me, sir—Will.”

“The young dog,” Doctor Spittle breathed with relief. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door a crack. “Out there,” he explained, “in the alley, someone watches me.”

Will stared at him doubtfully; the old man looked terrible. With his wisps of thinning hair standing on end he appeared mad. “Shall I go and see who it is?” the boy suggested in an attempt to humour him.

“Yes!” the other agreed. “No! It might get in! But if it is Death then a mere door would be no barrier. Yes, go out and discover what it is.”

Will hurried down to the shop and ran to the entrance. For a moment he hesitated and searched for something to use as a weapon in case there really was some villain out there. Seizing the broom he unlatched the door and crept out.

The alley was dark and deserted.

“Come out, wherever you are,” Will piped up brandishing the broom as though it were a sword.

There was no reply; only the plague-ridden wind moved through the darkness and brushed against him.

Shivering, in spite of the warm night, he returned to the shop.

Doctor Spittle heard the returning footsteps and he pressed his eye to the keyhole. “Dog,” he hissed, “did you see him?”

“There was no one out there, sir.”

The door was flung open and the boy dragged inside.

“What say you?” demanded the alchemist. “Are you lying to me, boy?”

Will tried to shake his head but the old man had him by his hair. “No, sir, I swear,” he cried, “when I got outside whoever it was had gone.”

Doctor Spittle released him and dashed back to the window. “Umm,” he muttered, “the creature has departed.”

“Creature?” repeated Will. “What do you mean?”

The alchemist sat down and passed his hand wearily over his face. “It was terrible,” he said. “Some frightful demon has come for me, or perhaps it is the pestilence clothing itself in human form. A great beak it had and large round eyes that gleamed at me. What manner of body did it hide under that great coat, I wonder, and what talons were concealed by the gauntlets?”

To his annoyance the boy in front of him grinned. “That’s no demon,” Will told him, “it sounds to me like one of the plague doctors. I don’t blame you for being afraid, I was the first time one came to the shop. They’re the only ones who can enter the pest-houses—they wear those garments to protect themselves, but I reckon they’re frightening enough to scare any disease away. I shouldn’t like to meet such an outlandish figure on a dark night.”

Doctor Spittle looked at him blankly, then a frown crossed his brow. “And what was one of them doing in my shop?” he roared.

“He wanted herbs to put in the beak,” said Will. “They need it to keep the smell away.”

“Idiot dog!” bawled the old man. “How dare you allow someone who has been into one of those disease-infested places into my home! Are you so feeble that you thought nothing of it?” He lashed out and gave Will a mighty crack with the back of his hand.

The blow caught the boy across the mouth and he yelped at the force of it. A trickle of blood oozed from his lip and he glared at the alchemist with hatred blazing in his eyes.

“Get out,” Doctor Spittle commanded. “Must I do everything? It seems if I am to outlive this sickness I must take a greater interest in the affairs of the shop once more.”

Will closed the door behind him. He wished the old man would catch the plague—it would serve him right.

“Striking the lad will not aid thee, Elias,” chided Magnus softly.

The alchemist whirled round. “Silence!” he told the pile of books that screened the bottle. “When I desire your opinion I shall seek it.”

The spirit gave a quick laugh. “Then explain why a plague doctor watcheth thee,” he said.

Doctor Spittle stammered and wrung his hands. “I don’t know,” he burbled lamely.

“Surely no one bears thee such malice?”

“No, I am a respected apothecary. Why should anyone waste their time hounding me thus?”

“Then mayhap I was right after all,” chortled Magnus. “It is an omen, Elias, a sign of thy impending death.”

The alchemist was close to tears. He strode up and down biting his fingernails. Suddenly he stamped his foot. “Wait!” he announced. “There is one who hates me and would stop at nothing to torment me to my grave.” He straightened his back and swept his fine white hair over his bald patch. “Francis Lingley!” he declared. “He must still be in London. Can the King do nothing right? That fop of a man ought to have been clapped in the Tower—or exiled at the very least. Well, I have nothing to dread from the likes of him. The next time fancy Francis comes sniffing at my door in this pathetic attempt at revenge, I shall put an end to his pestering for good.”

The following day the alchemist was in a jovial mood. Now that he was certain no supernatural agency was hounding him he was almost back to his usual self. He pottered about the shop for the first time in ages, tutting at the decline in stock and scrutinising the contents of the pots.

Will’s lip still stung. A yellow bruise had formed at the side of his mouth and he went about his chores sullenly. Now that the old man was back downstairs he loathed it and wondered that he had ever been concerned for the vile wretch.

A tap at the window and the sound of a woman’s laughing voice made him look up hopefully. But the boy groaned in disappointment. It was not Molly who passed by and entered the shop, but an older and uglier customer—Peggy Blister.

She often came into the apothecary to purchase her cosmetics. The first time Will had served her his heart had been in his mouth in case she recognised him from that night at the Sickle Moon. But he need not have worried for not even his late mother would have known him. Although his hair had grown back he still looked like a beggar’s brat and Mistress Blister dealt with him in the same vulgar way that she did with any of the apprentices in the city.

Her sharp little eyes peeked out from her painted doll face and she managed to bare her mottled teeth, in that parody of a smile, without any of her garish mask cracking. “Good day to you, Apothecary,” she said, but with difficulty for it was hard to say ’apothecary’ without moving her lips.

Doctor Spittle nodded at her and moved away slightly. “And what are you doing here, mistress?” he enquired politely.

Peg tossed her dyed ringlets and wagged her finger at him. “I come for my spices,” she told him. “I done got me a licence to sell London Treacle.”

“The preventative against the plague?”

“That’s right. I don’t want to take no chances, especially now my circumstances have changed. Besides if folk sees me taking the stuff, and if I’ve still got enough wind in me to bawl at them, then they’d surely buy some—that’s what I reckoned anyway.”

The old man held up his hand to halt her prattling. “Forgive me,” he said, “I appear to be behind the times somewhat. Tell me good woman, what are you talking about—what are these changes of circumstance?”

“Ain’t you ’eard?” she cooed. “My alehouse is shuttered up. It were the stable lad. Found ’im a retchin’ an’ a vomitin’ they did—and covered with the sores. Thank God I were out when it ’appened or I’d ’ave been sealed in there an’ all. Forty days the quarantine lasts—can yer think of it? All that time locked in with the sickness, not able to get out and with guards on the door to make sure you don’t escape. No thank you. Plum ’orrid it is.”

Doctor Spittle moved even further away from her. “How fortunate for you indeed that you were absent at the time,” he said fighting the urge to flee from her presence.

Peg nodded vigorously. “Not ’alf. Still I got me a better paid job. Fourpence a body I gets now.”

“Fourpence a what?” he squealed.

“A body,” she repeated. “‘Honest and discreet matrons’ is what they wanted, and if that ain’t me to a shillin’ I don’t know who else.”

The alchemist clutched at his throat and swiped a nosegay from the counter. Shoving it under his own hooked nose and trying not to breathe too deeply, he asked in a choking voice, “So what is it you do?”

“Searches them, o’ course!” she replied. “Well, they needs to know who died o’ what don’t they? Not everyone drops down with the plague you know and them death bills have to be as accurate as they can make ’em.” She patted her curls proudly and fluttered her lashes. “If it’s not certain how a particular person has snuffed it, us nurses have a good look and find out. Coining it in I am—’bout time too, if you ask me. This plague has been the best thing that’s come my way since the day them naughty cavaliers drank at the alehouse.”

“I... I’m pleased for you,” Doctor Spittle croaked. He jabbed a desperate finger at Will and rasped, “Attend to this customer’s needs at once.”

“Course,” Peg continued, “it takes a strong nerve to go ferretin’ through the dead. Take this very morning, now if that wasn’t a sad an’ sorry spectacle. Cried my eyes out I did.” As her make-up was undamaged this was patently a shocking lie. “Makes yer think it does, there’s them—poor as aught—an’ then there he was. Yes, it makes yer think.”

The old man twitched his eyebrows in an effort to tell Will to hurry up, then he realised that Peg was waiting for him to comment. “Hmm?” he mumbled through a fence of dried flowers and herbs.

“I was tellin’ yer about those I searched this mornin’,” she said with relish, “side by side they were, bless ’em. Lived on the corner of Throgmorton Street—in the raghouse there.”

“Not the Gobtrots?” gasped the alchemist lowering his aromatic defence in astonishment.

“That’s them,” she replied. “Took me a while to find ’em too in that place, specially as some mutt of a terrier kept snappin’ at me. Oh, but when I did—it fair broke my heart to disturb ’em. Ever so peaceful they looked, a-lying next to one another, like an old pair o’ well worn slippers. They were hand in hand an’ such sweet smiles on both their faces. When I go that’s the way I’d choose.”

“Was it the plague?”

“Lor’ bless you yes, but it weren’t easy to discover, I can tell you. Not with that perishin’ little dog yappin’ and bitin’ at my heels. Still, he won’t be barkin’ any more.”

“Why not?” This question was from Will.

“You got ears ain’tcha?” she snorted. “What d’you think all the racket’s been about this day? They’re killin’ all the dogs an’ cats they can find—in case it’s them what’re spreadin’ the disease. Givin’ ’em a good wallopin’ they are. Hoo, hoo, there’ll be some nice furry mittens to be ’ad by the end o’ the week I can tell you.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Not as ’orrible as what I ’ad to deal with after I’d done wi’ the Gobtrots. Ooh, what a stink and what a sight! Would you believe it—there’s all these folk droppin’ like flies wi’ the plague and he goes an’ swigs venom just like that.”

She put her hands on her hips and advanced towards Doctor Spittle. The old man took a few steps backwards and banged his head against the wall. Peg came closer and he waved the nosegay to and fro until it fell to pieces.

“Imagine it,” she said, her scarlet lips almost smiling at the gruesome memory, “all that time locked away and no one knowing he was dead. Must’ve been there for months by the state of him. Never ’ave I seen a corpse like it an’ I hope never to again. He should’ve been in the ground a long time ago. When I pulled back his bed curtains I nearly died meself and almost fell on top of him. There he was, all laid out regal like, his clothes were still lovely—must have had a bit of money from the feel of ’em. An’ all around him were heaps o’ other fine clothes. I tell you it was as different from the other place I’d been to as it’s possible to be. There were golden silks, wine-red velvets, silver lace, boots of the best Spanish leather—coo, I wish I’d known him when he was alive.”

“No doubt,” interrupted Doctor Spittle. “Now I must bid you good day, mistress, we have much to do.” He ducked out of her reach and busied himself at the counter.

Peggy Blister shrugged. “Took poison he did,” she concluded. “There was a bottle of the stuff on the table by the bed. Still, maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t know him. If we’d have wed I’d ’ave been Peggy Lingley—sounds like a pig being sick, dunnit?”

Will held his breath and Doctor Spittle stood stock still. “What did you say?” muttered the old man. “Who took the poison?”

“Feller called Lingley,” she replied. “Only someone told me he’d been a Lord or summat once.”

“Then he’s dead!” cried the alchemist in disbelief.

“Was when I left him,” Peg laughed.

The significance of this was not lost upon the old man. If Francis was not disguised as a plague doctor—then who or what was? With a wail he ran from the shop and raced to the attic.

“What’s ailed him then?” asked Peg.

Doctor Spittle flung the crimson door wide open and pelted inside. “You’re right!” he shouted, snatching the bottle from the shelf. “I am doomed—Death has set a watch upon me. One night soon he will drag me away!”

“Death comes to most of us in the end,” returned the spirit.

“What do you mean, most?” shrieked the alchemist. “All must perish at some time—but I had thought I could stave off that day for a while longer.”

The blue light welled up and the face of Magnus Zachaire took on a cunning and crafty look. “I meant what I said,” he told him, “there is a way to cheat Death.”

The old man ceased his frantic babblings. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“There is only one way thou canst spare thyself from the Black Death, Elias.”

“Is this a trick?” Doctor Spittle howled. “How can you mock me so?”

“I speak only the truth,” assured the spirit. “Hast thou never heard of the elixir of life?”

“It is an alchemical myth!”

“Was the Philosopher’s Stone also a myth?”

“Can it be true then?” breathed the alchemist.

“Verily. Discover the elixir and thou wilt be saved.”

Doctor Spittle slumped into his chair and cradled his head in his hands. “But how am I to find it?” he wept. “All my life I have pursued the Stone and given no thought to the elixir. A man can only devote his time on this earth to one dream.”

“Exactly,” returned Magnus craftily. “Thou wert foolish to chase the Stone. I was wiser, however.”

The alchemist took his hands from his face. “You?” he stammered. “Are you saying that you discovered it—but you died?”

“I died in water,” the spirit told him. “The elixir is made from the elements of fire and water—and as such either of these retain the power to kill.”

“Tell me more!” insisted the old man.

By the hearth, Imelza stared at the door which Doctor Spittle had neglected to close. For the first time since her arrival she saw a chance to escape. She tensed her muscles and glanced quickly at the alchemist—he was too engrossed to notice her.

At her side Dab felt her mother stiffen. Curiously she raised her head. “What is it?” she asked.

“Look, child!” Imelza hissed. “The way is open to us now.”

The tortoiseshell stared at the door then turned back to her mother. “What... what do you mean?” she murmured.

“Escape, child,” returned the ginger cat. “We can flee from this place and follow the wild way. You can be a hunter at last.”

Dab’s heart sank; this was the time she had been dreading. The attic was the only place she knew.

Imelza pushed her with the tip of her nose and urgently whispered, “Tell your brothers. We leave at once, before the human can lock us in again.”

Dab stared at her unhappily. “Must we go, Mother?” she asked. “Are we not safe here? Are we not fed?”

Imelza snarled and her eyes shone fiercely. “Hearken to me, daughter,” she spat, “if I have to spend another night in this foul den then I shall go mad. It is bad enough that I am penned in, but that rat up there tortures me to the brink of despair.” A shudder passed through her and her tail switched back and forward. “Would you see me driven insane, child?” she cried. “You have never seen a hunter lose control. I have; he is not responsible for his actions. He kills wantonly and without thought.” She lowered her eyes and in a strained voice sobbed, “If it were to happen to me then I would surely murder anything my claws could rip apart—even you, child, though it would rack me with remorse. There is no reason in madness. Now, do as I say—tell your brothers.”

Dab hurried away; she was too terrified to disobey. Jupiter was sitting by the alchemist’s feet and she swerved round the old human to call to him.

“What is it?” her brother grumbled when he heard his name. “What do you want?”

The tortoiseshell wiped her nose with her paw and sniffed. “Get ready to leave,” she told him. “Mother says we’re to escape.”

Jupiter flicked his ears. “I’m not going,” he said. “There’s too much for me to learn in here; the outside world cannot teach me the things I want to know.”

“But you must come!” she insisted. “We can’t split up.”

“I will not leave my master,” he said flatly. “Now go while you have the chance.”

Dab shook her head; she hardly knew Jupiter any more. If he did not want to come then she could not force him. Reluctantly she left and ran to the far corner of the room.

“Leech!” she called into the shadows.

A pair of livid green eyes appeared in the depths of the gloom.

“Come quickly,” she cried, “Mother and I are leaving.”

The eyes widened then became narrow. “Is Jupiter going?” the sneering voice asked.

“No,” returned his sister.

“Then neither am I.”

“But why? I thought you would be glad to get away from him.”

“I will not leave him to discover more of the magic arts,” the runt replied. “Those secrets should be mine. No, I remain here.”

Large tears tricked down Dab’s lovely face. “Please,” she begged.

“Hurry, sister,” Leech warned, “the human has noticed his error. I see him take the door key from his pocket—your escape will be shortlived indeed.”

Dab spun round. Sure enough Doctor Spittle was rising from the chair and a key was in his hand.

“Mother!” she cried.

Imelza glanced up as the old man ran to the exit. Swiftly she leapt to her feet and sprang for the door.

“No you don’t!” bawled the alchemist as he gave the door an almighty kick.

But she was too quick and was already racing down the stairs.

“Wait!” shouted Dab hurtling forward.

The door smashed into its frame then bounced out again. Doctor Spittle cursed and thrust it home. A shrill scream issued from the tortoiseshell as it trapped her back legs and held her firm.

“Another one who’d like to run?” squawked the old man furiously. He stooped down to drag the cat back inside.

“Help!” cried Dab as the strong hands gripped her.

From his place by the chair, Jupiter dashed forward and wasted no time—he could not let anything happen to his sister. Heedless of the consequences he ran headlong into the alchemist’s legs. Doctor Spittle yowled and toppled backwards.

Dab was free; without pausing to thank her brother she pelted after Imelza as fast as she could.

Peggy Blister handed Will the money for the spices she had bought and he counted it carefully—it was a penny short.

The woman sucked the air between her clenched teeth and gave it to him grudgingly. “Oh well,” she said huffily, “I’ve a whole family in Fish Street to see next. With any luck they’ll all be dead and I’ll get pots o’ money.”

She sauntered to the entrance and, with a toss of her head, opened the door.

At once two streaks hurtled over the floor and darted between her legs.

“Eeeee!” screeched Peg, her face cracking and falling in powdery fragments to the ground. “What was that?”

Will hastened to the door and looked down the alley. “Our cats,” he cried. “They were two of our cats.”

Peg let loose a raucous laugh. “Well they’ll not last long out there!” she hooted. “Not today they won’t.”

Imelza ran like the wind; out into the great wild world she bolted. The warm sunshine burned on her back and the humid air of the city streamed through her fur. Down the lanes she sped—a blur of orange tearing over the cobbles. It was wonderful to be free. She could hardly believe it. After all those months of imprisonment her head became giddy with the joy of it all and she threw back her head in rapture.

Some distance behind. Dab chased after. The tortoiseshell had never run anywhere before and she enjoyed the new sensation. She bounded along, stretching her legs as much as she could, and gazing about her with interest. The noise of the city filled her ears. So this was what the outside was like, she marvelled. From the small window of the attic she had often looked down upon the rooftops of London. From that lofty position it had all seemed smaller somehow. Now those same buildings reared up on either side and the maze of roads and streets opened before her.

Imelza was just a tail that bobbed ever further away and Dab began to be afraid. If she lost sight of her mother then she would never find her again in this strange warren of a place. Her limbs began to tire and the breath rattled in her throat.

“Wait!” she called, panic-stricken. “Mother, please!”

But the marmalade cat was caught up in the excitement that her new-found freedom had brought. Nothing filled her mind except the need to be as far from the apothecary shop as possible. Under carts, over barrels and through the people she raced. It was exhilarating and she gave no thought to her daughter who was now far behind.

“Cat!” bellowed an ugly brute of a man. In his hand he carried a spade and as Imelza rushed towards him he brought it crashing down. Sparks flew off the road as the blade struck the stones but the cat was too quick.

She zig-zagged round, darting out before an approaching coach, weaving between the iron-shod hooves and charging between the clattering wheels.

The horse whinnied in fright and reared up, tossing its head and kicking the air. The driver cursed, the whip cracked, and the passenger within went sprawling from the seat, fell out of the door and spilled onto the road.

Imelza did not turn back to see the chaos she had caused. The uproar blared in her ears but on she went.

Nothing could stop her now; all her old instincts were returning and the wildness burned in her blood, spurring her on. Liberty was hers at last—she could stalk through the night and hunt as before. She yelled with delight and rocketed round a corner.

Too late did she see the danger. Too late did she see the crowd of people with sticks in their hands and murder in their eyes, and too late did she think to turn back.

Her claws clattered and scraped on the ground as she scrabbled and skidded to a halt.

“Get it!” screeched a harsh voice.

Imelza whirled about, but the way back was cut off. More of the creatures closed in and she hissed with dismay as their shadows fell upon her.

A savage kick thrust her into the centre of the mob. She was completely trapped and, as the sticks and cudgels were raised, she knew all hope was gone. With a final mew of despair the light of the sun was denied to her and countless, grim faces towered above.

The people guffawed as they carried out their deadly work and Imelza’s terrified screams were lost amid their clamorous voices.

Breathlessly Dab hurried past the horse as it stamped and blew. Just as the coachman had pacified both it and his bruised passenger, the sweating beast saw the tortoiseshell race by and it reared up again.

Dab turned the blind corner and stumbled to a standstill. It was a ghastly sight that she beheld.

The thronging mass of people were cheering and throwing their weapons into the air and to Dab’s undying horror something else was being flung up with them.

“Mother!” she cried. “Mother!”

Like some pathetic rag-doll, Imelza’s broken body was tossed over the heads of the mob with as little regard as they might show to an old hat.

Dab was rooted to the spot and could not avert her eyes. A violent, terrible shudder racked her and she almost burst with grief.

A numb chill washed over the tortoiseshell as she gaped and stared. It was the most hideous moment of her young life but she was too petrified to escape from it.

“Another ’un!” shouted one of the vicious crowd. All the ugly faces turned to look at her and Dab quailed.

“Grind it into the dust!” the people shrieked.

Finally the bonds of fear fell from Dab’s muscles and she shook herself.

“Here’s a lovely,” said a voice behind her.

She spun on her heel but it was no use. A strong hand grabbed the scruff of her neck and she was roughly plucked from the ground.

A spindly man with a dirty beard and no shoes upon his feet held the squirming cat aloft and swung it round his head. “Here it is!” he called to the others. “A lovely bit o’ trimmin’ you could get off it too—if the skin’s still in one piece at the finish.”

Dab wailed piteously and her claws raked the wind. The man’s grip pinched her and the world lurched round sickeningly. Her beautiful amber eyes were wide with horror as the mob advanced.

“Chuck her over!” they shouted.

The man crowed with black mirth and he threw the cat to the waiting executioners. “Off to the slaughter with you!” he cackled.

The tortoiseshell tumbled through the air, her tail fluttering behind like that of a kite. With a roar from the crowd she fell in their midst and they waved their sticks once more.

Dab whined with pain; she had landed awkwardly and her leg hurt. A stout stick came splintering down beside her and she leapt back in fright as another bludgeoned the ground.

“Kill it!” the call rippled through the people. “It’s us or them! Kill the cursed moggy!”

A hundred clubs and cudgels pounded around the shivering animal, the deafening racket rang in her ears and the street trembled at the violence. And then the first of them struck her and everything went black as Dab collapsed in the dirt.

“Stop!” came a stern, commanding voice.

A hush descended over the crowd as they turned to see who had dared speak against them. But then a murmur of surprise and apprehension issued from their lips.

“A plague doctor!” they whispered. “What do he want?”

The sinister figure pushed its way through with ease, for no one was brave enough to withstand the glance of those round glass eyes, and the long beak seemed to scythe through them. Hastily they pulled back and a clear path opened for the newcomer who strode purposefully to the centre of the malicious gathering.

“Deliver the poor animal to me!” the muffled voice demanded.

A sneering youth with a squint eyed the tortoiseshell angrily. His stick was poised to deliver a crushing blow and he resented this interference. He wanted blood; he had already killed five dogs and three cats that day and no one was going to stop him doing the same to this one. He stared defiantly into the large glass eyes that covered the plague doctor’s face—it didn’t frighten him. With a venomous growl rumbling in his throat the lad spat at the stranger’s booted feet. “Nark it!” he cried and brought the stick swinging down.

A black gauntlet flashed out and caught the youth on his chin. Before he knew what had happened the stick was knocked from his grasp and he went sprawling on his back. The black figure of the plague doctor stepped over him and from the sharp beak the voice said, “Have a care, boy. I have the authority to drag you into the pest-house with me if I wish. So do not provoke me or I shall surely leave you there and the pestilence will take you.”

There was no answer to that. The blustering courage had drained out of the youth and he clicked his jaw back into position, then scarpered.

The plague doctor knelt down and, with one deft movement, scooped up the limp and motionless body of Dab. Then stepping through the silent crowd, the striking figure marched out of sight, dissolving into the shimmering summer haze.

10 - The Plague Doctor

Will hurried along Cheapside, Peggy Blister’s shrill laughter echoing in his ears. He had to find the cats before something dreadful happened to them. It was not difficult to follow the trail for the traders were still muttering in their wake and a coachman struggled with his whinnying horse. The boy turned down Fryday Street and thus came upon the mob.

They were mooning around and grumbling against the plague doctor who had spoiled their fun. They dragged their feet through the dust and their weapons trailed behind. Only one stick was held aloft and from its sharpened point a limp ginger body dangled.

Will uttered a cry of dismay.

The crowd took no notice of the boy; they were shuffling about—not sure what to do next. Now that their quarry had been taken they were aimless and bereft of purpose. As they ambled past him Will peered amongst them, but there was no sign of Dab.

“Excuse me,” he said to a sharp-featured woman, “was there another cat with that one? A tortoiseshell?”

The ferret face glared at him. “What if there were?” she snapped, turning her back and plodding away.

“Lovely skin on it that one had,” another voice began.

Will looked up; the bearded man who had thrown Dab into the crowd was stroking his whiskers and regarding him suspiciously.

“What happened to her?” the boy asked.

The man kicked the dirt with his bare toes. “Plague doctor snatched it,” he blurted with indignation. “Things have come pretty low if’n folk can’t have a jest or two.”

“Which way did he take her?”

A grubby finger pointed down the street. “Over there, somewhere—were too hazy to be sure. But don’t you go after, lad, I done heard unsettlin’ tales o’ them doctors.” But the boy was already running and did not hear him.

Swiftly Will hurried down the sun-baked streets, drawing ever closer to the wide Thames.

Trinity Lane was a narrow, dismal place. The houses on either side leaned out over the road so much that the windows of their second storeys were only a few feet apart. Only a slender ribbon of light ever touched the ground between those misshapen buildings and even in the fierce brightness of high summer the cramped way looked dark and chill.

Will came running into the lane just in time to see the plague doctor march up to a low doorway. The boy nipped behind a rain barrel as the alarming, beaked face turned left and right to see if anyone was watching. The glassy eyes peered into the surrounding gloom then pushed the door open. Will raised his head as the nightmare figure entered and, there in the gauntleted hands, he saw a snatch of tortoiseshell fur. The plague doctor passed within and the door was closed behind.

Minutes crept by and Will tried to form some kind of a plan. What if he were to dash inside, take Dab from her abductor and race back to the apothecary? “No,” he murmured to himself. That won’t work. The plague doctor’ll be stronger than I am. Besides, as soon as he hears the door open he’ll come to see who’s there.”

But then a latch rattled and when he peeked over the barrel he saw the figure emerge from the building, walk down the lane and vanish round a corner. Dab was nowhere to be seen.

“She must still be inside,” Will told himself. He took one more look at the empty street then dashed out of hiding.

The door was frail: one good kick and the lock would splinter away from the wood. Will forced it open and, with a groaning shudder, it swung on its rusty hinges.

A long, dreary hall stretched before him, at the far end of which was another doorway. The boy hesitated for a moment, as his nostrils met the stuffy air—it smelled of dry decay. The panelling of the hall was rotten with age and beetles burrowed into the grain, chewing the wood and spitting out sawdust. The tunnels and bore-holes branched through the panels like arteries and Will had the impression that he was gazing down the throat of some enormous forest spirit.

Taking a deep breath he entered. Great flakes and splinters littered the floor round his feet and the relentless scurrying of hungry destructive insects moved through the soft heaps.

Down the passage he hurried and when he came to the far door, he found to his relief that it was unlocked. Slowly he turned the handle and pushed it open.

The room beyond was filled with light; the rear wall housed a large window and through this the sun dazzled and blinded, glittering over the floating dust particles in a wide, brilliant sweep. Squinting, Will gazed round—the chamber reminded him of the alchemist’s workroom. Bottles and jars filled shelves and covered tables, books were neatly stacked in a long row and curious instruments gleamed in the sunlight. But this place had a more wholesome feel to it; here there was an order unknown in Doctor Spittle’s attic—everything was arranged with a deliberate tidiness, even the floor had been scrubbed clean.

As Will entered, it was like leaving one world and passing into another. The room contrasted violently with the outer hall; he could not imagine any beetle daring to invade this territory. Even the air was sweeter here—a faint fragrance of flowers and perfumed herbs scented the atmosphere.

Then Will saw what he had come for. Dab was lying on a high table in the full glare of the sunshine. The warm rays picked out the honey-coloured speckles in her fur and set them blazing like veins of gold. By her head a saucer of milk had been placed and a bandage bound her leg—but the cat was motionless.

Will rushed over and lightly touched her head. A beautiful, amber eye flickered open and the tortoiseshell managed a pitiful mew.

“There now,” the boy said soothingly, “don’t you worry. I’ll take you back to your brothers.”

Shakily, Dab raised her head and stared about her. She was confused and bewildered. Then, in a sickening rush, it all came back. “Mother!” she cried.

Will felt her anguish and the cat began to tremble as the awful memory returned. She beheld the savage weapons beating her mother into the ground and the screams of Imelza rose once more to torment her.

The boy saw her wince and was saddened to see great tears spring from her eyes. “Come on now,” he comforted, “shush. Everything’s going to be fine.” Will slipped his hand under her stomach and gently lifted her into his arms. “Let’s leave,” he said briskly, “before—”

“Before I return?” snapped a stern voice.

Will whipped round and there, barring the door, was the plague doctor.

Dab hissed when she saw the nightmarish face and wriggled to be set free. Will could only stammer before the terrifying figure; the eyes behind the glass lenses were magnified to a horrible size and they glared at him accusingly. His courage disappeared as the door was closed and the key turned in the lock.

Will’s heart pounded; what would become of him now?

The plague doctor seemed to be studying him. Seconds ticked by as those hideously large pupils pinned him to the spot like some puny insect beneath a microscope. The tension crackled through the air and it seemed to Will that the whole world had become silent, listening and waiting for the outcome of this meeting. It was so quiet that he could hear his own heart thumping in his chest and the slight breathing of the plague doctor through the herb-filled beak.

And then, the tension was relaxed, diffused with one shrug of the sinister figure’s shoulders. “Enough,” it said. “The time has come for you to know the truth.”

The plague doctor bent its head and unlaced the hideous mask. With sweating palms Will watched as the beak was thrown onto the table, followed by the lenses. Then, with a toss of the head the heavy cowl was removed and a mass of golden curls was shaken free.

The boy stared blankly, too astonished to utter a word.

“Aren’t you going to say hello, then?” asked the plague doctor with a wide grin.

“Molly!” he gasped eventually.

The pretty young woman laughed to see Will so confounded. “You should see your face,” she told him.

“But... why?” he spluttered. “What is the disguise for?”

“It is no disguise, Will,” she said pulling the gauntlets from her small white hands, “but it does conceal my sex. How else would I be allowed to help those suffering from the pestilence? At least as a plague doctor I can give them some comforts. You know that I have a knowledge of medicines; I have always been interested in the healing virtues of certain herbs. In some small way I can give aid to those in need, but I am compelled to hide the fact that I am a woman to do so,” She shook her head bitterly. “We are only fit for serving our lords and masters and looking decorative. An intelligent woman is a freak of nature and a dangerous threat to civilisation, Will.”

The boy said nothing; he was thinking of the alchemist and what he had seen from the attic window. “Have you been watching old Spittle?” he asked suddenly.

Molly nodded as she took Dab from his arms and set her upon the table once more. “I think her leg is broken,” she said. “The creature must be in great distress. I was too late to save the mother and nearly didn’t rescue this one in time. Is it not alarming how brutal people can be? Did you mark the faces of the mob back there? They were almost animals themselves. Fear does that, Will, and fear is born of ignorance—remember that.”

“But why were you watching the old man?” he persisted.

The golden head remained bent over the tortoiseshell as she struggled to find a way of explaining it all. Then Molly looked steadily into his eyes. “Do you remember the last time we met?” she asked quietly.

“I could hardly forget,” he replied. “You changed and became—horrible.”

Molly pursed her lips. “Forgive me that,” she said, “but you see, I had suffered a tremendous shock—John Balker was my father.”

There was a painful silence in which neither said anything. Then Will frowned. “So you’re really Molly Balker,” he muttered slowly, “but why did he never mention you?”

She sighed and sat on the table. “My true name is Margaret Balker,” she said. “I took the name Molly to hide from him. It was a long time ago now, you would have been a baby when I left. After the death of my mother. Father turned in upon himself, blaming everyone for her loss. He was a strict Puritan in those days, and my life—well it was not the happiest. His grief and loneliness was like a canker that ate him away. Many times I suffered at his bitter hands.”

She paused and her face clouded over at the memory of it. “In the end I could bear it no longer and fled from Adcombe and my father. London seemed a goodly-sized place where a maid might hide herself and not be discovered, so I journeyed here.”

“And you never saw him since?”

“Only once,” she murmured. “About five years ago he found me and tried to drag me back to the village. He was a pig-headed man in some ways you know. Fortunately the gentleman I was with at the time saw him off. I can still hear my father cursing and damning me; he said then that I was no longer his daughter and he would never return—I was... dead to him.” She fell silent and lowered her moist eyes.

“But he did return,” Will put in. “He did come back for you and when he died your name was on his lips.”

“Was it?” she asked in a husky voice.

“Yes,” assured Will, “and I remember that in the tavern when he mentioned you it was with regret and remorse.”

Molly wiped her eyes. “Then maybe he had changed. Perhaps this time, if he had asked instead of demanding, I would have returned with him. I certainly have nothing to hold me here. I am not proud of the life I have been leading, Will, but I do what I can to relieve the misery of others. At least I have my wits and am not afraid to use them; there are doxies enough with only fluff in their skulls.

“When you told me that my father was dead, I knew that I was responsible, for he would not have come if I were not here. Ever since that morning when I treated you harshly and demanded to know everything about that fatal night, I have taken it upon myself to find his murderers.”

“Jessel and Carver?”

“Yes—although it was not easy at first. Questions are never welcome amongst thieves and knaves. I met with many a sharp rebuke and on one occasion I feel sure that had I been a man I would have had my throat cut. Jack Carver and the one called Jessel went to ground once they got word that someone was looking for them. It was as if they had never existed; no trace of them could I find and the folk of the streets would clam up tighter than a Tyburn noose when they saw me coming.”

“So you never found them?”

A curious light gleamed in her eyes. “I despaired of ever bringing them to justice,” she replied, picking up the grotesque mask and turning it over in her hands. “And then the sickness began,” she murmured. “I took up the mantle of plague doctor merely to aid those stricken, but, wonder of wonders—I discovered that I could go anywhere, into any house without question or suspicion. Then, one night fortune smiled on me. There was a mean lodging house in Smithfield shut up with pestilence and I went to give them aid. Nine people there were locked in that building and, to my astonishment and delight, amongst their number was one of the men I sought.”

“Carver?” Will gasped.

“Jessel,” she corrected. “He was close to death but in his ravings I gleaned what information I could.” Molly paused and nibbled her lip distractedly. “It was not pleasant work, listening to his crazed rantings, but what I learned was worth the vigil.”

Will leaned forward, enthralled by her tale. “So do you now know where Jack Carver is?” he asked.

The young woman shook her head. “No, but Jessel told me that both he and Carver were in the pay of another—somebody had employed them to kill my father.”

The boy stared at her in disbelief. “But why?” he cried. “John Balker had no enemies; he was shrewd in business and liked his ale, but no one hated him enough to want him dead. It makes no sense.”

“I don’t know why,” Molly replied, “but I do know who.” She looked Will squarely in the face and said, “Jessel informed me that an apothecary had paid them to do the deed.”

“Spittle?” Will whispered in surprise.

“Who else?”

“But that is not possible, he didn’t even know John.”

Molly gave a weary sigh. “This is a muddy business,” she said, “and the more I find out the murkier it becomes. Yet in time I am certain all things shall become clear.”

“So that’s why you’ve been watching him!” Will declared.

“Yes, once I knew he was involved I began to keep an eye on old Spittle. Remember when I told you that he would not harm you? Well I believe I was wrong in that judgement. I am only just learning about our precious apothecary and the knowledge is far from comfortable. You had better take care.”

The boy shifted uneasily. “I can look after myself,” he mumbled.

Molly stared at his bruised lip and arched her eyebrows. “Yes, I can see that,” she said, “but hear me when I say that I believe you are in great danger if you remain at that shop.”

Will gave a grim laugh; if she only knew about the powers the man possessed. “I have no choice but to stay there,” he said.

“If I could find Carver,” Molly muttered, “I would certainly learn the truth then. Unfortunately there is still no word of his whereabouts. If I could only contrive a way of getting him to confess to the murder whilst incriminating Doctor Spittle. Then we could get the old monster arrested and brought before a Justice.”

Will shrugged doubtfully. “He’d find a way out of that,” he said. “You haven’t seen him when he’s angry; that wretch is as artful and as full of deceit as the first serpent. It would take more than prison bars to hold that one.”

A plaintive mew from the table interrupted him. Dab was lapping the milk from the saucer and Will watched her in silence—he had almost forgotten she was there.

“I must get back to the shop,” he said quickly. “If I am missed, Spittle will make my life even more miserable than it is now.”

“Must you return?” asked Molly. “He won’t find you here—why go back to that terrible place?”

“I must. Trust me when I tell you that he has ways of finding me—he will search me out and once caught... I daren’t think what might happen.” Tenderly he took Dab in his arms and made for the door. “Should you discover Jack Carver,” he said, “I would like to know. Your father was a dear friend.”

Molly smiled. “If I hear anything. I’ll tell you,” she promised.

Will pulled at the door—it was still locked. Molly laughed and threw him the key, then he was gone.

Fortunately for Will the alchemist had not stepped out of the attic since Imelza and Dab had escaped, and for the first time his wrath had been vented on Jupiter.

“Turn against me, would you?” he screeched, hurling a book at his familiar. “Well, I’ll not stand for such rebellion.”

Jupiter howled in surprise as the toe of a boot struck him hard in the stomach and forced the breath from his lungs. He leapt away and hid under the table, quaking with shock.

The alchemist scowled and sat in the chair. “This is the thanks I receive for saving their miserable lives,” he grumbled rubbing the back of his legs where Jupiter’s claws had dug into him.

“Does it matter?” asked Magnus. “Are there not other, weightier concerns to attend to now?”

Doctor Spittle glanced up. “The elixir you mean?”

“Thou ought to commence thy labours at once, for the sickness shall surely find thee.”

“Yes,” the old man agreed, staring out of the window as his old fears returned. “I must begin—tell me what I should do.”

In the shadowy corner by the door Leech laughed to himself. He could see his brother cowering under the table and it gladdened his heart. “Now you know how it feels, brother dear,” he gloated. “What merry sport it was to see you running with his boot up your hind parts for a change.”

Jupiter heard the runt’s scorn but took no notice. Leech could be dealt with later—when the old man had retired to his bedchamber.

A knock at the door broke into all their thoughts. Doctor Spittle looked up from his notes. “What is it?” he barked tetchily.

“’Tis only me sir,” said Will upon entering. “I’ve brought this one back.” He held up Dab for the alchemist to see. The old man’s brows bristled at the sight of the cat and Will knew he meant to punish her. Quickly he told him the lie that he had prepared.

“Nearly got out she did; I couldn’t stop her mother but I managed to prevent this one. How dare she try to leave—after all we’ve done for her too. Did you hear the rumpus we had, sir? I was very cross with this scrawny little moggy, battered her I did—only maybe I went too far. She’s broke her leg, see. I never meant for that to happen; still, I don’t think she’ll try it again.”

Doctor Spittle pursed his lips and regarded the boy for a long time. “So, you bandaged her damaged limb,” he said drily.

“Yes,” assured Will, “I did the best I could, though I fancy you could have done better.”

The alchemist reached out as if to inspect the bindings more closely; instead he gave the injured leg a vicious squeeze and yanked it hard.

Dab screamed in agony, leapt from Will’s arms and hobbled over to Leech.

A satisfied smile crossed the old man’s face. “Merely testing your story,” he said, “and I see that that much is true. She has indeed suffered a grievous blow. I did not realise you had such cruelty in you, my young dog.” His tone was sarcastic but he waved aside his doubts. “At least she did not venture outside,” he muttered, “for I would never have allowed her back had she done so. Now hearken to me, dog, if the mother returns then you are to deny her entry. She must not be permitted to bring the contagion into this place. Kill her if need be but she must not come in.”

Will nodded. “Have no fears, sir,” he answered with a curious certainty, “she will not be coming back.”

The alchemist dismissed him and the boy bowed, closed the door behind him and went down to the shop, pleased that he had saved Dab a further beating.

Doctor Spittle stared at the tortoiseshell and his eyes narrowed. “And yet,” he murmured, “I should dearly like to know where the lad learnt to bandage and splint an injury so expertly, for I did not teach him.” With a twitching brow he bent over his papers and resumed work.

Dab drew close to her brother, her eyes brimming with tears.

Leech stepped slightly away. “Are all humans cruel then?” he asked. “Would that I could claw both young and old to shreds.”

Through a series of sobs. Dab told him the truth. “It was not the boy who did this,” she choked, “he said that to spare me the old one’s anger. You see Leech, I did escape into the wide world—but it was a horrific nightmare.” And she relapsed into a further fit of weeping.

“Then what really happened to you?” the runt asked.

Dab sniffed and rubbed her raw eyes. “It was the people,” she said. “A great crowd of them tried to kill me. They had sticks and were mad with the lust for murder.” She hesitated, searching for the words in which to tell him the terrible news. “I... I was not the first to suffer at their hands,” she uttered in a small voice.

Leech stared at his sister, until his sly green eyes widened as he guessed what had happened. “Where is Mother?” he cried in alarm. “Where is she?”

The tortoiseshell took his paw and her tears fell upon it. “Mother is... dead,” she breathed. “The humans seized her and beat the life from her body.”

“No!” came a strangled shriek.

They both turned and there was Jupiter. He had heard everything that had been said. “It cannot be!” he shouted. “You lie, sister—Mother lives, tell me that is so!”

“It is no lie,” Dab said bitterly. “I saw them toss her into the air like you would a mouse.”

Jupiter crawled away, too shocked to say any more.

Leech sneered. “What does he feel the most I wonder?” he muttered. “The loss of our mother, or dismay at the behaviour of his beloved humans? Our brother disgusts me.”

“We should not quarrel at a time like this,” Dab said sadly. “We ought to support one another. We have only ourselves now; we are alone in the world, three orphans.” And she cried into her paw.

The shining green eyes of Leech glowed with menace. “One day,” he growled, “I shall avenge you. Mother, and all humankind will pay—this I swear.”

In the following weeks the plague continued to rage. All the dogs and cats were destroyed and the loss of their voices left the night woefully silent. Only the death bells spoke in the hollow darkness now.

July came and with it Will’s twelfth birthday, but the occasion passed without any celebration and Will stared sorrowfully at the gloves he had received the previous year from his late mother.

Under the guidance of Magnus Zachaire, Doctor Spittle worked unceasingly on his experiments. A dreadful sense of doom and foreboding had fallen on the alchemist and he felt that time was running out. To his astonishment, preparing the elixir was comparatively easy and, at the end of the third week since he had begun, all was ready.

Another blazing hot day scorched London. It was not an uncommon sight to see the abandoned carcass of a pig or horse lie neglected in the road. Eventually they swelled and burst in the blistering heat and the stink rose into the clear heavens.

In his workroom Doctor Spittle poured a golden liquid into a jar and watched the steam rise off it. Sitting in the chair, he rested his chin in his hands and a look of wonder resided on his features.

“Can this truly be the elixir of life?” he breathed with reverence. “Does this jar now contain the essence of eternity? To think that the dream of the ancients is now before me. This is a most holy moment, my familiar.”

Jupiter sat at the old man’s feet. Since the day of Imelza’s escape, the love between the alchemist and his cat had been cooler than before. But in the end, due to his yearning for knowledge, Jupiter had swallowed his pride and fawned once more to his master.

“Verily this shall protect thee from the pestilence without,” came the spirit’s voice. “Thy span of life shall be increased a thousand-fold. Through the long ages yet to come thy feet shall tread and miracles undreamed of will unfold before thee.”

A delighted gurgle, like that of an amused child, erupted from the alchemist. He clapped his hands together and nodded joyously.

“How much longer till it is ready?” he asked impatiently.

“The time is now, Elias,” whispered Magnus. “Drink of that nectar and become immortal. There is naught thou canst not achieve—the world shalt be thine.”

Doctor Spittle held out a quivering hand. The jar trembled when he took it and a precious drop spilled onto the table. The light that streamed through the small attic window flooded through the golden liquid and played upon the alchemist’s face. It was a tremendous moment; he would rise above everyone, nothing would he fear and anything he desired would be his. The old man’s lips were dry as the jar drew close to his mouth. The fulfilment of his heart was nigh and all his senses were timed to this one action.

“Drink, Elias,” urged the spirit.

The alchemist tilted the jar to let the miraculous solution disappear down his throat. As the elixir seeped over his lips, a faint chuckle sounded from Magnus.

Doctor Spittle’s half closed eyes snapped open. He saw the eager smile on the spirit’s face and suspicion engulfed his mind.

The jar slammed onto the table and the old man spat onto the floor then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Whatever is wrong, Elias?” asked Magnus innocently. “Can it be thou hast no faith in me?”

The alchemist opened his mouth and aired his tongue—there was something faintly bitter on his lips and they began to sting.

He grasped the spirit bottle and shook it violently. “Have you betrayed me?” he cried. “Would you murder me with poison, you untrustworthy soul?”

But Magnus replied, “Peace Elias, thou knowest that to achieve immortality thou must endure an ordeal. Perfection is only attainable by taking great risks—the blackened beast will only be filled by the scarlet hue of life everlasting after severe hardship.”

“I know that!” screamed Doctor Spittle kicking back the chair and jumping to his feet. “But I doubt if one is meant to be poisoned first. Death is a strange route to immortality.”

“Thy lack of faith wounds me, Elias.”

“I am only cautious,” the alchemist replied. “There have been many times when my circumspection has saved me.” A cunning grin stole over him and he glanced up at the two rat cages. “You must not grudge me my eccentricities, Magnus,” he said. “Indulge me in this, I crave.”

He crossed to a cupboard and took out a strip of dried meat. This he dipped into the elixir and, standing on tiptoe, threw it into one of the cages.

Heliodorus was half asleep and dreaming of his exotic youth. A tropical sun shone down on him and his snout was filled with the aromatic scent of eastern spices. The timbers of his ship creaked and groaned on the foaming waves and the sea sparkled all around like silver fire.

He grunted contentedly, enjoying the lurch and swell of the vessel beneath him. This was the life, the only real vocation for a rat: to sail the high seas, journey to uncharted lands and taste undiscovered fruits.

In his slumber the black rat dived into a ripe melon and burrowed into its juicy heart, devouring the delicious flesh and spitting out the seeds. With shoals of tiny darting fish he swam and basked on baking white shores. As he lay there, breadcrumbed with the sand, a great fish rose out of the sea and launched itself at him.

With a startled yelp Heliodorus awoke.

The piece of dried meat landed with a bump on the floor of his cage. For a brief second he thought he was still asleep and shuffled backwards in case it really was a sea monster. But the turgid waves of his dream rippled and ebbed away as he slapped his face to gather his wits.

“What is this?” he chirruped, snouting the air and glaring at the morsel before him. “Has it nibblesomeness and is it crunchmaking?” he asked, giving the object a tentative prod. Heliodorus looked across to the other cage and called to the brown rat within.

“Hoy, English!” he shouted. “It is time for victuals—yes?”

Beckett stared dolefully back at him. “Not fer me it ain’t,” he whinged. “There’s you wi’ that girt dollop o’ stuff and here I am wi’ me guts aching an’ me belly grumblin’. “’Tain’t fair it’s not. Why ain’t there none fer me?”

The black rat clicked his fingers. “Hah!” he chortled. “Heliodorus not eat all. He know how to share even split; on ship he learn this. Tit for tat and sharey share. I save some for you—oh yes.”

Beckett smacked his lips and clutched the bars of his cage in anticipation. For a rat, Heliodorus was really very generous.

The wanderer grabbed the dried meat in both his claws and sank his teeth into it. “Eats very good,” he mumbled, “nice and tasty—you will like this English, I think.”

“Don’t forget to leave some then,” piped up Beckett anxiously.

Heliodorus ground his jaws together as he champed and chewed. A fair-sized chunk remained and he prepared to throw it to his jailed comrade.

But at once the meat fell from his grasp and a fierce shudder jolted down his spine.

Beckett peered at the meat longingly; was the other rat teasing him? One look at Heliodorus, however, and all thought of food vanished.

The black rat was choking. His claws flew to his throat and a horrible squeal issued from his mouth.

His entire body shook and his tail thrashed madly about the cage.

“AAARRGGHH!” he yelled. “It blisters, it slices, it tears at me! AAARRGGHH!”

His bright, black eyes bulged hideously from their sockets and he hopped about the cage convulsed in some terrible agony. Then, to his anguish, every single hair on his body popped out of his skin and fell to the floor. A dense, dark cloud of fur drifted down from the cage as he rampaged and yelled.

Beckett drew back in fright; he had never seen him do that before. “Ere,” he cried, “what’s got into yer?”

“Treachery! Murder! Assassins!” Heliodorus shrieked. He flung himself against the bars like a mad thing then collapsed, naked and shivering. Foam frothed from his jaws and he gibbered idiotically. “Grogged up and land ahoy!” he croaked. “Sail on, you laggards, there’s islands to see and stars to steer by.” With his last strength he raised a feeble arm and pointed at the ceiling. The bulging eyes opened even wider as his dying breath rattled in his throat. “Hobb!” he gasped. “Hobb is come!” and with that Heliodorus perished.

Doctor Spittle screeched with fury. But for his caution that fate would have been his. He snatched up the spirit bottle and the blue light blazed through his fingers.

“Ha, Spittle!” scoffed Magnus. “Didst thou really believe I would reveal unto thee the secret of the elixir? Oh foolish, credulous mortal—I scorn thee utterly!”

The alchemist was filled with wrath. “Father of lies!” he roared. “You shall never be released. In that bottle your felonious soul will forever be imprisoned. With or without your help I shall cheat Death,” He thrust the bottle onto a shelf and stormed downstairs.

Beckett sniffed; the body of proud Heliodorus was already shrivelling. The venom had been potent indeed and his corpse withered swiftly.

Horrified, the brown rat watched as the skin wrinkled and shrank over the bones. He would miss the defiant traveller. “Wot’ll become of me?” he whined. “There’s just me an’ them cats down there now, I’ll get etted fer sure.” He wriggled uncomfortably then rubbed his shoulder against one of the bars. “Crikey,” he mumbled, scratching himself all over, “why fer does I itch all of a sudden?”

The last of the fleas that had fallen from Heliodorus’s body leapt across the gulf between the two cages and dived into Beckett’s fur.

11 - At The Southwarke Mission

Leech scurried under a heap of parchments, but it was no protection, as he soon discovered. Three sharp pains pierced his tail and he squawked, tearing out from his cover and scrabbling over a brass telescope which toppled from its stand and spun across the floor.

The attic was dark; only the embers glowed in the fireplace and their radiance was too weak to reach the far wall. Under the low, sloping beams Leech frantically picked his way, stepping from one precarious foothold to another. A ghastly, bloated image reared in front of him, but it was only his reflection in the mirrored globe.

A mischievous chuckle sounded from below. “You can’t escape up there, Leech,” Jupiter told him.

The runt chanced to look behind and, sure enough, the instruments of torture were closing fast.

They were long, sharp pins with pearl heads. Relentlessly they tapped and spiked their way forward, dancing over the obstacles with ease—their eager points gleaming ruddily.

Leech moaned and pushed on, squeezing onto the ornate shelf that held the large grinning skull.

Jupiter was practising his magic once again. This time he had cast a simple spell over the pins and the enchantment guided them with cruel intent. To jab and needle was their spiteful purpose and the runt’s posterior their ultimate goal.

“The charm will pursue you until the task has been achieved,” giggled Jupiter. “You might as well let them catch you for they will eventually. I want to see what a feline pin-cushion looks like.”

His brother whimpered, trying to squirm past the skull. But there was nowhere else to go.

Tap-tap-tap.

The pins came on, jumping with excited skips as they neared the frightened cat.

Leech’s claws slid out and he struck at the oncoming menace. But the blow was feeble and went wide of the mark; he almost lost his balance and for desperate seconds teetered on the edge of the shelf.

The glinting points clattered feverishly as though in mockery of his puny efforts.

On the floor below, Jupiter watched, delighted at the amusement this spell was giving him.

“Not long now, Leech,” he sniggered. “Two more hops and they’ll have you stuck good and proper.”

“Jupiter!” scolded Dab abruptly. “Stop it at once!” The tortoiseshell rose from her place at the hearth where she had been sleeping and darted over to him. Her hind leg had not mended properly and she now walked with a pronounced limp. “You mustn’t torment Leech!” she cried.

Her brother frowned at her. “But it’s such fun!” he laughed, “and he deserves it—he really is horrid. Does it matter if he gets jabbed and pricked just a little bit?”

“Don’t be cruel!” she said, appalled. “What would Mother say if she were to hear you? It isn’t fair to use your powers to tease him. He isn’t strong you know; stop it at once.”

Jupiter stuck out his bottom lip. “Just as the game was getting interesting too,” he grumbled. Making a sign in the air with his paw he muttered some words and cancelled the spell.

The pins above jerked and twitched as the enchantment left them and they toppled to the ground.

Dab and Jupiter leapt aside as, one by one, they fell, skewering the floorboards and quivering from the impact.

Leech stared down, his eyes burning like two green lamps that glared at Jupiter angrily.

The ginger cat padded after his sister. “I’m sorry, Dab,” he apologised, “I was only testing a new spell I found. I never meant anything by it—it was only a joke, honest.”

Dab went lamely to the hearth where she sat and curled her tail around her. “It isn’t me you should apologise to,” she said, “and I doubt if Leech found the joke very amusing.”

“Who cares...” Jupiter began but he checked himself; he knew that his mother would. He looked at the empty place beside his sister. “It’s difficult to believe that she’s really gone from us,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Dab responded. “Not one moment goes by when I don’t think of her. If only she could have been content to remain here.”

Jupiter held her paw in his. “Tears won’t bring her back,” he said gently.

“I know,” she agreed, “but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. There are times when I hear those awful screams and I can’t shut them out.”

Her brother hugged her tightly. “Don’t go upsetting yourself,” he said. “She wouldn’t want that now, would she? At least she died out there, free in the wild. That’s better, dry your eyes and I promise to keep a tighter rein on my magic.”

“You won’t torment Leech?”

“No.”

“Thank you, that is a weight off my mind. You two should try and be friends.”

Jupiter snorted. “But he’s so sneaky and sly—I don’t want to be friends with him.”

“He’s your brother!” Dab shook her head exasperated. “I’m weary of you both,” she sighed, settling down to rest. “No wonder Mother was desperate to escape. Ever since I returned I’ve come to realise just how much she had to keep you two apart. Sometimes I wish I had never come back the way you carry on.”

Jupiter saw the lines of care and sorrow that were already faintly traced upon her brow. Had he really put them there—was he such a trial and a worry to her? Perhaps she was right, maybe he and Leech had contributed to their mother’s unease in the attic. He stared at the floor, abashed and ashamed. Tonight he abandoned his usual place on the alchemist’s chair and stretched out beside his sister.

“I will try not to bully Leech,” he muttered.

“Mmm?” returned Dab as she drifted off to sleep.

A soft hissing came down from above. The livid emeralds of Leech’s eyes pierced the darkness. Jupiter saw him, still balanced on the shelf near the skull. It was an opportunity too good to miss. “I can always start being nice to him tomorrow,” Jupiter told himself, and he closed his eyes and recited an incantation.

“With all my heart I hate you!” Leech seethed softly. “I despise you with every ounce of my being. Let darkness everlasting consume my soul and fill me with evil power that I might be revenged upon you.” His eyes shone with the malevolence that governed him and so intense was his hatred that he failed to see what was happening behind.

The large skull shuddered as the magic of Jupiter wove around it and seized control. Very slowly, the wide jaws started to open. A loose tooth rattled from the bone and bounced off the shelf. The noise disturbed Leech’s concentration and he sniffed curiously. “What was that?” he muttered. Then he became aware of the shape that loomed over his shoulder and, with dismay, he wheeled round until he was staring into the cavernous jaws.

The animal skull lifted into the air and the teeth snapped together, narrowly missing Leech’s nose. He wailed and with that lost his footing. Like a shrivelled slug he dropped to the ground and landed with a crash.

Dab awoke with a start. She looked about her and guessed what Jupiter had done. The ginger cat smiled sheepishly. She threw him a despairing glance. “Can you never stop?” she said accusingly. “You drive me to despair; if it were possible for me to leave I surely would. You two can battle it out on your own—I’ve had enough.” And she hobbled into a quiet corner and settled back to sleep again.

Leech licked his bruises and crept out of sight to nurture his malignancy in the darkness.

The night clawed by, silent and brooding.

Dab slept fitfully, troubled by dark dreams and visions of Imelza. Her mind fluttered on the very edge of slumber and she uttered forlorn and fretful mews.

A distant noise wrenched her further into the waking world. Dull sounds clumped about below and on the stairs a board creaked. One of Dab’s ears flicked with irritation. Slowly the key clicked in the crimson door and the handle gently turned.

Dab stirred and her eyes blinked with drowsiness; the lids were heavy but she forced them to stay open.

There, silhouetted in the doorway, was the tall figure of Doctor Spittle. He was still dressed and the smell of chemicals clung about his clothes, pervading the air with acrid fumes. The old man’s face was cold and hard, but something about his eyes made Dab shake her head and stumble to her feet.

“Are you awake—my beautiful, variegated maiden?” crackled his whispering voice.

She swallowed and edged away—the deliberate menace of his tone was unmistakable.

The alchemist moved forward and his steps were stealthy and silent. “Would you not like to help me in my experiments?” he breathed quietly.

Fear overwhelmed Dab as his shadow fell on her. She reached out to wake Jupiter but Doctor Spittle stooped to catch her.

“Help!” she cried, shuffling backward to escape the hands that came groping for her.

In his cage Beckett yawned and peered blearily down to see what had disturbed him. Immediately he sensed the terror in the air and he hid his face in his claws.

“Help!” Dab called again, but the strong hands grabbed her and closed over her mouth so she could cry out no more.

Kicking and struggling, the tortoiseshell gazed wildly at Jupiter, but he was still fast asleep. The alchemist pressed her close to his chest and, whimpering. Dab was borne from the attic.

Neither of her brothers ever heard her sweet voice again.

In the morning Jupiter awoke and for the first time in many months felt cold, for an unknown chill reached in and touched him.

“Dab!” he called, wondering where his sister had got to. There was no answer and he chewed his lip with concern. A draught ruffled his fur and he looked to see where it came from. The small attic window was open. He ran to it, filled with anxiety; she must have decided to leave after all. “Dab!” he called again, peering over the sill—but it was no use, there was no sign of her. Jupiter groaned and a tear ran down his cheek. “She’s left us,” he said sorrowfully. “It was all too much for her and it’s my doing. She said she would go and by my pride and bullying I’ve driven her away, just like I did Mother,” Filled with remorse he slunk away to where Leech hid in the shadows.

“Brother,” he said woefully, “our sister is gone.”

Leech’s eyes flickered open and at once he was watchful and wary. “Then you and I are alone now,” he hissed. “One by one it seems our family diminishes—who shall be the next to depart?” And he purred threateningly.

“Let us fight no more,” beseeched Jupiter, “for Dab’s sake can we not be friends? For my part I am sorry for the hurts I have inflicted on you and swear never to taunt you again.”

But Leech scorned his offer of peace. “Never will I find room in my heart for you—vile and treacherous lover of humankind. Go to your master and serve him your platitudes, I desire none of them. For the loss of my sister I shall not grieve, if she is indeed free then I envy her. Never can I depart whilst you remain alive, usurping my rightful power and place.”

So the rift between the two brothers was not healed and although Jupiter kept to his oath and never again afflicted Leech with his magic, the runt loathed him all the more.

The months wheeled by but Dab did not return. In the city anarchy reigned and those who tried to leave and flee to the country were met by frightened villagers who pelted them with stones. The churchyards of London were gorged with bodies and the gravediggers could not keep up with the burials. Over the doors of the capital the red crosses spread, until they covered the buildings like a dreadful rash.

The autumn came and winter duly followed. On a night of November a furtive tap sounded on the window of the apothecary shop.

Will was not yet asleep and he ran to see who it was. There, peeking through the leaded panes, was Molly.

Quickly Will opened the door to let her in but she refused and remained standing in the dark alley.

“I cannot stop,” she told him breathlessly. “I have come to bring you news, that is all,” She paused and he caught her excitement. “I know where Jack Carver is!” she announced.

“Where?” cried Will. “Did he tell you why they..?”

She waved him into silence. “Wait,” she laughed, “I have not yet spoken with the man. I only discovered his whereabouts this evening.” From the inside of her plague doctor’s coat she took a scroll of paper and showed it to the boy.

Will scowled at it; a firm, flowing script covered the page, but he shrugged. “I cannot read,” he admitted with embarrassment.

Molly tutted. “Never mind. I’ll tell you what it says. I wrote it some time ago—not long after my meeting with Jessel. It is a confession. It accuses old Spittle of paying those two villains to murder my father. If I can persuade Carver to sign it or make his mark then I have something to take before a Justice. I’d dearly like to see that wretched apothecary dance from the gallows.”

“But what if Carver refuses to sign? Why should he?—that confession will hang him too.”

The young woman flicked back her golden hair. “He’ll sign all right,” she said sombrely. “Hanging’ll be too late for him. By the time the assizes come round he’ll have already answered to another judge.”

Will scratched his head in puzzlement, then he understood. “Your costume,” he said. “Then Jack Carver has the plague?”

Molly nodded grimly. “That he has and he’ll not be long in this world by what I’ve heard.” She tucked the scroll back inside her coat and gave Will her farewells. “I must go now,” she told him. “I never heard of a corpse signing anything.”

“Wait!” called Will as she turned to leave. “Let me come too!”

The woman stared at him then shook her head. “Don’t be foolish,” she said.

But the boy’s mind was resolved. “I’m coming with you,” he told her flatly and there was no room in his tone for argument. “This matter touches me closely,” he said. “If we succeed then my life of servitude could be ended forever. Besides, I am not going to stay here whilst you confront Jack Carver. He is an evil rogue!”

“But Will,” she protested, “you can’t go into a pest-house. Think of the danger.”

“You venture inside those places.”

“Only wearing these clothes,” she countered. “If you were to go without such protection you would surely die! A pest-house is not a small place, it can hold many people; all the vagabonds and poor folk are taken there.”

Will did not reply but ran back into the shop and within a few minutes he returned. Over his face he had placed a flour sack, into which he had cut two holes for his eyes. With his gloves on his hands, he was busily trying to stuff a collection of herbs taken from a nosegay into a cone of paper.

Molly laughed when she saw him and relented. “Very well,” she said, “tonight you can be an apprentice plague doctor.” She helped him put a string through the paper and tied it around his head.

Will made to shut the door but he looked at Molly’s heavy coat and a sudden idea came to him.

“Stay a moment,” his voice mumbled through the mask, and he nipped inside once more.

“Hurry, Will!” Molly called after him. “We do not have time to tarry here.” Her voice faltered as the boy returned bearing a large red bundle. “What have you there?” she asked.

“Spittle’s posh robe,” he replied. “He left it in the shop this afternoon. It should serve as an excellent top coat. Why, I could wrap it round me three times over.” He closed the door and they passed quickly down the alley.

“Where is this pest-house?” he inquired, struggling into the velvet garment.

“Southwarke,” she answered, lacing up her own mask. “I have not visited it before. It is on the far side of the river. We shall have to cross by the bridge for no watermen will bear us.”

Into the melancholy night they went. Cheapside was a sad and dreary place; on every corner a small fire burned and, huddled around the flames, was a woebegone collection of people: those whose livelihoods had disappeared since the arrival of the pestilence, or who had been absent when their homes had been boarded up and now had nowhere to live.

“Mercy on us,” came their heart-wrenching pleas when they saw the two plague doctors go by.

Molly put her arm round Will’s shoulder. “The tale of grief is vast,” she said gravely. “Innumerable tears has this city shed since the plague began—enough to fill the Thames and wash it clean.”

Will said nothing, for at last they had come to the river itself and the bridge stretched before them.

There was only one crossing over the Thames, and London Bridge was a mighty thoroughfare. It was lined with tall buildings and shops that sold everything, from vegetables to shoes. This was the only way into the city from the south and it had spanned the river for many years. In the day it was congested with traffic and bustled as if the sickness had never been heard of. But at night all was quiet and still.

The few lights that shone in the high, latticed windows were reflected in the dark, rippling water below and all seemed calm and peaceful.

Molly took Will’s hand and through the avenue of half-timbered buildings they went, the gurgling river swirling beneath them.

When they were only half-way across a different sound came to them. The young woman paused and pulled Will next to her.

“What is it?” he asked straining to listen through the thick sackcloth and trying to peer out of the ragged eyeholes.

“A pest-cart approaches,” she whispered. “Keep by me.”

Presently Will too heard the clatter of wheels and the slow plod of a horse’s hooves.

“Bring out yer dead,” rang out a lusty voice.

Will had never come this close to one of the death waggons before and his heart beat quickly. To his surprise he found that he was apprehensive—afraid even. Here, on the bridge, there was no way to avoid this grisly meeting. Molly squeezed his hand and he automatically drew close to her.

“With luck the cart will be empty,” she prayed for the boy’s sake.

A slurred voice hailed them as the dreaded waggon came nearer.

“What’sh thish then? Two plaguey doctorsh? Well, one and a half—hoo, hoo!” The bearer on the cart swayed like a reed in the breeze as he hooted at his little joke. He was a dirty, squalid-looking man with an uncouth leer on his face and a tall hat pitched rakishly over his bloodshot eyes.

A stream of slobber poured from his mouth as he pointed at Will and continued. “I’d heard they were short o’ physicians,” he hiccuped, “but I didn’t know the physicians were short as well!” He slapped his knees as he drew level with them and then pulled on the reins. “Whoa!” he shouted. “Halt there, you knackered old fleabag!”

The horse was a sorry, dishevelled beast; a shambling array of bones loosely covered by a threadbare hide. It rolled its scabby eyes and came to a standstill, then hung its head wearily.

The bearer leaned forward in an awkward motion as he tried to focus on the two figures at the roadside. “Ain’t never heard o’ no dwarf doctorsh,” he declared.

Molly glanced fearfully at the open cart behind him and stood between it and Will. “You’re drunk!” she told the man in as gruff a tone as she could manage. “Get about your business, fellow, and let us attend to ours!”

“Drunk he says!” tittered the man. “What if I was says I?” From under his cloak he brought out a large jug and took a great swig from it. “Arr!” he belched, blowing a bubble of ale and saliva from his mouth. “Do you know summfin, my fine, fanshy gentlemen? I do believe you shpeak the truth—old Ned Bunkit’s as sloshed as a bog-hole beetle.” And he broke into a throaty, gargling laugh.

“Come, Will,” said Molly quickly. She pushed the boy behind her to screen him from the grisly mound that the cart carried and made to walk off. But the bearer cracked his whip and shouted after them.

“Oh, how they sidle by. Ain’tcha gonna have a drink wi’ Ned then? Too good for him are you?” He tottered to his feet and jabbed a finger at the jug in his hand. “I’d like to shee you do this job without my friend here fer company! Aah, a pox on you both saysh I. When this plague’s done there’ll be no more scrapin’ to the likes o’ you, for there won’t be no gentry left. Many a gallant, dashing and dandy. I’ve carted off to the pits.” Clumsily, he stepped into the cart and gestured to its silent passengers, “And they don’t want to sup wi’ me either,” he caroused. “Hoo, hoo!”

Molly urged Will onward. “Don’t look back,” she warned. “Don’t see what he carries this night.”

Will pulled the robe tightly about him, but the desire to take one glimpse of the ghastly cargo was too much. Quickly he glanced over his shoulder and his stomach churned over.

The drunken man was staggering through a heap of bodies and to Will’s disgust he stooped and held up a tiny figure. Then the bearer roared in his stupor, “Kindling, get yer kindling ’ere—five for sixpence! Ha ha!”

The two plague doctors rushed over London Bridge and passed into Southwarke. Only when they were under the shadow of St Saviour’s did they pause for breath and the sweat of horror trickled down Will’s neck.

Molly leaned against a wall as she calmed herself. “What evil dwells in man’s soul to drag him into such baseness?” she muttered. “I tell you, Will, the sights I have witnessed this past year would make the most hardened sinner blanch.”

“Your father said the Devil stalked the streets of London,” he panted.

“I’ll not gainsay him in that!” she agreed. “It would seem the Almighty has abandoned this city.” With a shudder she pulled herself together. “Even so,” she said firmly, “it is up to us to do what we can. Come, we go to call on Jack Carver. Let us hope we arrive before the Reaper harvests him.”

As they hurried down the gloomy lanes a worrying thought came to Will. “What if the Justices won’t take any notice once the confession is signed?” he asked.

“Then I shall take the matter to a higher authority,” she replied. “A friend of mine was an orange seller in one of the theatres, before they closed them down. She was on intimate terms with His Majesty. If need be I shall go to court and lay the evidence before him. But look—this is the place.”

They had come to a low, rambling building whose windows were nailed shut, and from the heavy oak doors hung an iron padlock. A guard stood outside the barred entrance and he eyed Will suspiciously.

“Let us pass,” Molly commanded.

The warden gave Will one last, dubious look then took out his clinking bunch of keys and released the padlock. It was not for him to question the comings and goings of plague doctors.

Will stared at the arch above the doors; the familiar red cross had been painted there and at the sight of it all his courage drained away.

The guard placed a cloth over his mouth and gave one of the doors a shove. It opened with a creak and Molly stepped across the threshold. Will hung back but the man was anxious to seal the building again and he stamped impatiently. Nervously the boy followed Molly inside—had it been the gateway to Hell itself he could not have been more afraid.

He stared out of his makeshift mask; they were in a dim passage, lit by a single tallow candle. The boy coughed; even through the sweet-smelling herbs the reek of the sickness assaulted his senses and he gagged at the cloying vileness.

The guard did not come after them; instead he hastily removed the cloth from his mouth and called out, “Mother Myrtle! Ye have visitors. The doctors are come!” Then he pulled the door shut and it closed with an ominous thud that vibrated through the floor.

Behind the thick barrier of oak Will heard the padlock snap together and he caught his breath; he and Molly were now locked inside the pest-house.

“What now?” he whispered in a wavering voice.

“We wait for the nurse in charge,” she replied. “She will take us to Jack Carver.”

As soon as she had spoken they heard a light footstep. Beyond the candle a curtain was drawn aside and from it emerged Mother Myrtle.

She squinted at the newcomers and heaved a sigh of relief. “At last,” she called in a frail voice. “We have not had masters of physic here for five days. Welcome gentlemen.” Carefully she shuffled up the hallway to greet them and in doing so entered the small circle of candlelight.

Mother Myrtle was a small, elderly woman, whose back was bowed with age and whose hands were knobbled and swollen by the same cause. She wore no protective garments, just a simple dress of puritan black and the customary white starched collar about her neck. As she passed beneath the flame it glinted over her hair, which was white and fine as cobwebs on a frosty morning. She blinked in the yellow glare and a warm smile spread over her care-lined face.

“A most heartfelt welcome to you both,” she said, brightly dismissing Will’s lack of height with a special grin meant for him alone. “This is indeed a most happy answer to my prayers. But for you to have come so speedily—why I had only just finished asking the Lord for help when I heard the guard call my name.”

As she beamed at the pair of them Will drew strength from her steady gaze. In the depths of her pale, wrinkle-besieged eyes there was no trace of age; only a pure, almost saintly light shone there. He found himself liking her immediately.

Her twinkling smile faltered for a moment. “I’m afraid there is little coin to pay for your services,” she murmured apologetically. “All we had left was spent on food and medicines.” She wrung her arthritic hands together and her fingers closed about a golden ring. This belonged to my beloved mother,” she said trying to twist it over her knuckles. “She gave it to me when I was a mere nursling, but please take it as payment. Oh, if only the nuisance would come off.”

Molly declined the offered ring and said, “If we can give aid then that is reward enough.”

“Bless you!” Mother Myrtle wept, taking hold of Molly’s gauntleted hand and kissing it gratefully. “I know the Lord shall keep you from harm. Now, come if you will. Let me show you my charges; the sight of two physicians such as you will surely ease their burdens.”

“How many sick do you have in this house?” Molly inquired.

“This morning there were eighty-seven,” she replied. “Now, alas, only sixty-five remain and I am the only one left to tend them.”

Molly stared at her incredulously. “Sixty-five? Can more help not be provided?”

The old lady smiled, “If this were a city pest-house no doubt—but we are a private mission. You see, when the pestilence first began we opened our doors and took in those stricken.”

“You mean that you invited the plague in willingly?” gasped Molly.

“What else should I have done? The Good Book makes our duty plain.”

“But are you not afraid for yourself? You ought at least to protect yourself in some way.”

Mother Myrtle shrugged. “Swaddling clothes are for babes,” she said, her eye briefly alighting on Will, “and I am far from that. I do but trust in the Lord, and when He decides that my work is done I am content to abide by His judgement.”

She turned and led them to the curtained doorway. “Herein lie my patients,” she whispered. “Do what you can for them. But please, no blood-letting; I will not permit such a barbarous practice. I had to expel the last physician by the scruff of the neck because he tried to do that to one of them. My, but he was a foul-mouthed doctor.”

The partition was pulled back and Will staggered, reeling from the wave of nausea that seemed to strike him. This was where the reek originated. His stomach rebelled at the stench and he struggled to keep from fainting.

The room beyond was long, narrow and dark. The only light came from a lantern hanging on a nail by the door and Molly recoiled from what she saw in there.

Row upon row of plague-riddled people covered the floor. All were in various degrees of death. Their groans and shrieks were enough to turn one mad and the clamour put a shadow over Will that stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Mother Myrtle smiled at all the pale, twisted faces as though she were viewing a room of small children rather than a place filled with despair. “See my friends,” she told them, “help has come as I knew it would.” She turned to Molly and motioned towards the lamp. “Could you take up the light, sir?” she asked politely. “Its brightness hurts mine eyes.”

Molly hesitated before answering. “Of course,” she said quickly. So, holding the lamp aloft, she and Will were escorted by the old lady into the terrible room.

Surrounded by the soft glow of the lantern they trod carefully amongst the sick and dying and Will stared, horrified, about him.

An emaciated man lay wrapped in a filthy blanket; beside him shivered a woman not much older than Molly and the light shone in her dark, staring eyes. At her side someone crouched in a ball and gibbered to himself; the next person was dead. Thus the awful spectacle unfolded until one of the patients let out a blood-curling howl as they passed and it frightened Will so much that he stumbled and fell against Molly. For a while the lantern swung uncontrollably and horrible shadows flew like giant bats over the walls.

“Take care,” Molly told him. Then she knelt beside the patient and tried to calm him. “Have you clean water?” she asked Mother Myrtle. “I can do nothing without it.”

The old woman nodded. “I will fetch it,” she said.

“One moment,” put in Molly. “Have you one here by the name of Carver?”

“Carver?” the other repeated. “I don’t think we do.”

Molly’s hope sank—Jack was probably in the plaguepit by now.

Will pushed forward. “Are you certain?” he asked. “He has a big scar down his face.”

The old lady’s doubtful expression cleared at once. “Oh, Jacky boy!” she chirped. “Why did you not say so before? He lies in the far corner—a friend of yours is he? Well that is nice; he’s a bit of a scoundrel you know, but if he has someone like you two to care about him then he can’t be all bad, can he? You go see him and I’ll fetch the water you wanted.”

“And make it hot if possible,” Molly called after her retreating figure.

When she had gone, they hurried between the prostrate forms around them until they reached the farthest corner.

Jack Carver lay on a mattress of straw. A rat scurried over his legs as the lantern was raised and the light fell on his face.

The plague had worked a dramatic change on him; he was a wasted shadow of his former self. The muscles which had once thrown Will to the ground were now shrunken and weak. His face was beaded with sweat and festering sores pitted his skin. If it had not been for the livid scar on his cheek Will would not have recognised the man and he actually pitied him. Carver’s days of evil were over and Death seemed to lurk in the shadows nearby, waiting to drag the soul from his failing body.

“Jack Carver?” said Molly impassively. “Is that your name?”

At first he did not seem to see the two plague doctors standing over him. Then his staring eyes swivelled round and fixed upon Molly’s mask.

“NOO!” he shrieked. “He has come! He has come for me!”

The man was terrified. He flailed and thrashed his arms until Molly feared he would injure himself. Nothing she could do would calm him. “It’s no use,” she said to Will, “the man is crazed—the mask frightens him.”

“What are we going to do?” the boy asked. “We’ll never discover anything with him screeching like that.”

“There is only one thing we can do,” she said grimly, and she reached up and began to unlace her mask.

“Stop!” cried Will. “You mustn’t remove it.”

But she took no heed. The beak and lenses fell away and the cowl was swept from her head.

The sudden revelation of Molly’s beauty in that dark and dreadful place was like the sun appearing from behind black storm clouds. The lamplight gleamed in her golden hair and the gentle beams became enmeshed there, until it seemed that it shone with a radiance all its own and a glimmering halo surrounded her.

All about them, from the dismal sea of human suffering, came gasps of amazement and some muttered that an angel had come amongst them.

Molly crouched beside Jack Carver who gawped and goggled at her. “What’s this?” he spluttered, ceasing his violent twitchings. “Am I to go upwards? Ha! I did think a hotter clime waited fer me.”

“Tell me your name,” said Molly.

“Jack I was,” he uttered, mesmerised by her loveliness, “but Jack no more. It’s the pits I’ll be going to soon; one last ride and in they’ll tip me.”

“My name is Margaret Balker,” she told him, “does that mean anything to you?”

A fit of shivering and retching convulsed him but when it passed he gazed at her. “Balker?” he mumbled trying to remember. “No, it’s gone.”

But Molly was insistent. “Have you forgotten Johnathon Balker—miller of Adcombe, whom you slew?”

Carver’s expression changed and a stillness crept over him as her words sliced through his plague-clouded mind. “The fat miller,” he breathed.

“He was my father,” she said quietly.

The dark eyes closed. “Then you must take after your mother,” he murmured with a black chuckle.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Let me rest... give me a moment’s peace here at the end.”

“What peace did you give to him?”

The man passed a hand over his sopping brow. “Very well,” he rasped. “Jessel an’ me were in the pay of another.”

“Who?”

“Some apothecary.”

“Which?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Was his name Spittle?”

“Yes, that were it, now let me be.”

Molly took the confession from her coat. “This is an admission of guilt,” she told him, “yet it also accuses the apothecary of hiring you to murder my father. Sign it and I will let you alone.”

Carver managed a faint laugh, but it led to a bout of coughing and when it was over his breath wheezed in his throat. “Why not?” he muttered. “I’m not going to linger in this world much longer. It might even do me a bit o’ good in the next.” He stared at the young woman and a gleam kindled in his eyes. Then he took the paper from her and said, “But it weren’t specifically yer father we were paid to dispatch.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, taken aback.

“‘Wait in the Sickle Moon and butcher whosoever you find with the boy’ were our orders,” said Carver, repeating the words that Doctor Spittle had uttered a year ago. “Then he says, ‘Once you’re rid of him chase the lad towards my shop.’”

“What!” exclaimed Will in surprise. And before Molly could prevent him he yanked his mask off also.

Jack peered at him and the ghost of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “So, it’s you is it?” he croaked. “A fine dance you led us that night, lad—good job fer you an’ all. I was gonna cut your throat no matter what he told us.”

“But why did Spittle want me?” asked Will in disbelief.

“I never asked, just got me money and did the job.” He coughed again, but this time the attack did not pass. Will backed away as the man balked and choked. Carver clutched his chest and strangled groans whistled from his windpipe. Then, even as they watched, it was all over. A shuddering spasm rifled through him and Jack Carver collapsed. The shadow of Death deepened in that place as Carver’s soul departed from his body going whither it was bound.

“No!” cried Molly in dismay. “The confession—he never signed it!” She tore the paper from the dead man’s hand and scrunched it into a ball. “All for nothing,” she wept. “It’s been all for nothing.”

“Here we are, my fine gentleman,” Mother Myrtle sang breezily as she entered carrying a steaming basin. She pattered over to them, her eyes fixed upon the water in case she spilled any. “Now, where would you care to begin, sir?” she began.

Molly turned and the old lady let out a coo of delight. “Why, what a lovely sweet face you have, my dear,” she said not in the least bit surprised, “and should you not be abed, young man?” she asked Will.

They were both too stunned by Jack’s death to say anything.

“Oh, my dears,” she tutted, “Jacky boy’s gone has he? I didn’t think he would see the night out. He must have been very special to you to affect you so.”

“Not ‘special’,” answered Molly, “but important, yes.”

The old lady patted her arm. “Don’t you worry yourself now, we are all earth when all is said and done. It is not this world that matters, but the next. If I did not believe in the kingdom of Heaven then I would have given up long ago. Without that there would be no point to it all, would there? My faith in the Lord is the only thing that keeps me going.”

“I wish I had your faith,” muttered Molly. “I can see no reason for anything that happens.”

“Oh the reasons are there,” chuckled Mother Myrtle, “we’re just not wise enough to see or understand them. Now, do you think you could help me with this basin, it is rather heavy?”

“Here,” Molly apologised, “I’ll take that, you rest for a while. I cannot cure these people but I can make their remaining hours more comfortable.”

“Rest?” repeated the elderly nurse. “I don’t think I’ve had any rest for, ooh I can’t remember when. No, I’ll help you, dear, if you don’t mind.” She rolled up her sleeves and her bare arms entered the light of the lantern.

“Your arms!” cried Molly suddenly. “Look at them!”

The old lady clucked dismissively. “Not very pretty is it?” she said. “But what can you expect, working here?”

Will leaned forward and there on the exposed flesh were the symptoms of the plague. Painful red boils covered Mother Myrtle’s arms entirely. His heart bled for her; she would shortly die.

“Sit down,” Molly told her, “you must be in agony. How long have you been liked this?”

“The sores appeared on the second day we opened our doors,” she said slowly. “That would make it about seven months ago now.”

Molly shook her head. “That isn’t possible,” she breathed. “No one survives that long.”

“Did I not tell you I trusted in the Lord? When He is sure my work here is done no doubt He will permit me to leave. Until then I am needed; that is why He has sustained me, and why He will sustain you also.”

Molly stared, then flung her arms about the old lady’s neck as she understood. “You make me feel ashamed!” she cried. “Let us set about caring for these poor folk.” Then she turned to Will and told him to leave the place and go to her room in Trinity Lane.

“I can’t,” he protested. “Now that our hopes have failed I must return to the apothecary shop.”

“But after all you heard from Carver?”

“Even so,” he shrugged, “I have to go back.”

“Then be careful,” she said. “Whatever purpose that old sinner had in catching you, he hasn’t revealed it yet. He wouldn’t lay such elaborate plans just to get a lad to work for him. Be forever on your guard.”

Will nodded, “I shall.”

“Then go now,” she told him. “I doubt if we shall ever see each other again. It would seem that I am to stay here, and after all the things I have done in the past, this is no bad way to end. Goodbye, Will.”

“Goodbye—Margaret.”

And so they parted; and, as he ducked under the curtain, the last sight he had of Molly was her tending the sick, her hair burning like a golden flame and at her side Mother Myrtle doing all she could to assist her.

Yet through his misery and desolation one perplexing question rose and dominated his thoughts—how did Doctor Spittle know that he was coming to London in the first place?

12 - The Fall of Adonis

Another cheerless Christmas passed and the winter faded into spring. The plague decreased in the cold months but when the warm weather returned it flared up again. Doctor Spittle continued with his work however and if he noticed Will’s unease during this time he did not refer to it.

Beckett gazed glumly from his cage; below him the alchemist was pacing about the attic and stirring a colourless solution with a long glass rod. Jupiter sat on the chair and watched all that was done. The rat scratched himself unhappily—he knew what was coming. It was going to be a most miserable night.

“Oh beggar me,” he whined. “’Tain’t right an’ natural it’s not. Glad my old mum can’t see me now—she’d thwack me round the chops and give me what fer she would. Oh the shame of it.” He peered down at his body and shivered; perhaps this time he could die like Heliodorus had done—that would be better than this. At least he went out with a bang.

“Pink!” he blubbered forlornly. “Who ever ’eard of a pink rat? Oh I wish I could drop down dead!” And he buried his snout in his claws dreading what was to come.

With no help from the spirit of Magnus Zachaire, Doctor Spittle had pursued the elixir of life unceasingly. There had been many times he thought he had succeeded, but each new concoction had been fed to Beckett with exceedingly strange results. The first time the brown rat had been forced to digest a potion, he immediately began to bark like a dog and growled at Jupiter and Leech. After a second formula had been prepared and given to him, his ears grew to an incredible length and trailed across the floor of the cage, tripping him up whenever he tried to move. The effects of that potion had not lasted very long, thank goodness; but since then he had been purple, a sickly green, black with livid yellow freckles and now, to his disgrace, his fur was a beautifully delicate shade of pink.

It embarrassed him no end and, to his distress, it had so far shown no sign of wearing off. The others had only lasted a week or two at the most, but he had been pink for three months now. All through the summer of 1666 he had been forced to endure the jibes and rude comments of the cats below and, although he was not a brave or conceited rat, it stung his pride nonetheless.

Doctor Spittle tapped the glass rod on the side of the jar that contained this latest experiment and looked up at the cage. “Are you ready my little rosy rodent?” he chortled. “Let us see what effect this mixture has upon you.” He raised the rod and thrust it through the bars.

Beckett clapped his mouth tight shut; no way was he going to taste it this time. He folded his arms resolutely and shook his head, defying the drops that ran down the glass towards him.

“Don’t be churlish, my blushing beauty,” coaxed Doctor Spittle, “there’s nothing to fear—you won’t feel a thing.”

But for once in his timid life Beckett refused to obey and he covered his mouth with his claws.

The alchemist glared at the rat angrily and shoved the rod in even further until it poked Beckett in the eye. He smacked it away from him and took some steps backwards.

“Abandon hope, Elias,” came Magnus’s gloating laugh, “thou art a bungling amateur. Why even the rats of thy laboratory have no faith in thee. Return to thy pills and paltry remedies. The Hermetic Art is beyond thy cloddish wits.”

Doctor Spittle scowled. “Be silent,” he snapped. “Perhaps this time I have discovered the elixir.”

“But how canst thou be certain?” scoffed the spirit. “Why not sample what thou hast made thyself?”

The alchemist ignored him but his black brows twitched craftily. Returning his attention to the pink rat he prodded it once more. Beckett waddled a little further away until he pressed himself against the bars of the cage and his tail dangled down.

A smirk flickered over Doctor Spittle’s face. In a trice, his free hand snaked out and he gave the tail a fierce tug. Beckett threw back his head and yelled. At once three drops fell from the tip of the glass rod and vanished down his gullet. The old man roared with laughter and rubbed his hands together to see what would happen.

Beckett kissed his bruised tail and patted it gently. “Dirty rotten trickster,” he complained with a grumble, “now that just ain’t fair—cheatin’ I calls it.” He turned his back on the alchemist and pouted peevishly.

Before long a tingling sensation began to prickle the back of his neck. “Ere we go again,” he whined.

His pink fur stirred as though invisible snakes were slithering through it, then all the hairs writhed and the fleas had to cling to his skin to remain on his body.

The pale rose colour deepened, slowly at first and then the change increased in speed. Beckett howled as the potion took control of him and he was lifted into the air. Desperately he clutched at the bars to stop himself hitting the roof of the cage. Then he clenched his teeth and it seemed that the room was filled with all the colours of the rainbow. Sparks flew from his fur, spitting green and blue stars at the astonished alchemist.

Beckett’s howl soared to a piercing shriek as the brilliant hues stampeded over him, and then it was over. He slid to the floor with a groan and put a trembling claw to his dizzy head. Cautiously he opened one eye to see what disaster had befallen him this time.

To his surprise, the effect wasn’t bad at all—in fact he thought it was rather dashing. “Lumme,” he mumbled, “I does look a dandy.”

The rat was now a delicious orange, not a florid, citrus shade, but a rich warm apricot that contained tints of copper and was covered by a wonderful, lustrous sheen. Delighted, he stumbled to his feet and combed his claws through the lush new coat. “I fink I could get used to this,” he said admiringly.

Doctor Spittle studied him carefully, then pulled a sour expression.

“Another failure,” Magnus told him. “The elixir of life does not alter the colour of thy hair.”

The alchemist snarled and was about to say something in return when he blinked and a wide grin split his face. “Oh no, Magnus,” he whispered, “I have not failed at all. In fact I rejoice.” He poured the remaining mixture into a pewter bowl then unlocked the attic door. “It is time for me to retire,” he said. “Goodnight Jupiter, and goodnight to you my little rodent friend.” With that he left the room and descended to his bedchamber, taking the bowl with him.

Jupiter stared up at Beckett and frowned; why was his master so pleased? he wondered. He pulled a book from the table and opened it at the page he desired. The alchemist’s familiar had learned many things over the past year and a half and Doctor Spittle was extremely pleased at his progress. Yet he did not realise just how knowledgeable Jupiter had become, and the ginger cat chose not to demonstrate to him how powerful he really was.

Stifling a yawn, Jupiter curled up with the book and started to read.

Leech kept his ears pressed against the floor. When he was certain that the old man had gone to bed he crawled out of hiding and crept to the shelf where the spirit bottle was kept.

“And how art thou?” asked Magnus as the runt approached. “Does the hatred for all living creatures still burn inside thee?”

Leech did not reply; sullenly he twisted his ugly head and glowered at Jupiter. Then he turned to the bottle and said, “What is the lesson tonight? What mysteries of the unexplored arts will you teach me now?”

For some time now, after Doctor Spittle had gone to bed. Leech and the spirit had talked together in the darkness. The runt had learned many secrets from the tormented soul, yet all the knowledge was useless, for only his brother was capable of wielding magic.

Magnus Zachaire’s face glimmered through the dark glass of the bottle. A peculiar expression formed over the ghostly features and a smile appeared amid the neat little beard. “The time draws closer, Leech,” he said in a solemn voice. “The trap is set and soon I shall have my freedom. Once Elias is dead his enchantment shall no longer imprison me and I can return to the oblivion of the cold void.”

Will rubbed the sleep from his eyes and unlocked the shop. The cries of the street traders were already clamouring in Cheapside. At least the sickness had decreased enough to permit some measure of normal life. He gazed wistfully out of the window and remembered that night, nearly a year ago now, when he had said goodbye to Molly. He had not heard from her since and he presumed that meant she was no more, her bright young life must have burned itself out in the dark Southwarke pest-house.

“A merry morning, my young dog,” came the cheery voice of Doctor Spittle.

Will looked round and then his eyes widened.

The alchemist airily waved his fingers at him and twirled about on tiptoe as if he were a dancer at court. “Am I not elegant and dignified?” he announced, delirious with glee. “See how the sunlight picks out the glints of red. Who needs an elixir when you are as handsome as I?”

Will struggled to keep from laughing out loud. Upon the old man’s head there was now a thick growth of auburn hair. It flowed over his shoulders in luxuriant tresses and he ran his fingers through it adoringly—he looked ridiculous.

“Am I not the most ravishing spectacle?” he cried. “I make Narcissus seem toadish by comparison.” He raised his left hand and for the first time Will noticed that he held Beckett in his grasp.

“Oh noble, brave and faithful rodent,” the alchemist crowed, “a trusty, dependable creature you have been to me. Without you I might never have discovered this most marvellous mixture. Who can gaze at me and not be consumed with envy? No periwigs do I need, for my crowning glory outshines all others.”

The orange rat wriggled in his grasp and squirmed wildly. It had been a long time since he had been out of the cage in the attic and the sights and smells of the shop were strange and unfamiliar.

Doctor Spittle squeezed him tightly and Beckett gasped, fighting for breath. “Never let it be said that Elias Theophrastus Spittle is ungrateful,” he said, hugging the rat against his cheek. To Will’s disgust, and to Beckett’s dismay, the old man puckered his lips and gave the rodent a big kiss.

“Yeuch!” spluttered Beckett wiping his face.

With a light, silvery laugh, the alchemist crossed to the door and opened it wide. “Here we are,” he told the rat, “this is the greatest reward I can bestow upon you. In return for your invaluable assistance I give to you your freedom.” He set the rat on the ground and let him go.

Beckett sniffed the air of the alley suspiciously. “What be this then?” he muttered. “Some nasty trick is it?”

“Go on,” urged Doctor Spittle, nudging him with his toe.

The rat gave one last scratch, then dashed over to a pile of weeds, darted through them and disappeared into the city.

The alchemist hummed a merry tune to himself—it pleased him to be benevolent occasionally. “And now,” he said addressing Will, “I shall take the air of this fine, first September morning and stroll through the streets.”

“You’re going out there?” stammered Will. “But you haven’t stepped outside the shop since the plague began.”

The old man chuckled and tossed his head. “Yet I hear that the sickness has decreased and now only a small number die of the pestilence each week. It will do me good to breathe the fresh air once more. I have been cooped up for far too long, I might even partake of something sweet in a coffee house to celebrate the return of my Samson-like mane.”

He swept the hair from his face and strode down the alley. Will watched him go; the vanity of the old man knew no bounds—it had even overpowered his dread of the Black Death. The boy laughed at the idiotic sight then set to work.

Through the traders and purveyors of fancy goods Doctor Spittle wound his way and wherever he went conversations ceased as folk gawked at him. A man selling apples tipped the entire tray on the ground when the alchemist sailed by, whilst the ragamuffins and street urchins pointed and called rude names after him. With his pale, greenish-white face framed by the violent orange locks, he looked like some horrendous apparition that had broken out of a tomb, and no one knew whether to laugh or be afraid.

Yet Doctor Spittle was blind to the ridicule and yelps of fright. He was so enamoured of his luscious hair that he actually believed they were all staring at him in admiration. Holding his head up high, he strutted along graciously waving to the startled populace as though he were a visiting king. Not one inkling did he have of the fool he was making of himself; he was truly an eyesore. But in his delusion, he was convinced that the splendour of his hair lent him a statuesque symmetry and it was only right and proper that the world should behold him.

Quite a crowd followed him through the streets, sniggering and elbowing one another and giggling at the old, misguided buffoon.

And then a chink appeared in the glory of his self-deception. As he pranced down towards St Paul’s, with the vulgar laughter rising like a swift tide behind him, his flesh began to creep and he itched terribly. Absently he rubbed the side of his face where his skin irritated and stung, then he scratched the top of his head, then his leg.

It was not long before he was scratching himself all over and the crowd hooted to see him doing this insane jig.

“Lo!” they jeered. “St Vitus has come amongst us.”

A tinker with a flute struck up a wild tune to accompany the alchemist’s jerks and frantic movements and all roared at his expense.

Doctor Spittle raked his fingers through his hair and clawed at his cheeks. His very blood seemed on fire and the raucous laughter resounded all around until he was caught in a storm of derision and mockery.

“What are you laughing at?” he bawled, wheeling round to confront his tormentors.

All he saw was a sea of leering faces and mouths that were wide with scornful mirth. Then the sun became brighter, for it dazzled his eyes and almost blinded him. He held up his hands to shield himself from the painful rays and at once the laughter stopped.

The faces of the mob took on terrified aspects and those at the front began to scream.

“The plague!” they screeched. “He has the plague!”

Doctor Spittle lowered his arms and he squinted in horror at the back of his hands. Already the marks of the Black Death were blotching his skin with ugly red weals.

“No!” he whimpered. “It cannot be—not now!”

The crowd pushed and jostled one another to escape from the old man and soon he was left standing alone in the middle of the street where he threw back his head and wailed.

An earthenware pot fell from Will’s hands as the shop door burst open and Doctor Spittle charged inside.

“The plague!” he shrieked holding up his hands for the boy to see. “I have the plague!”

Distraught, he raced upstairs sobbing and shaking his fists heavenward.

Will stood as one frozen and amazed, but the possibilities of the situation slowly started to unravel and a desperate glimmer of hope lifted his spirits. The alchemist was going to die—at last he would be free to return home.

Above the anguished cries of the doomed man he heard the attic door slam shut and he became troubled. Was his liberty worth the loss of a life—even one as vile and wicked as Doctor Spittle’s? It was a dilemma he had faced once before, when Sir Francis Lingley had tried to kill the old man. He had been spared the decision then but what would happen this time? Will sat on the counter. He had prayed unceasingly for his freedom; in doing so had he brought this awful fate down upon his captor?

At the top of the building the alchemist rushed over to his chair and flung himself into it. “Is this the end of Elias Theophrastus Spittle?” he murmured, tears welling up in his eyes. “Does my existence truly terminate here? Will all that I am, all that I have learned—all my genius be snuffed out for eternity?”

The room was filled by a cold blue light and the voice of Magnus Zachaire chuckled from the spirit bottle. “Ha! Vainglorious wretch!” he trumpeted. “Taste now the bitter bliss of death. Thy folly and conceit hath fashioned thine own demise. How much more bitter is that draught when it is drunk from a cup of thine own making?”

“What do you mean?” stammered Doctor Spittle in confusion. “How have I brought this upon myself?”

The spirit’s face glowed with triumph as it peered out of the bottle at him. “Beckett, thine orange rat!” he declared. “Knowest thou now that the pestilence is carried by the fleas which such creatures bear. When thou didst hold him to thy bosom the trap was sprung and thy days were numbered. But what an excruciatingly painful end Elias—it gladdens me that thou shalt perish in a torment equal to that thou hast forced me to endure. For such was my desire from the very beginning.”

Doctor Spittle was thunderstruck. “Have you done this to me?” he whispered in a crushed, tragic voice.

“Indeed I have!” announced the spirit proudly. “Ever have I guided and goaded thee into preparing the formulae which have been my design alone. Thou hast been working for me, Elias, and thou didst not suspect at any turn that it was I who led thee on and brought thee hither, condemned by thine own hand.”

The alchemist’s face was a picture of bewilderment as he realised just how much of a fool he had been. Then the mood changed to anger which burst into fury.

“No!” he screeched, tearing the books off the shelves and hurling the table over in his wrath. He snatched up the spirit bottle and his fingers tightened around it until his knuckles turned white. “I will not succumb to you,” he raged. “I will conquer you yet, treacherous and baseborn phantom.”

Magnus laughed all the more. “Proceed, Elias,” he urged, “crush the glass, release me even sooner than I did anticipate.”

“Oh no,” growled the alchemist, “I cannot do that—not whilst I still have a use for you. You know the true formula for the elixir of life—only that can save me now.”

The spirit smirked, highly amused at this. “Dost thou truly believe I would guide thee to the brink of death only to rescue thee now?” it mocked. “Thou art a greater simpleton than I did envisage.”

But Doctor Spittle did not reply. He took up a candle, lit it, then snarled, “Now I do what I should have done at the first.” He held up the bottle and placed it over the flame, turning it slowly until the glass became black with soot and scorching.

“AAIIEEE!” screamed Magnus from within. “AAIIEEEEEEEE!”

Now it was the alchemist’s turn to laugh. “Ho, Magnus,” he cackled grimly, “does the heat burn? Does it shrivel and blast? Is this more painful than death, oh vile and deceitful wraith? Until I die of the sickness I am quite able to keep you in such torture—in fact it will hearten me and keep me in a merry humour till the end.”

The spirit squealed in despair. The searing pain was more than he could bear. “Stop!” he pleaded. “Stop—I beseech thee!”

“Tut, tut,” muttered Doctor Spittle, momentarily lifting the bottle from the flame, “would you deprive me of my final amusement?” He lowered it once more and Magnus’s shrill shrieks rang in his ears.

“I submit!” the spirit shouted. “Spare me further suffering and the elixir is thine—I swear!”

Doctor Spittle kept the bottle in the flame for one lingering, sadistic moment, then he pulled it away—black and smoking. “Now tell me you foul, unwholesome undine.”

Utterly defeated and tamed by the violence of the heat, Magnus Zachaire revealed his secrets at last and, within an hour. Doctor Spittle had a complete and precise formula written on three sheets of paper. “Thank you,” he told him. “See how your plans have brought me not to death but life everlasting.”

Magnus wept to himself; his defiant spirit vanquished, the blue light dwindled and was extinguished.

For the rest of the day Doctor Spittle set about making the elixir. Time was his enemy now—he reckoned that he had only a few hours before the Black Death robbed him of his wits and so he hastened to complete what was needed.

Jupiter assisted his master as much as he could, watching over the seething crucibles and giving help when required.

“I shall be victorious,” the old man informed his familiar. “Death shall never garner me to his cold realm—I have too much to live for.”

And Jupiter hoped that he was right. He did not want to see the alchemist perish, though it was not really affection that he felt for him—rather the respect that one might show to an aged tutor. Besides there was still so much to learn and without Doctor Spittle the ginger cat doubted if he would be allowed to continue.

Endlessly they toiled over the broiling pots, but every now and again the alchemist would pause and stare at the boils which festered over him. “More speed,” he would cry. “The sands of time run out too quickly.”

Leech crawled out of the shadows, fascinated by this macabre turn of events. Stealthily he crept over to the spirit bottle and whispered to the soul inside.

“Magnus,” he wheedled, “will the old human die? I should like to see him race into the darkness. I hear the plague is an agonising way to go—how long before he starts to shiver and sweat and when do the ravings fog his mind?”

There was no response from the spirit so Leech wiped the soot from the glass to peer inside.

“Leave me,” moaned Magnus feebly. “I have failed. All too soon Elias will be immortal and my real torment shall only commence. What have I done?”

Leech’s jaw dropped open and he let out a pitiful whine. “Then no doubt Jupiter shall also drink of the elixir,” he muttered. “My brother will endure beyond me—I too am lost.”

The faintest glimmer began to pulse from the bottle, and a cunning look stole over the spirit’s face.

“And yet who can tell?” he murmured. “There may still be a way for my vengeance to succeed.”

As the shades of evening deepened outside the attic window Doctor Spittle wavered in the yellow smoke that filled the room. “The two-headed dragon,” he whispered pouring five silver drops from a small jar into the bubbling mixture. He swayed and put his hand to his brow in an attempt to steady himself.

“Jupiter,” he mumbled, “are you there?” The billowing clouds of sulphur gathered thickly about him and it seemed that they entered his mind. A dark mist closed over his eyes and he felt all his energies trickle swiftly away. A blackness crept over him and the alchemist gibbered woefully, “I... I fear I am too... too late,” Even as he spoke, his legs went from under him and the old man fell to the floor.

Jupiter dashed to his side and mewed frantically.

Doctor Spittle shivered and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “I cannot continue,” he muttered. “I was too late—the grim gentleman has won after all,” He reached out a shaking hand and patted his familiar on the head. “And we... we had it... almost within our grasp,” he said bitterly, “so... close...” The alchemist closed his eyes and surrendered to the plague fever.

From the shelf Leech stared through the curling smoke and his hope soared. “It would seem my brother is denied immortality,” he chuckled.

But Magnus Zachaire was not so confident. “Do not underestimate the power of Jupiter,” he warned. “Did I not tell thee that he shall grow very great and his name will live on beyond the lives of men? Look now and witness the beginnings of his destiny.”

Jupiter gazed wildly about him—the elixir was so close to being completed. Just a few hours more and it would be ready, yet it was impossible to see to it alone. Then his golden eyes widened and the solution came to him. “The boy!” he said. “He can help me.”

In one tremendous leap he bolted over Doctor Spittle and ran out of the door. Taking four steps at a time he tore downstairs and charged into the shop.

Will had been pondering over what he should do; really the shop ought to be shut up and a quarantine period begin. But if that happened then he might catch the plague as well as the alchemist. He had just made up his mind to sneak out, telling no one, when Jupiter rampaged from the attic and came skidding to a halt at his feet.

He stared at the ginger cat, startled by its frantic and sudden entry. “Hello,” he said in surprise, “what are you doing down here?”

Then Jupiter revealed for the first time his power. He glared at the boy and, taking a deep breath, spoke in a hissing parody of a human voice.

“Quickly,” he said in a commanding tone, “my master is ill. If we are to save him you must do all that I say.”

Will fell off the counter.

He gaped at the cat then shook his head. “I’m going mad,” he breathed. “The plague must have touched me as well—my brains are addled.”

“Listen to me, boy!” shouted Jupiter forcefully, and such was the authority of his voice that Will had no choice but to obey.

“Upstairs Doctor Spittle lies dying,” Jupiter told him. “Come with me now.”

Still astounded and amazed at the familiar’s gift of speech, the boy followed him back to the attic.

“See,” the familiar cried, “my master is in a deadly swoon, he was overcome by the pestilence.”

Through the choking yellow fog Will gazed down at the alchemist. The Black Death was devouring him completely; not one inch of skin was left uncovered by the sores that almost glowed with a greedy, red malevolence. Not even Jack Carver had looked so awful, but in the boy’s heart he felt neither pity nor remorse. “What do you expect me to do?” he asked coldly. “I cannot save him.”

“No, but I can,” Jupiter replied. “Shortly the elixir of life will be ready, it can restore him to health and all will be well.”

“Not for me,” returned Will.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

The boy coughed amid the thick smoke and shrugged. “Well, this atmosphere won’t be doing him much good,” he said. “I’ll take him to his bedchamber.”

Scrunching up his face, to block out the sight of the alchemist at such close quarters. Will put his hands under the old man’s arms and began to drag him out of the attic. “Well you’ve done it now, William Godwin,” he told himself, “the plague’ll get you for sure.”

It took fifteen awkward and uncomfortable minutes to lift and pull the alchemist down the small flight of stairs to his own room. Once Will had heaved him across the floor he hauled him onto the bed and the old man fell against the pillows. He was totally unaware of what was going on around him and, in his delirium, he groaned and mumbled unintelligibly.

Jupiter jumped onto the bed and looked at Doctor Spittle’s face. “We do not have much time left,” he said. “Come, we can do nothing down here.” He leapt to the floor but turned when he realised Will was not following him.

“Why do you stay?” the cat asked. “Is not the need for urgency plain?”

The boy was staring at the alchemist and he fought with the emotions that heaved in his breast. “His life depends on me,” he murmured, more to himself than Jupiter. “Should I save him?” He thought of all the misery he had been forced to endure because of this vicious old man; John Balker—Molly’s father—had been murdered on his instructions and she had died in a pest-house in trying to learn the truth. The months of his own hard toil and cruel starvation filled Will’s mind and his face hardened.

“I won’t do it,” he spat. “Let the monster die!”

Jupiter moved forward and pawed at the boy’s leg.

“I know little of what my master has done to you, human child,” he said softly, “but whatever the evils he may have inflicted upon you is it right that you should now destroy him? Does that not make you even as he?” His golden eyes gleamed and Will could not withstand their intense stare.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “If I stand by and do nothing I become like him. Whatever happens to me. I’ll not be dragged unto his depravity. No matter what he does to me I could never be so cruel to him—or anyone.”

“Then come,” said the cat kindly, “let us rescue the old villain, and I think your life will be sweeter once we are done.”

Into the night the two of them worked together, for the task took longer than Jupiter had anticipated. The smoke burned in their eyes and changed colour a thousand times before it was done. But, just as the hour struck two in the morning, the elixir of life was ready.

13 - The Depths of His Black Heart

Will rubbed his tired eyes and gazed at the glass jar in his hand. A clear liquid filled it and the candlelight rejoiced in sparkling over its shimmering surface. “Is this really it?” he asked wondrously.

The cat nodded. “It is. Come—not a second have we to spare.” He ran to the door and hurried downstairs.

Doctor Spittle lay still; the ravages of the pestilence had left his face cratered and swollen, but the skin had lost its livid glare and a blueish pallor now bloomed in his cheeks with a ghastly luminescence.

Jupiter leapt onto the bed and a frown furrowed his brow. “Master,” he began. “Master, it is I, Jupiter, come to save you.”

The old man did not stir and the familiar’s lips trembled. Quickly he put his ear to the alchemist’s chest and listened. All was silent; no faint pit-a-pat fluttered and not one breath issued from Doctor Spittle’s lungs.

Jupiter staggered back. “I am too late!” he cried. “He is dead!”

Bearing the elixir, Will came into the bedchamber. The ginger cat shook his head tearfully. “Alas,” he sobbed, “all our labours were for nothing, the old one is no more.”

“Are you certain?” Will murmured. “Perhaps he is only in the black swoon.”

But Jupiter stared at the alchemist and sighed, “No, he is gone, and beyond recalling.”

Will looked at the dead man and a lump stuck in his throat. “Strange,” he thought, “but I believe I shall miss him. For the last two years that miserable old sinner has been the only constant person in my life.” He lifted his eyes and gazed sorrowfully at Jupiter—the cat was feeling this most of all.

And then a bizarre impulse drove Will to the bedside and he brought the jar to the corpse’s white lips.

“What are you doing?” asked Jupiter.

The boy shrugged. “This took long enough to make,” he answered. “I’m not going to waste it now. Who knows, maybe it’s strong enough to actually bring him back to life.”

“I do not think so,” said Jupiter doubtfully.

But Will ignored him and tipped some of the liquid into the alchemist’s mouth.

“You’re spilling it,” the cat told him. “Be careful.”

“It’s this jar,” Will muttered.

“Then pour it into another vessel first.”

The boy cast around for something else. On the floor by the bed there were two pewter bowls; one contained what looked like water, the other was empty. Picking up the latter he filled it with some of the elixir then put it to the old man’s lips.

“That’s better,” he said, “it’s all going in now. How much do you think we should give him?”

“It does not matter,” replied Jupiter, “it will do no good.”

At that instant the bowl was knocked from Will’s hands and Doctor Spittle spluttered into life.

“AARRGHH!” he groaned, sitting up and coughing. “The void spins around me.”

Then his head wobbled and he collapsed onto the pillows once more, the nostrils of his hooked nose flaring and his breath rattling in his throat—but at least he was alive.

Jupiter stared at him incredulously. “You did it!” he exclaimed. “My master lives!”

Will filled the bowl a second time but the old man would drink no more—he pushed him away and rolled onto his side.

“It is the plague,” Jupiter announced. “He still suffers from it. We have brought him back from death but the elixir has not yet cured him of the sickness. His agony is renewed.”

“What are we to do?” asked the boy.

“Remain at his side,” muttered the familiar, “for his pain and suffering will be beyond the understanding of we mortals. Doctor Spittle has life everlasting now and must endure the pestilence until it passes. Not for him is the blissful release of death; he cannot escape his burdens any more. He must withstand the fever and vanquish it.”

Will sat back then murmured, “Have we really toiled all night?”

“It is but a little after two of the clock,” Jupiter informed him. “Why do you ask?”

The boy rose and wandered over to the window saying, “Then if it is not the dawn that glows in the sky, what is it?”

A ruddy glare had risen over the rooftops. It lit the black heavens with a vivid scarlet that was too harsh and bloody for any sunrise.

Jupiter gazed at it bewildered. “I shall ascend the stairs and see if I can espy more from there,” he said. “Stay here and watch over my master.”

Leech was sitting on the sill of the attic window when he arrived. The ginger cat leapt up beside him but the runt hissed and backed away.

“Peace, brother,” said Jupiter sternly, “I come only to discover the source of the light in the sky.”

Leech sneered and sniggered out of the corner of his mouth. “Then behold!” he cried. “That is the sign of a great burning—buildings are ablaze and, it is to be hoped, humans are dying.”

Jupiter stared over the mass of chimneys, steeples and bell towers. In the distance a huge fire blazed and tongues of flame soared into the night.

“What a lovely sight it is,” breathed Leech. “See how it makes the darkness red, staining it with its violence.”

Jupiter dragged his eyes from the spectacle. “It must be over a mile away,” he said, satisfied they were in no danger. “I must return to my duties.”

Leech stayed him with a paw. “The old human,” he began with a leer, “how does he fare? Has the sickness taken him? I heard you cry that he was dead—is that true?”

“It was,” the familiar replied, “but not any more; the elixir has brought him back from death. My master will soon recover and be the greatest man that has ever lived.”

A twisted snarl curled over the runt’s foul mouth but Jupiter paid no attention to him. With a light heart he ran out of the attic to see to the alchemist’s needs.

Alone, Leech made a horrible whining sound as he realised how miserable his life would be from now on. “I shall never gain power,” he snivelled. “All my patience has been in vain.”

From the spirit bottle a teasing voice answered, “Maybe not, my disheartened runt. There is yet a slender ray of hope for both of us.”

Leech slunk over to where the face of Magnus Zachaire shone out at him. “What do you mean?” he asked, and then his expression changed. “You are still trapped!” he declared. “But did I not hear that the old human had perished before the elixir revived him? Why did you not escape then when all his enchantments had failed?”

A cunning and vengeful look blazed in the spirit’s eyes. “My desires have altered since Elias tortured me in the flame,” he growled. “My freedom I still hold dear, yet it is liberty of a different sort I seek now. To return to the empty, freezing void is not my wish. I, Magnus Zachaire, want to live again!”

“But... but is that possible?” spluttered Leech incredulously.

“Elias hath achieved it.”

“Yes, but he had only been gone a short while—you departed many years ago. Your remains are buried deep in the earth, corrupt and rotted with age.”

That is why I made certain the formula I gave him was of the utmost power and strength, and why I did stay here when I might have escaped. To supervise and oversee my rebirth is now my goal. Presently I shall breathe the air of mortal lands once more.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper as he murmured, “And that is why I need thy help, friend Leech.”

“What can I do?” asked the runt. “You know that I have no magic.”

“The magic is in the elixir. Dost thou remember thy birthplace?”

Leech nodded, “The graveyard, yes.”

“Then take thither a quantity of the precious liquid and pour it over my grave.”

The runt scowled uncertainly. “But how will that help me?” he complained. “Besides, the elixir is in the bedchamber downstairs—how am I to steal some with Jupiter and that boy standing guard?”

“Use the sly craft that was in thee from the beginning,” Magnus told him, “and have no fear, I shall reward thee for thy service.”

Doctor Spittle moaned and stirred in the dark faint that gripped him. With a wet handkerchief Will wiped the beads of sweat from the old man’s pustule-covered brow and tutted.

“It’s taking a long time,” he said. “The boils still increase and the shivering won’t cease.”

Jupiter nodded wisely. “All will be well,” he answered. “Even now the elixir is battling with the sickness inside my master’s body—he shall win through.”

The alchemist muttered under his breath but they could not catch the words.

“Pear tarts!” he squealed suddenly. “Marmalades, syllabubs, jellied milk, apple mousses, marzipan and cheesecakes—come to me you divine dainties. Let me guzzle you down. Ahhh, how delightful!”

“He is raving,” commented Jupiter. “The fever shall make him ramble incoherently from now on. No doubt we shall both tire of his rantings before he is cured.”

“Keep your Dutch Pudding!” gabbled Doctor Spittle. “Where are all the spice cakes gone?”

Will grinned but it quickly turned into a yawn and the ginger cat eyed him kindly. “Why do you not get some rest?” he asked. “I can see to the old one now. You have done your part and there is little point in staying awake.”

“You’re right,” the boy agreed, “I really am very tired. I’ll go to bed but if you need anything, wake me.”

“I shall,” returned Jupiter, “and thank you.”

Will smiled. “I still can’t believe that you can really talk,” he chuckled. “Maybe I’ll wake up and find this has been a dream.”

“WILLIAM GODWIN!”

The scream had come from Doctor Spittle. He let out a long, wailing shriek and his hands clawed the air.

Will hesitated at the doorway; Jupiter turned to him. “It is the fever that speaks,” he said. “It means nothing.”

But Will was not so sure. “I’ve never told him my full name,” he muttered.

“No!” babbled the alchemist. “You cannot do that—yet why not? What was his should be mine. It is my right, I am the rightful heir of the house.”

Will knelt by the bedside. Doctor Spittle was evidently reliving some past moment when his mind had been in some great turmoil.

“Take the land,” gusted the alchemist’s shrill voice. “Sell it—think of the gold, man! Why all these qualms?—you’ve never had them before now.” He huddled himself into a ball and his fingers pressed against his full lips as he hushed himself to a hoarse whisper. “But I have,” he rattled on in this demented fashion. “Remember the child—and this one is the same. What are you to do with him?” His face hardened and the answer came snapping back. “Death!” he seethed. “Slay him swiftly, let none remain that have a claim on the land. Rectify the blunder you made back then.”

Will and Jupiter looked at one another, confused and astonished. “It is as if two people are speaking,” remarked the cat.

“No,” corrected Will, “more like Doctor Spittle’s conscience arguing with the evil side of his nature.”

“But what are they discussing?” asked Jupiter.

The boy did not reply—an awful suspicion was forming in his mind.

The alchemist wailed sadly in his delirium and the bizarre conversation continued. “No,” he pleaded, “not death for one so young, can we not keep him under our watchful eye yet let the world think he has perished?”

The dark half of his personality spat and the old man bared his teeth.’A curse on your yellow liver,” he grumbled. “Very well, but I like it not. Do not expect me to be kind to the lad; he can rot in my service for all I care—yet I would rather he was dead.”

“Even though he is of our blood?”

“Silence! Long ago I broke free of such shackles. I have no kin now. My name is Elias Theophrastus Spittle—I do not recognise that former life. I have ceased to be Samuel Godwin!”

Will cried in alarm as the answers to all his questions flooded into his mind. “Lord in heaven!” he gasped, staggering to his feet and stumbling away from the bed.

“What is the matter?” asked Jupiter, not understanding the significance of what had been said.

The boy raised a quivering finger of accusation and pointed it, aghast, at the old man. In a faint and stricken voice he stammered, “He... he is my uncle.”

A wicked and disdainful expression darkened the alchemist’s face as his evil aspect conquered his weaker, timid conscience. And, as if the outcome of this turbulent, inner conflict was the awaited catalyst, the elixir of life finally triumphed over the Black Death. Very slowly, the plague boils began to shrink and disappear.

Jupiter noticed the reaction but he was more concerned for Will. “Tell me what is wrong,” he asked. “I know nothing of this matter.”

The boy gazed fearfully at the rapidly recovering old man then turned a pale, drained face to the cat. “I was brought to London by an invitation from an uncle I had never seen,” he explained. “Now I discover that the black-hearted rogue who has made me slave for him is none other than he.”

Jupiter listened attentively as Will related the story of how he came to London with Mr Balker. Neither saw a dark shape slither through the doorway and creep towards the bed.

Leech stole forward, his emerald eyes warily glinting and shining as they searched for the elixir. Then he saw it; the large glass jar was on the low bedtable. Slinking between piles of old clothes he crept closer. Stalactites of ancient candle grease were glued down the table legs and Leech regarded the sticky streaks contemptuously.

“I could never get my claws to hook into that slippery mess,” he told himself. “How then am I to climb up?”

He gave his brother and the boy a sideways glance; if he jumped up onto the pillows and reached over to the jar then they would surely spot him. Then his green eyes fell on the two pewter bowls that Will had shoved under the bed. Both contained a clear liquid and he twitched his whiskers over each of them in turn.

“One of these is definitely the elixir,” he muttered, “yet which one I cannot tell.” He sniffed them again but still he could not decide—both smelled strange but the chemical fumes confounded his senses.

“If I were to drag one bowl to the graveside then it might be the wrong one,” he told himself, “and I would be sure to spill most of it getting there.”

Faced with this problem Leech did the only thing he could. Going to each bowl in turn, he sucked up an equal amount of both liquids then darted for the door, his full cheeks swollen into distorted balls of black fur that threatened to burst at any moment.

Down the stairs he galloped, like a hideous four-legged spider scurrying after its prey. Then across the floor of the shop he dashed and snaked out through the open doorway.

A pall of choking smoke rose into the sky and blotted out the stars. The London streets were filled by the clamour of voices as curious people left their beds to see the fire. Wrapped in dressing-gowns and tripping over the cobbles in their slippers they pattered towards Pudding Lane where the King’s bakehouse was ablaze. The capital was agog with wonder and speculation as to how it had started.

“’Tis a popish plot,” some of the citizens muttered. “The Bishop of Rome is behind this I’ll warrant.”

But no one truly felt threatened by this new calamity that crackled on into Fish Street—London had seen many fires in the past and they all believed this one would burn itself out and cause no great harm.

Like an angry demon. Leech sped between the inquisitive sensation-seekers and hurtled down Cheapside towards the church of St Anne’s.

The tall tower rose starkly against the infernal heavens, a brooding, black shape whose stained-glass windows reflected the glare of the fire-like jewels. In the dark, lofty heights of the belfry, the bats took counsel with one another and they flitted about the church, anxious to leave, yet yearning to stay and see what had been foretold.

Leech slipped through the cemetery gates, invisible in the shadows, and passed into the wild tangle of bushes and thickets beyond.

His face ached with the strain of carrying the liquid in his mouth and twice on his journey he had almost swallowed it by accident. Prowling through the weeds and knotted undergrowth he hunted for the grave of Magnus Zachaire. He knew it was here somewhere, all his instincts told him that, yet in the two years since Imelza had given birth to him the graveyard had changed dramatically.

It was an impenetrable jungle of briar and hawthorn. The Goddess had not been idle and her ancient and perilous might had focused on this one area of neglect. Alone in all London she made her abode there, silent and cold, threatening the order of civilisation and reason with her tendrils of nightmare—a remote vision of how England would look without the hand of man to till the soil and keep her wildness in check.

Leech was aware of her, yet he sneered. Such primeval powers were on the wane, he thought to himself. The time of the old gods was drawing to an end; soon they would be a fanciful memory and only the places where they had been worshipped would mourn them. Now a new age was sweeping aside all past allegiances to sacred hilltops and woodland groves. It was a time for order and control, for nature to be subdued and tamed and the wildness removed from the land.

The branches rustled over the runt’s head as he passed beneath, searching and prying for his birthplace. Squeezing between the brambles that tried to bar his way, he pushed by crumbling tombs and then he found it.

There was the ornate carving of the dragon, twisting and curling about the headstone, its scales encrusted with moss and a noose of ivy strangling the roaring throat.

With relief Leech crept forward, then lowered his head. His lips parted and the liquid he had carried so far spilled onto the ground and seeped into the soil.

The cat gave a grunt of satisfaction. “At last,” he smirked taking a deep breath. “Now we shall see who will succeed, brother dear.”

A faint sizzling sound rumbled in the earth and Leech settled down to see what would happen. Soon it would be over; Magnus would live again and reward him handsomely. Licking his wet chin he began to purr, but it was a vile, malicious noise. Then he swallowed and the bats high above wheeled excitedly in the sky and were content to leave.

Will peered under the bed and fumbled around with his hands. “What are you looking for?” ventured Jupiter curiously.

“I’m not sure,” the boy replied, “but there must be something that...” He stared at the large wardrobe which dominated the room and crossed to it. The single door opened with a creak and he held up a candle to see what lay inside.

A musty, damp smell flowed from the wooden interior and when the glow fell upon its contents Will wrinkled his nose. The wardrobe was filled with old clothes. Everything Doctor Spittle had ever worn was stashed and hoarded in there—he never threw anything away even if it was frayed and full of holes.

The garments were spotted with black mould and Will was about to close the door again when he noticed the corner of some bulky shape protruding out of a tatty and grime-stained shirt.

He pushed the filthy material out of the way and revealed a small wooden chest. Will placed the candle on the floor and lifted the box out of the mouldering heap. It was very heavy and, by the sound of it, filled with coins.

Hastily he knelt down and Jupiter came to sit next to him.

The chest was painted black and strong iron bands sealed it firmly, yet it was plain that the hinges had been oiled only recently. The boy fiddled with the lid but the lock was too strong. “It’s impossible to open without the key,” he said. Where would old Spittle keep that?”

“No key is necessary,” put in Jupiter. “There are many spells concerned with breaking and releasing. I could easily open the chest for you and seal it again when you have done. My master need never know.”

“But why should you help me?” asked Will.

“You have been wronged,” the ginger cat said simply, “and you helped me when I needed you. This is but a debt repaid.”

“Very well,” Will declared, “open it.”

Jupiter closed his eyes and pressed his paws together. The wooden box began to tremble and then, with a snap, the hasps sprang apart.

Gently, Will lifted the lid and his face was lit by a rich, golden radiance.

The chest was filled with sovereigns and he gazed at the fortune, speechless.

Jupiter peered at the contents impassively—money had no dominion over him. There was however something else inside the box.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing to a scroll of parchment half buried amid the treasure.

Will took out the document and unfurled it. “I do not understand what is written,” he told the cat.

“Then show it to me,” said the familiar, “I shall read what it says.”

Jupiter narrowed his eyes and commenced reading. “It is a deed of sale,” he murmured quietly, “between my master and an agent in a place called Adcombe.”

Will started. “What has Spittle bought there?” he cried.

“Nothing,” returned Jupiter, “but he has sold a farm, plus its livestock and all its lands.”

“Not the Godwin estate?”

“The very same; it would seem this is the money from that transaction. Is it important?”

“My father laboured all his life on that land,” the boy sadly answered, “building it up with his blood and sweat. Spittle had no claim to it—the farm was mine, this is my inheritance. Is that what he wanted then? Has all this misery and murder been brought about merely by greed? Does he think of nothing but gold?”

“Oh yes,” whispered a familiar voice.

Both of them whirled around and there, standing behind them, tall and forbidding—was Doctor Spittle.

The candlelight flickered over the old man’s face. Not a trace of the plague remained; he was fully recovered and a sinister, evil gleam shone in his eyes.

“I have learned that there are many cravings more satisfying than wealth,” he hissed in a silken, menacing tone. “Since your arrival, my young dog, you have taught me much.” He stepped forward, the flame illuminating his face from below, sending up deep shadows, like two horns spiking from his eyebrows. “I see in you all the weaknesses of Daniel my hated brother. He was a fool also—gullible and ignorant—yet our father made the estate over to him instead of me—the elder son.” The alchemist’s face was terrible to look on and Will shrank away from him, horribly afraid.

“If I had succeeded all those years ago my life would have been very different,” the old man continued. “I ought never to have stayed my hand. Daniel would have been easy to kill.”

His voice trailed off as that remote and distant night unfolded before his eyes once more. The long years fell away and he raised his hand just as he had done then. His younger self crept up behind his infant brother and the knife glinted in his grasp, poised to cut the baby’s throat. He shuddered and snapped back to the present.

“I should have done it then!” he snarled through gritted teeth. “All my life his very existence has infected me with weakness—I even changed my name to escape the bonds of his innocence and purity. But still the thought of him, living and breathing, hounded and persecuted me—never whole, never complete, always thinking of him! I have been crippled and thwarted in all my designs just because he was out there!”

He slammed the wardrobe shut and his lips pulled back in a hideous grin. “And then he died,” he cackled. “I felt it the instant he perished. At last, I thought, I can be free and what was mine by right shall be so again. Then I sensed your wretched presence—dog! Not only would you claim the estate but you were just like your devout father and I could almost taste the reek of your piety.”

“You’re mad!” stammered Will in fright.

“Oh no,” returned the alchemist softly, “but I was. The elixir is a miraculous compound in many ways; finally I can think clearly and my mind is no longer divided between hatred and guilt—I have been purged of all distractions forever. Now it is time to begin my new everlasting life, but unfortunately for you, you shall not be a part of it.”

His hand grabbed Will by the hair and dragged him to his feet. “How fitting that your life will end just as mine starts afresh,” he muttered coldly. “The Godwin line shall finish here!” and he brought his fist swiftly down, hitting Will on the jaw and sending him flying across the bedchamber.

Jupiter watched all this in fear. What was he to do? He did not dare to turn against his master.

The alchemist opened his hand and the tufts of hair that had been wrenched from the boy’s head fell to the floor.

Will groaned as he raised his pounding head. Blood dribbled from his mouth and he spat out a tooth as he propped himself upon his elbows.

“You want more?” sniggered Doctor Spittle slowly advancing, his fists clenching in readiness.

Will tried to stand but the blow had weakened him and the old man laughed.

Confused, Jupiter ran forward and stood between Doctor Spittle and the boy. “Master!” he cried. “The child saved your life—you would not have returned were it not for him.”

The alchemist glared at the cat. “It gratifies me to see how mighty you have become, my familiar,” he growled, “although how much more pleasing it would have been if you had deigned to speak to me first of all. Out of my way, if you want to remain here and learn from my genius!”

Jupiter knew that he could not withstand the powers of his master so, reluctantly, he stepped aside.

“Save my life did you?” cackled Doctor Spittle to Will. “A most pretty irony—still, we must not let Death leave empty-handed must we? A life he came for and a life he shall receive!”

But the intervention of Jupiter had been long enough for Will to regain his strength. He shot to his feet and fled down the stairs.

The alchemist thundered with rage and sped after him.

In the apothecary shop Will tore towards the door, but before he reached it, it closed of its own accord and invisible fingers threw the bolt home.

“No!” he yelled, fighting with the unseen force as he struggled to escape.

A soft, mocking laugh hissed behind him. “You cannot leave that way,” Doctor Spittle murmured, “I have laid spells upon it.”

Will abandoned the attempt and pressed himself against the wall. “Keep away from me!” he shouted.

The old man raised his eyebrows wickedly. “How shall I murder you?” he mused in a calm, dispassionate voice.

He clicked his fingers and a stool rose from the ground. For a moment it hovered in the air then, with one nod from Doctor Spittle, hurled itself straight at the frightened boy.

Will ducked and the stool crashed into the wall then tumbled to the ground, scattering pots from a shelf in its downfall. The vessels smashed and exploded all around him, showering the shop with splinters of ceramic and splattering their contents over the floor.

The alchemist clapped his hands with amusement and Will grabbed his chance. He seized the stool and threw it at the window. The diamond panes shivered away from the lead and the boy kicked a hole through what remained.

“Oh no!” bellowed the old man striding forward. “You must stay here!” Just as Will was scrambling out the alchemist snatched at him and dragged the boy back inside.

“I always thought magic was too antiseptic a method!” he shrieked, flinging the lad against the counter. “The personal touch is far more enjoyable.” And he punched Will fiercely in the ribs.

The boy doubled up; with the elixir of life coursing in Doctor Spittle’s veins his strength was that of a hundred men. The back of his hand dealt Will one vicious and brutal blow after another.

“Down!” he commanded, beating the boy to the ground. “Grovel at my feet, scion of Daniel!”

Will’s legs buckled under him and, as the punches continued to hammer and bludgeon, his eyes rolled upwards until only the whites showed. With a lurch, he sprawled onto the floor—unconscious. Then he knew no more.

Doctor Spittle gave him a malicious kick and brayed like a donkey. “No more purity to infect me,” he muttered, “but just to make sure...” He marched over to a high shelf and reached up to take down a bottle of dark blue glass.

“What are you going to do with him?” asked Jupiter suddenly.

The alchemist spun on his heel and clutched the bottle to his chest. “What business is it of yours?” he barked.

The familiar stood in the doorway by the stairs, his golden eyes looking appealingly up at his master.

“Can you not let the boy go free?” he pleaded. “Has he not suffered enough at your hands?”

Doctor Spittle drew himself up to his full height and he stared down at the ginger cat indignantly.

“How dare you speak to me like that!” he cried. “Do not meddle in your master’s affairs, my pet—you cannot begin to understand the subtle workings of his mind.”

“Are you going to kill the child?” Jupiter persisted.

“Indeed I am!” raged the alchemist angrily. “I hold here a most lethal poison! Enough to slaughter an entire herd of elephants. One drop of it and the young dog will wither away and corrode from within. I believe it is the only death I can contrive which is more horrible than the plague. Now go away and let me savour this moment in peace.”

Jupiter wavered. His heart went out to the boy; he was the only human that had ever really been kind to him and his family. If it were not for Will they would have all died in the graveyard. The cat scowled but the old man was insistent.

“Begone!” he shrieked. “Before I use this on your miserable skin!”

With one last glance at Will, Jupiter turned and ran upstairs.

Doctor Spittle sucked the air in through his teeth.

“My familiar grows above himself,” he murmured. “There is no longer room for him at my side. Some accident shall have to be contrived for him also.”

Grasping the bottle of poison he raised it over his head and let out a harsh, cruel laugh. Then he bent over Will’s senseless body and his hands reached out menacingly.

As the alchemist turned the lad over, an ugly, black head peered over the glass-strewn window-ledge. Leech’s green eyes glowed between the damaged lattices and he gazed fearfully at the stooping figure of Doctor Spittle. Then, when he was certain the old man could not observe him, the runt leapt through the wreckage and darted upstairs.

In the attic Jupiter sat on the chair, feeling dismal and dejected. Outside, the great fire appeared to have diminished and the aura of scarlet was fainter in the sky.

Leech pelted into the cluttered room, but when he saw his brother his pace slowed and he sneaked over to the shelf where Magnus Zachaire waited for him.

“I am indeed glad to see thee, friend runt,” said the spirit eagerly, “and what tidings hast thou brought for me?”

The black cat shuffled and twitched uneasily.

“Little news,” he answered.

Magnus’s face grew stern. “What sayest thou?” he rumbled. “Did the ground not open and my restored body not come forth, awaiting only the return of my soul?”

“No,” muttered Leech, “believe me I waited and waited but nothing happened, except..

“Except what?”

The runt looked bemused. “The grass turned orange,” he spluttered, “though why it should do so I have no idea.”

“Fool!” shouted the spirit and his ghostly light blazed cold and fiercely. “Thou didst take the wrong potion to my grave—that was the hair restorer!”

Leech looked down shamefully. “But I was confounded,” he whined self-pityingly. “There were two bowls, and I was so afraid I would be caught that I did not have time to discover which contained the elixir. So I took some of each—I did not think it would matter.”

The spirit pressed its hands against the bottle and glowered at him. “Then the strength of the elixir was diluted!” he cried. “I cannot guess what will be the outcome of such folly. Thou hast torn my plans to shreds, perfidious and dunderheaded creature that thou art!” He drew away from the glass and considered this disastrous turn of events. “Only one road lies open to me now,” he whispered. “Leech—call thy brother over to me.”

“What do you want him for?” asked the runt sullenly.

“Just do as I say!”

Leech sulked but he crept from the shelf and scuttled over to the alchemist’s chair. “Brother,” he called in an unpleasant voice.

Jupiter roused from his troubled thoughts and he stared down at Leech in surprise. “What is it?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“It is not I who requests your company,” Leech snapped crossly, “but the soul in yonder bottle. He would like to talk with you.”

The ginger cat flicked back his ears in astonishment. “Magnus wishes to speak with me?” he said. “But why?”

He received no answer for Leech had given an annoyed lash with his tail and strutted away. Jupiter jumped from the chair and wandered over to the shelf where the bottle pulsed and throbbed with icy light.

In the shadows Leech was listening, furious with jealousy and his pride rankling by his curt dismissal. It seemed that even the spirit had abandoned him in favour of his brother.

“Hail Jupiter—Lord of All,” greeted Magnus humbly.

“Why do you call me by that title?” Jupiter asked.

“I speak only of that which assuredly shall come to pass,” returned Magnus. “Thy realm will last for hundreds of years and thy powers shall extend over the whole earth and finally beyond.”

Jupiter stared intently at the tiny form that bowed within the bottle. “Why do you say this now?” he inquired. “When you have never spoken one word to me before.”

“I need thy help,” answered Magnus, “for art thou not deep in wisdom and mighty in all sorceries?”

The familiar was tired of all this flattery. “Come to the point,” he said. “What is it you want me to do and why can’t you do it? Were you not learned in the secret arts yourself?”

“Yea, and thrice times more noble than thy detestable master!” the spirit proclaimed. “Yet in this my skill may not be used; to recall one’s own bones from the cold grave is forbidden.”

“Your bones!” exclaimed Jupiter. “Why should I do that?”

“To give aid where it is requested,” came the swift reply. “This is now my only chance—if I could but bind my soul about those mortal remains I could kindle the power of the weakened elixir which thy foolish brother poured into the grave. Flesh and sinew would creep over the rotted cadaver and new blood would pump round the body, imbuing it with life. I would live again!”

“You want me to recite a spell that will animate your corpse and bring it here?” muttered Jupiter in horror. “I won’t do it—the notion is obscene.”

“Just give it the slightest spark,” pleaded Magnus, “enough for it to crawl from the ground, after that I can bend my will upon it and guide it hither myself. I beg thee!”

But Jupiter turned away disgusted. “Never!” he said. “I perceive your true purpose Magnus Zachaire! Two things you crave—one is your freedom but the other is the destruction of my master. I will have no hand in that.”

“Thy master!” shrieked the spirit with scorn. “Listen to thy words, most gullible of felines. Dost thou not realise the extent of Elias’s iniquity? Knowest thou of all his evil wickedness? Is it wrong to turn against him who hath no pity in his foul heart?”

Jupiter was about to leave this bothersome sprite but he faltered as the words rang true. He thought of the scene in the apothecary shop, of the boy beaten to the ground and of the poison in the alchemist’s hand.

“Thou knowest I speak justly,” goaded Magnus. “Why keep faith with one who understands nothing of loyalty and virtue? Even now Elias is uncorking the poison; shall that child’s death be on thy conscience for ever, Jupiter?”

A pained expression crossed the familiar’s face as he thought of Will lying helpless with an agonising death being prepared for him by Doctor Spittle. Yet if he intervened and the old man was overcome, how would he ever be able to learn anything more?

Jupiter cast his eyes down and uttered, “I must not meddle in the affairs of mankind, their troubles are their own.”

The phantom light flared up and Magnus screamed. “Are they indeed?” he shrieked. “Then I say unto thee Jupiter, go to the cupboard which Elias keeps locked and tell me again that thou canst not interfere!”

Puzzled by the earnestness of this command, the cat padded over to a small cupboard. It was partially hidden by books and papers. He looked round at the spirit bottle and Magnus urged him on. Jupiter cleared the mess from one of the doors and tugged at the handle.

“It is locked,” he said.

“Then open it!” hissed Magnus furiously.

Just as he had done before, Jupiter put his paws together and closed his eyes. The cabinet rattled and, with a click, the lock turned. Both doors opened a chink.

Jupiter hesitated. He did not know why but for some reason he was afraid to look inside and he glanced at the spirit nervously.

“Proceed,” spurred Magnus. “See now the cruel nature of thy beloved master!”

The cat took hold of the brass handles and cautiously pulled one of the doors fully open.

The cupboard was full of sealed glass jars—the results of Doctor Spittle’s half-hearted studies in anatomy. Each vessel contained a yellowish liquid and immersed in this was a sorry collection of serpents and other small creatures in various states of dissection. Jupiter shuddered, for in the nearest jar was the shrivelled body of Heliodorus.

The rat floated in the preserving alcohol forlornly, his once proud head submerged just below the surface. It was a nauseating sight. The eyes of Heliodorus were open, the lids fixed back by pins; his mouth gaped wide as though frozen in a perpetual scream and all the way down his chest to his navel ran a long and jagged scar. Doctor Spittle’s curiosity had been too much—he had desired to peek inside and see how the false elixir which had killed the rat had worked. But his skill as a surgeon was minimal and the botched job he had made of the operation had forced him to consign the hacked-up body to his anatomy cupboard, there to be discarded and forgotten—pickled for eternity.

“Poor wretch,” mumbled Jupiter sadly, “no one deserves such callous treatment. Not even a rat.”

“Wholeheartedly do I agree,” breathed the spirit, “yet thou hast not opened the other door—discover what the remaining half contains.” And as he said it he could not conceal the anticipation in his voice.

With a queasy stomach Jupiter obeyed. The shadows retreated as the door was opened and the light of the candles gradually filled the interior. The cat’s heart pounded in his chest as a larger jar was slowly revealed and his breath came in rapid gulps.

And then he saw.

“NOOO!” he screamed. “NOOOO!”

Drowned in the liquid were the remains of a cat.

Jupiter’s staring eyes fell upon the scraps of tortoiseshell fur that still clung to the preserved pieces and he screeched hideously.

“DAB! DAB!”

“Now thou knowest the full depths of thy master’s black heart!” said Magnus grimly. “Wilt thou still deny me my revenge?”

Jupiter staggered back, his face an awful mask of horror and despair. “Dab!” he howled, and then his countenance became terrible, filled with anger and hatred for the man who had murdered his sweet and gentle sister. “Spittle!” he roared. “Your time is over!”

“The incantation!” Magnus shouted. “Thou must summon my bones from the grave!”

But the cat was too inflamed with wrath to listen. Exploding with rage, he tore down the stairs, shrieking at the top of his voice, possessed by hatred and revenge.

“Come back!” cried the spirit. “The spell!”

Leech crawled out of the shadows and gazed at the body of his sister. No emotion betrayed his thoughts and his green eyes were dry and free of tears.

“Fetch Jupiter back!” commanded Magnus. “Or all will be lost.”

The runt blinked and turned his ugly head. “No,” he whispered, I obey none but myself,” He glanced back at the cupboard and muttered, “I saw him take her you know. I saw his hands cover her mouth as she called to my brother for help. Her pretty voice was still whimpering as the door was closed and I heard it slowly fade away as she was taken downstairs.”

The spirit looked at him bewildered. “Then why didst thou not help her?” he asked.

“My name is not Jupiter!” snapped Leech. “My sister did not call out to me—oh no, only my grand and noble brother filled her mind. When it mattered most she forgot I was there! Nobody thinks of Leech!”

“And so thou didst let her die?” gasped Magnus. “Then I curse thee Leech, for thou art a misshapen abomination!”

The runt gloated under his breath. “What do I care for your curses?” he mocked. “You have no power to enforce them. Your hope has ended. My brother can never overcome the old one: he has gone haring to his doom.” And he laughed like one gone mad.

14 - Of Reckoning and Destiny

Jupiter hurtled down the stairs, but when he reached the small landing he halted and charged into the alchemist’s bedchamber.

On to the pillows he jumped and from there reached over to the jar which held the elixir. Grasping it with both paws, Jupiter thrust his head inside and drank deeply.

The cat gulped down as much as he could, and when he reared up and vigorously shook his whiskers he saw that he had drained it to the dregs.

His fur dripping with the water of life, Jupiter bounded from the bed and stormed down the stairs. He was strong now; filled as he was with the power of the elixir, he roared like a tiger and the hatred of his cruel master burned into his mind, consuming all other thoughts.

Doctor Spittle had slid a glass rod into the neck of the bottle and was just drawing it out. The poison was green and thick, oozing and trickling down the rod until it formed a large, quivering droplet.

Sniggering, he crouched down and dangled it over Will’s mouth. “At last,” he breathed, “the last of the Godwins are gone.”

“SPITTLE!”

The alchemist shivered at the force of that voice. The glistening venom flew from the tip of the rod but it missed Will’s mouth and where it hit the ground the very stone foamed up and a thread of black smoke steamed into the air.

Doctor Spittle twitched with anger; stiffly he rose and turned upon the intruder.

Jupiter stood in the doorway, tall shadows tapered behind him and he appeared immovable as a mountain. His boiling temper seethed within him, threatening to erupt at any moment like a restless volcano.

“Get away from the boy!” the cat demanded.

The alchemist regarded his familiar warily; a perilous light blazed in those golden eyes and righteous fire shone from the slits of his pupils. Doctor Spittle guessed what he had found.

“I assume you’ve seen your sister,” he said, then added with a cold chuckle, “Well, some of her.”

Jupiter roared and the building quaked from the might of his fury.

But Doctor Spittle was not impressed and he showed no trace of fear. “I told you not to meddle in my affairs,” he said. “Begone before I make you suffer.”

“Suffer?” yelled Jupiter. “There is nothing you could do now that would make my torment any greater.”

The old man tutted. “Many griefs there are greater than the loss of family. Now leave while you may.”

But the cat grinned, revealing his sharp teeth. “You are mistaken, Spittle!” he cried. “No longer am I bound to you—I have come not as your familiar, but your executioner!”

At this the alchemist laughed. “Are you crazed?” he asked with derision. “I am not afraid of a mangy cat—however educated it presumes itself to be.”

“Have a care, Spittle. Do not underestimate my powers.”

“Pah!” scoffed the old man. “What do I who have drunken of the elixir need to fear from the likes of you?”

Then Jupiter threw back his head and laughed. “Then gaze upon your doom, Elias Theophrastus Spittle! For I, Jupiter, have also drunk of the water of life and my strength increases with every passing second.”

His claws sprang out and they gouged deeply into the floor, ripping through the stone as easily as if it were butter. Then Jupiter muttered under his breath and at once the ground trembled. With a terrible splitting sound, a great fissure opened, running between his paws and Doctor Spittle’s feet. The challenge was unmistakable.

The alchemist glanced calmly at the gaping chasm that yawned before him. “A contest?” he asked in a confident and casual manner.

“No contest,” Jupiter boomed, “but a battle to the death!” He stamped his feet twice and called upon his secret arts. Sudden bolts of lightning crashed about him, walling him round with a fence of dazzling, jagged energy.

Doctor Spittle shielded his eyes from the blinding spectacle. He was impressed by the cat’s powers but had studied the black mysteries for too long to feel threatened by a jumped-up familiar.

“This is a waste of time,” he said undaunted. “Since we have both drunk of the elixir there can be no victor.”

“Are you indeed so confident?” hissed Jupiter, his voice filled with menace. “Then this will do you no damage!”

He pressed himself flat against the floor, inhaling deeply. Then, with a rush he blew his breath upon his sister’s murderer and the shop was filled with scarlet flame as fire gusted from the cat’s gullet.

The alchemist raised his hand, an unconcerned smile flickering on his lips as the torrent of flame burst towards him.

And then it happened: the fingers of his hand passed within the jet of fire and pain rifled down his arm as they blackened and burned.

“AAHH!” squealed the old man wrenching his hand quickly away and staring dumbfounded at the grinning cat. “My hand!” he yelped. “My hand—it is scorched! The pain is unbearable!”

“Did you not listen to the words of Magnus Zachaire?” Jupiter chuckled. “Were you so eager for success that you heeded nothing of his warning?”

Doctor Spittle blew on his smoking palm and whimpered, “What warning?”

“Fire and water!” exclaimed Jupiter gleefully. “The two elements from which the elixir was made. Only they can destroy its effects and undo the life it has given.”

Finally the alchemist became aware of his danger and he realised that his immortality was truly under threat. He had never been valiant and now, in his alarm, stood like one bereft of thought and will. He was plunged into a fit of doubt and fear, and with increasing terror he saw the blazing coals of the cat’s eyes as he prepared for another strike.

Hurriedly Doctor Spittle gathered his shredded wits and groped in his memory for a spell to counter with. Clenching his teeth he drew himself up and began uttering a deadly incantation. But before he could complete it Jupiter had lowered his head once more and a second stream of flame poured from his mouth.

Abandoning the unfinished spell, the alchemist hastily threw up a wall of defence. All about him the air shimmered as a magical shield snapped into existence, and not a second too soon.

With a deafening squall of fury, the heats of Jupiter’s fire smashed into it, and the violence of the attack made the old man jump back in fright. Already his defence was buckling as the inferno battered and blasted and Doctor Spittle was forced to squander valuable time keeping the blistering wall in place.

“Do you know fear now?” asked Jupiter, flames dripping from his lips. “Are the thoughts which run through your mind the same as those my sister had? I think not—for your brain is sick and twisted, whereas hers was kind and trusting. Go now to the abyss which awaits you!”

The cat began to purr but it was not the soft sound of ordinary felines, this was a jarring rumble that cracked the plastered walls and sent splinters flying from the oak beams. Steadily it rose, piercing the ears of Doctor Spittle until he thought his head would burst. The entire building shook and tiles clattered from the roof, smashing in the alley below. Then a change came over the ginger cat.

As his voice grew louder, so he increased in size. His fur bristled and his taut muscles quivered. The lightning which surrounded him leapt upon his brow and he was crowned like a dreadful lord of destiny and doom. Beneath his skin the bones of his body creaked and stretched as the awful power of the elixir inflamed him. Doctor Spittle could only gawp as the cat swelled and grew to horrible dimensions, filling that corner of the shop where he glared down at his cruel master. Larger than the mightiest lion Jupiter became—his back touched the ceiling and his tail reached out of the door and up the stairs.

The alchemist was terrified; never had he encountered a more deadly foe, with powers that seemed to outstrip his own.

Jupiter’s eyes stabbed with baleful light and the shop was lit by their unwavering and glittering stare. The huge maw of his mouth fell open and the vapour of his breath smote the old man like a barrage of bitter darts.

“Lord of All I shall be!” Jupiter told him. “But you shall never witness my full glory. Breathe your last, Spittle—your petty life is ended.”

The fiery tempest tore through the shop and beat upon the magical shield of the alchemist. But Doctor Spittle was not beaten yet; Jupiter had shown his hand, fire was his selected weapon—now it was the alchemist’s turn. Standing like a pinnacle of stone amid the turmoil of the final storm, the old man raised one hand and declared, “Two elements there are you say that are fatal to we both; then I shall wield what is left to me!”

With a pass of his hand a faint glimmer of cold light began to swirl in the air. Rapidly it became a whirlpool of icy stars that churned and spun above his head. “Ignorant fool!” he shouted. “If you dare to turn against your betters, be prepared to endure their punishment. You have overreached yourself, my reckless familiar, vaunting your skill like a boastful and bragging idiot. Too rash were you; fires are indeed spectacular, but what can they do other than char and burn? Brash and brazen are they, yet he who is wise knows that heats can be quenched. Water is a more amenable element, having many forms and uses.”

He pointed at Jupiter and at once the glittering host of stars raged forward.

The immense cat sent a ball of flame to meet them and it shot through the crackling air, pulsating with lethal force. A thunderous explosion sent Doctor Spittle staggering back but when he recovered he saw that his magic had prevailed. The icy stars had speared the fireball and utterly destroyed it. Now they raced towards Jupiter—spitting frost and deadly cold at him.

The cat braced himself for the attack, having no time to protect himself. The ice hailed down, bombarding his huge face and biting deep into his flesh. Jupiter cried out as the fierce blue stars drove into his fur, slicing him like razors.

Cackling, Doctor Spittle held up his hand and snatched a long, sharp icicle out of the air. The choice you made was the wrong one!” he declared. Then he hurled the bitter spear straight at Jupiter. It shot through the cat’s leg, skewering and pinning him to the floor. His anguished screams rang into the troubled night and, twisting up the stairs, the enormous tail thrashed about in his agony and the banister buckled beneath it.

Then, conquering his pain, Jupiter lifted a claw and a circle of flame sprang up around the alchemist. The old man laughed scornfully and at once a downpour of cool rain flooded from the ceiling. Clouds of steam hissed and engulfed the shop as the two magical forces collided—and at last Doctor Spittle had the mastery.

The fires of Jupiter were extinguished and the old man advanced purposefully. “With the waters of Death I vanquish you,” he intoned, “and by the powers in me I have beaten your insolence.” As he spoke the rain turned into a blizzard of driving snow that focused on the giant cat, beating him to the ground and covering him with a hoary white frost. Jupiter shivered and the crown of lightning dwindled from his brow as he tried to kindle the flames once more. But it was no use; freezing mists clung to him, locking his joints so that he could not move. The tears of pain that streamed from his glimmering eyes hardened and slid from his cheeks like tiny glaciers; he could not speak for his jaw had grown numb and a white beard of arctic rime dripped from his chin. Doctor Spittle had won.

The great fissure in the floor became filled with water as proof of the outcome and the old man raised his arms in exultation.

As Jupiter felt the unending, wintry cold of the bleak void bite him, he yielded at last. A final flicker of flame trailed from his nostrils and the battle was over. Now both elements were at the alchemist’s command and he seized the prize triumphantly.

“Now shall I taunt you with them both,” he sniggered.

From the cat’s fur there sprang tongues of blue fire and Jupiter screeched in torment as both heat and cold racked him. The powers of the elixir waned within his body and, like a candle melting before the fire, he began to shrink. Back to his normal size he wilted and Doctor Spittle strode harshly up to his small, spent figure.

“Did I not tell you that I was the master here?” he asked. “From now on no one shall stand in my way!”

He raised his hand to deal the cat the final blow. Bitter stars gleamed and danced around his fingers and Jupiter, lifting up his exhausted and failing eyes, beheld them fearfully.

But he was not dead yet—using his last energies, he snapped the icicle which held him down and scrambled to the door.

“There is no escape,” sneered the old man but Jupiter dragged himself away and ran up the stairs.

Leech was hiding when Jupiter staggered into the attic. The ferocity of the contest had frightened the runt; he thought that the building would come crashing down, so had dived under the table for shelter.

And now, emerald eyes shining, he saw his battered brother stumble in through the door and collapse—gasping on the floorboards. Blue smoke still drifted from his frozen fur and fizzing stars of ice burned into his skin.

“Jupiter!” cried a frantic voice. “Thou livest still. Quickly—recite the spell I need!”

The weak cat raised its head and saw the face of Magnus Zachaire staring desperately out of the bottle. As the frost bit and pinched him, he realised that one slender chance still remained.

With the breath wheezing in his icy lungs Jupiter summoned the few tatters of magic that he still possessed.

“Arhiel dor lievel adrasto Rameth—akad zerphiel Bellonar!” he uttered in a feeble voice. “Come forth—come forth!” And then he fainted and his head hit the floor, scattering shards of ice everywhere.

The spirit’s face split into a glorious smile and his laughter echoed from the bottle and resounded through the attic.

“My thanks Jupiter!” he crowed. “Now I am freed. Even as I speak I feel my bones claw away the soil and escape the silent grave.” His phantom light shone like a beacon in his joy. “Come my corpse,” he shouted, “come unto me!”

Leech crept from the shadows beneath the table. His eyes were fixed upon his stricken brother and darkness ruled his mind.

“So vulnerable,” he whined to himself, “there he lies—close to the precipice of Death. How simple to push him over the brink and claim the power which he denied me.”

The runt crawled forward, consumed by evil and malice. His claws slid out and he hunched his shoulders as he prepared to spring—then he pounced.

His teeth went straight for the exposed throat. But some trace of the elixir still lingered in the familiar’s body for he awoke instantly and lashed out at his attacker, catching the runt on the side of the face and tearing great gashes into his cheek.

Wailing, Leech leapt aside; he had aroused Jupiter’s wrath and fearfully he saw him struggle to his feet. The hackles on both cats rose and their backs arched as they paced round one another—their tails rigid.

“The time has come,” spat the runt, “the time of reckoning and destiny. Only one of us will leave this place alive!”

Jupiter hissed back at him and his ears flattened against his skull. “If that is what you wish, brother—so be it. I have been patient with you but now I agree. One of us must die!”

“Remember the oath that you swore,” snarled Leech. “You promised never to use your magic against me! Tooth and claw only.”

“I need no enchantment to kill you!” replied his brother.

“Then make the sign of the Hunter!”

Jupiter lifted a paw in honour of the wild night and at that moment Leech flew at him.

The two cats rolled across the attic, biting and clawing one another. They were a blur of sable and ginger and their tails lashed furiously about them.

Into a pile of books they cannoned and their savage mewling filled the air.

All the spite and misery of his wretched life gave strength to Leech’s scrawny limbs. Bitterly he wrestled, clutching and throttling, tearing and snapping. Using his hind legs to thrust the ginger cat against the wall, he directed his attention to the wound gouged by the ice spear and sank his fangs into it.

Jupiter shrieked and he shoved Leech away. The runt tumbled head over heels, his brother’s blood dripping from his jaws. His somersaults ended when his head struck the leg of the table and for a moment he was dazed. Shaking his head he wiped his mouth and smacked his lips, but his courage fled when he saw the look on Jupiter’s face.

The familiar growled and darted forward. With a frightened yell Leech jumped onto the chair then pelted over the shelves for dear life. To murder Jupiter as he lay prone and weak had been his plan, not meet him in mortal combat.

Books, scientific instruments, jars, scrolls, and everything else that the shelves held were thrown aside and they crashed to the floor as Jupiter raged after the gangling coward.

Amongst this uproar one other object toppled from the shelf and landed amid the wreckage. It was a small glass bottle and, from its depths, the face of Magnus Zachaire peered out at the deadly cat fight which rampaged round the room.

“So it is written,” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes and began to concentrate. With a jerk and a hop, the bottle started to roll across the attic floor and bounced through the doorway.

Doctor Spittle brushed the auburn locks away from his face and preened himself. A pale light was edging into the alley outside the apothecary shop as the grey morning of the second of September gradually dawned.

The alchemist gazed round—the place was ruined beyond repair; the walls were blackened and charred, the beams had split and plaster flaked from the ceiling. Not one pot was left intact and the floor was thick with the spilt contents. Through a mire of treacle, oil, pitch and spices he waded and the foundations of the building creaked and complained. Yet amid this devastation the old man smiled—none of this mattered any more, he needed the shop no longer.

“Elias Theophrastus Spittle,” he murmured softly, “you are almost a god.”

Then his eye fell upon Will’s unconscious body. During the battle with Jupiter the alchemist had forgotten all about him. Quickly he strode over to where the boy lay, covered by dust and soot. He was unharmed. It was as if the familiar’s magic had purposefully avoided him.

Doctor Spittle leered and gave the lad a swift and malicious kick. Will stirred and groaned.

“Now I can dispatch you at my leisure,” said the old man, but a fierce noise from above made him look up sharply. Vicious squeals and shrieks floated down the stairs from the attic and he glowered irritably. “How can I do anything with that caterwauling ringing in my ears?” he cried. “I hope they slaughter each other!”

Suddenly the latch rattled and Doctor Spittle whirled about. A dark figure was pressed against the door trying to get in.

“We are closed!” he shouted. “And will be henceforth.”

The latch fell silent but the shadow outside did not move away. Instead a violent hammering commenced.

This was too much. “How dare you!” the alchemist cried angrily, but before he could reach the door to let loose a tirade of abuse it shivered, splintering off its hinges, and burst open. A cloud of dust was flung into the air and as it settled Doctor Spittle whimpered in terror as the nightmare which filled the entrance was revealed.

“No!” he shrieked. “Keep away!”

There on the threshold stood the mortal remains of Magnus Zachaire.

It was a ghastly apparition: a tall skeletal horror, with blank sockets for eyes and bones for fingers. A black shroud was wrapped loosely about its spindly limbs but the garment was ragged and the tattered wisps fluttered in the still air like shreds of mist caught in a wintry hedge of thorns.

The mouldering smell of the grave flowed out from the figure in waves of corruption and decay and the gruesome head twisted towards the alchemist. The hollow eyes fixed on him and the bottom jaw fell open.

“Begone!” cried the old man. “By the powers of the underworld—return to your silent sleep.” Flapping his hands he desperately sought for a spell which would banish the awful monster.

The folds of the dark shroud rippled and the grinning cadaver stepped forward.

Doctor Spittle wailed in alarm as every enchantment he flung against it broke and was dispersed.

Slowly it stalked him; the arms of the skeleton were raised and the bony fingers groped the empty air relentlessly.

“What do you want?” squawked the old man. But it made no reply and as it prowled nearer its intent was plain.

Down the stairs a small shape tumbled and bounced. The spirit bottle landed at the bottom of the steps with a bump then rolled into the shop.

Doctor Spittle, however, was oblivious to it, for he was unable to drag his eyes from the animated collection of bones that continued to advance and so the bottle came spinning up behind him.

Swiftly it moved over the sticky floor, guided unerringly by Magnus’s will until it came to an abrupt halt and a voice shouted, “Behold Elias thy doom is nigh!”

The alchemist squirmed to see who had spoken and in doing so brought his boot crashing down directly onto the bottle.

Crushed by his weight the glass cracked and shattered.

With an almighty roar a fierce explosion rocked the shop and the front wall was blown into the alley.

Magnus Zachaire was free!

In a blinding flash his soul shot upwards and dazzling stars of sapphire trailed in his wake. Up through the ceiling he blasted, up through the alchemist’s bedchamber, into the attic, then out—bursting from the roof like a rocket. He soared into the leaden sky and his rejoicing boomed over London.

Near the river the great fire crackled still. During the night it had claimed over three hundred houses and was now close to London Bridge. The buildings burned like kindling and a choking smoke rose steadily into the heavens. Luckily there was no wind to drive it into the city and all the people prayed it would soon be under control. The Thames was crowded with boats as folk tried to get a better view of the dramatic spectacle and the hungry flames were reflected in the glimmering water. It was almost a pretty sight and several jolly sightseers commented on this as they bobbed up and down in their little crafts, enjoying the display.

If anybody saw the blue radiance of Magnus’s spirit as it glinted high above the rooftops, they assumed it was a morning star and turned their attention back to the burning. No one noticed the brilliant light plummet towards the flames, curving in a wide gleaming arc down to the incinerated buildings.

Out, over the blazing roofscape the spirit flew, swooping in amongst the fumes and infernal smokes that belched from the splitting tiles and exposed rafters. Like a whirlwind he whipped up the heats and fanned the leaping flames until the fires intensified and became an inferno. The very bricks began to crack and molten lead dripped from the gutters.

Enduring the agony of these furnaces, Magnus tore through the sheets of flame and bent them towards the city. With dreadful speed the fire jumped from one building to another and cries of dismay rang out from the assembled onlookers; to them it seemed that a great east wind had started to blow and all watched in dread as the fire grew until it seemed that the air itself was ablaze.

With the flames lashing about him and glowing cinders flying upwards, Magnus dived. His sparkling light outshone the livid glare all around and it streaked down to the alley where the apothecary shop lay.

In a thunderous rush the fire leaped after him, forming an enormous arch of flame from one part of the city to another. Through the broken front of the shop the terrible burning crashed and everything was engulfed in the blaze.

Will opened one eye and waited for the black specks that swirled before him to fade from view. His head thumped, feeling like a horseshoe that was being tempered by a blacksmith. Why was it so hot? he wondered. Gingerly, he opened a second eye and the awful vision became clear.

The whole shop was aflame; the rivers of oil and pitch that had oozed over the floor were fine fuel for its hunger and it tore over the ground ravenously. The boy came to his senses and he hauled himself to his feet, but he was trapped. A massive wall of fire separated him from the exit and the intolerable heat beat him back towards the stairs.

“Noo!” gurgled a frightened voice.

Will started and peered through the towering flames. At the centre of a fiery ring two figures struggled and fought with one another. One was unmistakably Doctor Spittle but the boy could not make out who his attacker was.

The alchemist let out a strangled shriek, for at that moment the skeleton hands found his throat and the bones pressed into the spare and baggy flesh, squeezing the breath out of him.

“You cannot harm me!” gasped the alchemist clutching at the shroud which disintegrated in his hand.

The dreadful skull drew close to his face and the breath of darkness and the stale dead blew upon him.

“AAAAGGHH!” he howled, and the hands tightened at his throat. His face had turned purple and no matter how much he kicked and wriggled the deadly grip grew ever stronger. He knew that the corpse could not throttle the life out of him but he glanced fretfully at the encroaching flames.

“Release me!” he demanded. “Release me at once!”

But the grave-stained fingers clung tenaciously to him and Will could do nothing to help. The boy’s face was burned and the violence of the blistering fire drove him up the stairs. The steps ignited even as he sprang up them and flames licked constantly at his heels.

Doctor Spittle clawed at the vice-like hands and, with a tremendous effort, snapped one of the fingers from around his throat. The cadaver wavered and, seizing his chance, the alchemist twisted his neck, loosened the grip of the others and thrust the skeleton away.

The ghastly figure stumbled backwards into the flames. Immediately the ragged shroud was consumed and the apparition was wreathed in fire, burning like a torch.

The old man fled; through the hellish walls of heat towards the doorway he ran. “I must survive!” he gabbled, scurrying from the furnace that had once been his shop. “I must!”

His hands covering his face, he charged for the entrance but before he reached it a cold voice rang in his ears.

“Oh no, Elias—thou must not leave yet.”

Doctor Spittle pulled his hands from his eyes and in front of him the tall spirit of Magnus Zachaire barred his escape.

“Dost thou not like the warm party I have thrown in thine honour?” the spirit asked. “Stay awhile longer, I beg.”

“I cannot!” screamed the alchemist trying to push aside the glittering phantom. “Out of my way!”

Magnus laughed. “Thou wert always a most discourteous fellow, Elias,” he chuckled. “Yet I must insist—this is one time thou shalt obey my command.”

He rose into the air and his radiance gathered about his crackling corpse, winding tightly round it, seeping into the long dead bones. As Doctor Spittle watched, a change came over the skeletal figure: through the trembling haze he saw skin cover the hands and lights gleam in the dark sockets forming two keen eyes; bristles sprouted from the chin as a neat beard appeared and the lips parted into a wide smile. Magnus Zachaire had life again.

He was a lean, imposing man with a grim face and, as the infernal tumult raged, he breathed for the first time in nearly a hundred years.

“Behold, Elias,” he cried, “I am reborn! Didst thou expect this when thou didst summon my soul from the sleep of Death?”

“No,” stammered the old man, “I... I never did.”

Magnus stretched his long arms. “What rapture it is to be renewed!” he rejoiced.

Doctor Spittle stared about him; the withering heats were becoming more intense. “Quickly!” he spluttered. “Now that you are alive you must realise our danger—we could die in here. Let us flee from this place.”

Magnus nodded and the alchemist sighed with relief, glad that the man had seen sense. “Whatever quarrels lie between us they can be dealt with later,” he said, “now let me pass!”

But the man did not move. He stared at the alchemist strangely and a chill crept over him; even as the sea of fire lashed around them he turned cold.

“Am I truly in agreement with thee?” Magnus asked in astonishment. “Whyfor did I seek to walk again under the sun? There was peace in the void, I could forget the woes of the waking world and fear no more the unending torment of existence.” He glared at the alchemist and his eyes shone like steel. “The elixir of life is a curse, Elias!” he declared. “For me the burden of increasing years was a perpetual agony—I was glad to be released of it. Have I now condemned myself to another interminable sentence?”

Doctor Spittle edged away as Magnus reeled from the shock of what he had done.

“A torment to you perhaps,” he said, “but not for me. You cannot deny me now—I relish the thought of my immortality.”

Magnus’s strong hands caught hold of his arm and wrenched him back. “Thou art to blame, Elias!” he shouted. “If it were not for thee I would be sleeping still!” He stared round at the fury that besieged them and a wild look lit his face. “Now shall I embrace Death willingly,” he cried. “Come! Let us both go to the emptiness that awaits us,” And clutching the old man fiercely he began to drag him into the heart of the flames.

“NOOOOOO!” screamed Doctor Spittle in terror. “You’re mad! Don’t do this to me!” But his shrieks were lost amid the roars of the firestorm and though he bit and struggled he could not escape Magnus Zachaire’s iron grasp.

The tall man strode straight into the inferno, his voice raised in laughter—hauling Doctor Spittle behind him.

“Hand in hand, Elias,” sang Magnus, “we meet oblivion together!”

With a last screech of protest the alchemist was overcome and the flames swallowed him.

Will scrambled up feverishly. As he reached the small landing the entire stairway lurched, splitting away from the wall, and thick, spark-filled smoke gusted from the splintered crevice. Will staggered and the steps fell away, leaving him tottering on a high platform, unable to reach the attic.

“Jupiter!” he called miserably. “Leech!” There was no response; perhaps the fumes had already got to them. The poor creatures would be roasted alive up there.

The edges of the landing smouldered and blackened—then it dropped an ominous three feet and swayed unsteadily. Any moment now it would give way and go crashing to the ground.

Will sprang forward, launching himself at the door to Doctor Spittle’s bedchamber. As he tumbled inside the landing finally disappeared and a savage jet of flame shot up the stairwell.

Smoke was already curling between the floorboards in the alchemist’s room and the wood was hot to the touch. Will’s only escape was the window and he hurried over to it—fumbling with the catch. But it was rusted and would not budge.

Eager tips of yellow flame stabbed up through the scorching floor and the piles of clothes that were strewn carelessly about steamed and were set alight—combusting into raging bonfires.

The smoke billowed in more thickly and Will cast round for something to break the glass with. He saw the small chest which contained his inheritance and threw it against the latticed window. With a tinkling crash, the heavy box tore through the leaded panes and plunged to the alley below.

The black fumes that filled the room were sucked out of the jagged hole and the flames roared towards it, surrounding Will as he tried to make the gap large enough for him to crawl through. The sharp glass cut and sliced into his hands but in his despair he found a heap of material on the buckling floor and with it he was able to cover the cruel spikes that jabbed from the casement.

Will squeezed out of the narrow window and balanced on the meagre ledge outside. It was a horrible, high place; the alley fell away beneath him and the world seemed to spin as he braced himself for the jump. With a horrendous clamour the floor of the bedchamber collapsed behind him and the walls of the building shuddered alarmingly. Flames shot out of the window, burning Will’s arms and legs and lapping up to the roof.

With his eyes clamped shut, the boy leaped from the ledge.

The attic burned furiously. The crimson paint blistered from the door and the mirrored globe exploded into a thousand twinkling fragments. The shelves fell from the cracking walls and the dried herbs which dangled from the rafters dripped fiery flowers. The ancient scrolls were consumed by the flames and the books which contained the secrets of alchemy and magic were reduced to ashes. In only five minutes, the lifetime’s work of Doctor Spittle was utterly destroyed.

Amid this torrent of flame there was no sign of Jupiter or his brother.

As the smoke poured into the attic the two cats had continued to claw and bite one another. So locked in their deadly contest were they, that only when the flames licked under the door did they know of the danger.

The fight had ceased as both hunted for a way out. But the only exit they could find was through the fireplace and up the chimney. It was in that blackened, soot-filled passage they now climbed.

Leech had been the first to scramble into the cramped passage of brick but Jupiter was not far behind.

The air inside the chimney was hot and stuffy, it stung their eyes and parched their mouths, but it was the only way out. Several feet above, a circle of ruddy daylight lured them on, but each movement was slow and laboured. Both cats were already drained from their struggles against one another and they hauled themselves up as fast as they were able.

Jupiter’s arms ached as he clung to the brickwork; the scorching smoke rose about him and far below he could hear the floor of the alchemist’s bedchamber crash into ruin. The chimney quivered and Leech whined piteously as his claws lost their grip.

Desperately the runt groped for a foothold but his panic was too great and he scraped away at the brickwork in vain. He looked down in despair and whimpered all the more. The chimney was on fire!

In the dim, smoke-swirling distance beneath him orange flames leapt upwards, drawing closer with every second.

Leech squealed as one of his claws snagged on a brick and was torn from his paw. Shrieking, he slithered down, dropping like a stone, and the fire rushed up to greet him.

Jupiter heard the mew of dismay; glancing upward he saw the dark shape of his brother come hurtling down. He hesitated then made up his mind—he could not bear to see his brother plunge to such a horrible death. Deftly he reached out and caught Leech’s paw as he plummeted past.

“Hurry!” he told the runt. “Find a ledge—I can’t keep hold much longer.”

Leech did as he was instructed and his gasping breaths filled the narrow chimney until he was ready to set off once more.

All that time Jupiter supported him and the flames came ever nearer. The fur on both cats frazzled with the broiling heat and their whiskers were singed off their faces.

As the ravening fire approached. Leech turned a bewildered head to his brother. “Why did you save me?” he asked. “It would have been easier for you to let me perish. You could have escaped by now.”

Jupiter shrugged. “I realised just how selfish I have been,” he replied, coughing in the stifling atmosphere. “Magic is not the answer. The secret arts ought to be left alone—problems are better dealt with on a humbler scale. After this day I swear never to use my powers again.” Through the clouds of reeking smoke he stared intently at Leech then said, “Can you forgive me, brother, for all the hurts I have caused you? If we both escape this madness I promise we shall live happily together. The simple lives of hunters—no more spells for me.”

Leech grinned and he shook Jupiter’s paw. “Now do I forgive you,” he said gladly, “but let us leave this terrible place.” With a glitter in his green eyes he clambered upwards and Jupiter followed.

The Great Fire rampaged through the city and nothing could stem its progress. Gunpowder was used to blow up houses in the fire’s path but it bridged the gaps and spread more quickly than before.

The apothecary shop was almost totally destroyed. The first two storeys were already burnt out shells and the attic was in full flame. Only the roof remained intact but the tiles were falling away like autumn leaves and cinders were shooting up through the holes like fireworks.

The chimney stack of the building was tall and towered high above the sloping roof. Black smoke curled lovingly about it, like dark waves about the mast of a sunken galleon.

In the streets, all was confusion and chaos. People were salvaging what belongings they could before the flames reached their homes and bearing them through the razed lanes. The pigeons fluttered and wheeled over the city in fright and amazement and those that were foolish enough to dare the heats fell from the sky with burned wings.

Into this frightening, fire-brimming world came Leech. His ugly head reared over the top of the chimney stack and he hauled himself up to the precarious ledge. Putting a paw to his chest he fought for breath; the airs above London were hotter than those he had just escaped. He looked about him and wondered how to escape from this lofty height.

The roof was burning now and as he gazed round he saw the horrible devastation that the fire had already caused. The city would never be the same.

“Leech!” called Jupiter suddenly.

The runt turned and a charred, black paw came grasping over the edge of the chimney.

“Help me!” Jupiter cried. “My strength is failing. I can’t make it—please!”

Leech stared down. His brother’s face was contorted in anguish, but an evil glow shone in the runt’s eyes.

“If we both escape indeed!” he spat with scorn. “Do you really think I want you to live, brother dear? Do you not understand that your precious gift should have been mine from the first?”

Jupiter looked at him beseechingly. “My claws,” he cried, “they’re slipping—you must help me!”

Leech drew himself up, all the misery and hatred swelling inside. His loathing for his brother overwhelmed him and he hissed, “I said I forgave you brother, and now I do indeed. This is my hour—when I shall take what is rightfully mine.”

Reaching down, he clutched Jupiter’s paw and began to prise it from the edge.

“Stop!” shouted Jupiter. “I’ll fall!”

“I know,” his brother murmured as the last claw scraped down the mortar. “Go to your doom—Lord of Nothing!” he exulted.

Jupiter fell.

Down into the fiery hell of the building he spun and the excited flames blasted up to receive him.

One final cry of surprise and dismay floated up to the runt’s twitching ears.

“LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCHH!” came the echoing call—and then the voice was silenced.

Leech threw back his head and crowed triumphantly. He had succeeded at last: the only member of his family left alive, the magic was his to command. But the laughter died in his throat for his lofty perch shivered and the bricks began to split.

The runt held on grimly as a tremor quaked through the chimney and a long crack snaked up it. He looked around but nowhere was safe, everything was burning about him and he realised that his brother had cheated him at the end.

His emerald eyes fixed straight ahead. Leech clung to the ledge as it slid and toppled towards the ground. His shrill screeches pierced the heavens as the smoking remains of the apothecary shop came crashing down. A mighty roar erupted in the alley as the chimney stack collapsed and the choking soot exploded in all directions. Leech’s screams were drowned and the fire raged on.

The roads out of London were impassable. Thousands of displaced people thronged the road to Greenwich, their few belongings strapped to their backs or carried in their arms. The lucky few who had managed to rescue most of their possessions ploughed through the dismal masses in heavily-laden carts. It was a scene of biblical proportions; the flight from the burning city was awful to behold. An enormous tide of shambling, dispirited figures leaving the devastation behind them—not knowing where to go.

It was as though God had visited His wrath upon the whole of London, such was the fury of the flames, and so terrible was the burning that no one dared turn back to look on it in case they were transformed into salt.

On the horizon the fire still blazed. It had been rampaging out of control for three whole days now and the fumes blotted out the sun so that midday seemed like the blackest, bloodiest night. The massive bulk of St Paul’s was a charred husk, its tower a funnel for the gushing smokes to issue from. Despair was in everyone’s heart.

The flow of human sorrow trudged down the old Woolwich road. Even at this distance the glare of the burning threw their stark shadows before them and it was as though they walked in a river of darkness.

Young and old, rich and poor, all rubbed shoulders in that sorry expanse, sharing the misery and loss.

And there, dazed, shivering and covered in ash, was Will. Carried along by the forlorn masses he staggered and stumbled. In his arms he carried only two things—one was a small chest, the other a filthy bundle of material. He had no idea where he was heading; numbed with shock and pinched with hunger he just followed everyone else. His world was in ruins and the horror of his ordeals had laid a silence over his mind.

Not one word had he spoken since he had jumped from the window and if anyone tried to help him he would run off in fear, clutching his treasures to his breast.

As the multitude crossed the boundary of Deptford, a sweet voice cut through the desolation of Will’s soul and he gazed around dumbly.

“Will!” cried the voice, and it seemed to him that he had heard the sound before. He stopped marching and the people roughly surged past him.

“Will!” It rang out again.

A gleaming, white swan seemed to be riding on the surface of the black river, and it was that which called to him. The boy shook his head giddily—it was no swan, but a milk-white arm raised above the bowed heads and it was waving frantically.

The figure pushed towards him, sobbing with joy beyond all hope.

“Oh, Will!” she cried flinging herself about his shoulders.

He backed away and peered at the vision that wept before him. She was beautiful; her cascading hair was like fine gold and he reached out to touch it to make sure she was real. Will’s lips trembled as he recalled the word that went with this angel.

“M... Molly,” he whispered.

“That’s right, my little darlin’,” she said tearfully. “Don’t you worry now—Molly’s here.”

He stared at her again and at last he was released from the pits of his despair. “Molly!” he yelled. “You’re alive! But how? And where have you been?”

She laughed and hugged him tightly. “All in good time,” she said, “but first let’s get clear.”

Out of the expanse of people they slowly made their way and she led him to a tavern situated at the roadside.

“It’s a miracle I managed to get a room here,” she told him, “and another that I was gazin’ out of the window when I spotted you.”

They passed into a small, crowded parlour; everyone was looking for somewhere to stay and the buzzing talk was all of the fire. Molly bade the landlord bring food and drink then found a relatively quiet corner where Will collapsed into a soft chair. The chest fell from his grasp and landed with a jingling thud on the floor. He smiled at Molly’s surprise then told her what had happened.

“He deserved that and more beside!” she declared when his tale was finished. “But at least Spittle won’t trouble you any longer. You won’t find me grieving for him.”

Will had been clutching the dirty bundle of material close to his chest, now he laid it gently on his lap and asked, “Where have you been all this time? Did you stay with Mother Myrtle in the pest-house?”

She lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she murmured, “I stayed and was spared—this whole year I have nursed and tended to the sick and dying.” She shuddered, then a faint smile lit her face. “With the plague decreasing, come last Friday there was only one patient left and when she died there was nothing further for me to do there. I’m glad she passed peacefully; she said the Lord would take her when her work was done and He did.”

Just then the food arrived and Will fell on it hungrily. Molly waited whilst he ate his fill but her attention was increasingly drawn to the heap of cloth that he had placed on his knees. As he gulped down the last mouthful and was leaning back in his chair patting his stomach, she pointed at the curious bundle.

“Here’s you letting fortunes drop to the ground,” she said, “but what’s so precious about that?”

Will took up the soot-covered velvet and began unfurling it. “This,” he told her, “is Spittle’s posh robe—or rather it was. A sorry sight it is now, but it was the only thing I could find in the wreckage to wrap him in.”

“Him?” repeated Molly. “If you’ve got the apothecary’s head there I reckon we should stick it on a spike like they did to Cromwell.”

Carefully the boy lifted the last fold and there, huddled in a pathetic ball was a cat. It was charred and scorched, all the fur had been singed off its body and it was covered with terrible burns.

“Is it alive?” breathed Molly.

“I don’t know,” he answered sorrowfully. “When I found him there were signs, but no—if he isn’t dead yet he soon will be.”

Molly asked the landlord for some milk and when it arrived she poured it onto a saucer. “Lay it here, by the hearth,” she said gently. “Does it have a name?”

“Yes,” Will replied, “but I’m not certain if it’s Leech or Jupiter. The poor thing, it must have been terrified in that attic, I’ve never seen anything like that awful fire.”

The young woman said nothing but stared out of the window towards the smoking city. “Maybe when it’s rebuilt,” she muttered, “the devil won’t stalk through the streets any more. It’s a new beginning.” Then she turned back to Will and, with a grin, said, “I saw Peggy Blister yesterday—or rather Peggy Mortichuke as I should call her now. Only went and got married she did, and to a minister as well! Lord knows how she managed that.” They both laughed and Molly softly murmured, “If Peggy Blister can do it I’m sure I can—the slate has been wiped clean now.”

Tenderly Will placed the limp and motionless cat by the hearth, but it was too weak to drink the milk. The sight of its sad, battered body was the last straw and the boy burst into tears.

“Come Will,” said Molly, “let’s see if we can get you a room here as well. You need a good night’s rest. After that, who knows? Perhaps we can both return to Adcombe.”

“Maybe,” Will murmured, “maybe.”

“You never know,” Molly gurgled, “I might even open my own apothecary shop. Can you imagine Aunt Hannah’s face?”

And laughing, they went up the stairs.

‘The Blackened Beast’

The glow of the Great Fire was bright in the night sky; for another two days it would burn, savage and remorseless. The distant reports of gunpowder boomed out over the river and the crashing destruction of church spires as they toppled in ruin disturbed the sleep of those camped by the roadside or sheltering under friendly roofs.

Only Will slept soundly; no rumour of disaster could reach down into the depths of his comfortable slumber. For the first time in two years he lay on a genuine bed and his faint snores were peaceful and contented.

Down in the dim parlour nothing stirred, only a red glimmer played over the walls, echoing the dancing flames across the water.

By the cold hearth, on the embroidered robe of Magnus Zachaire, the breaths of the burned and withered cat rasped in its parched throat. A low, dismal moan issued from its mouth and an eye flickered open. Blearily the smoke-filled slit roved round and took in the unfamiliar surroundings.

The cat remembered nothing of the last three days, he recalled only his rescue from the smouldering rubble. After that all was dark and he had been lost in a pathless sleep ever since.

He was tired; every fibre of his body ached and the searing pain of his burns almost made him faint. Death was close at hand—he sensed his watchful presence waiting for him to yield. It was a tantalising prospect, to leave all the hurts and quench the fires that shrivelled his skin. But he clung on grimly; a fierce determination stronger than ‘He who waits in the shadows’ controlled him.

That gentleman would leave alone this time, he told himself, and one who had tasted the elixir would never have to fear his return. The eyelid fluttered shut and the cat fell into a tortuous swoon.

The night stretched by and it was so silent that when a small voice exclaimed, “Lumme! By crikey, just have a goggle at all that grub! Har har!” the sound seemed much louder than it actually was.

Waddling footsteps pattered over the floor as a rat came into the room. He darted over to a pile of crumbs left over from somebody’s supper and wolfed them down.

“Luvverly, luvverly,” he squeaked licking his lips. “Now what other bit o’ nosh is a waitin’ fer me to guzzle it down?”

He turned, searching for more food, and then let out a frightened squawk. “EEK!” he yammered, when he saw the cat lying on the robe.

The rat froze, not daring to move a muscle—but his teeth chattered and he had to bury his snout in his claws to silence them.

“I’m done fer now!” he blubbered. “I’m tiger’s meat fer sure!”

He closed his eyes, waiting for the cat to pounce, and his knees knocked in fear. Several minutes passed and the rat patted himself all over to make sure he was not dead. Then he peered over at the motionless terror and frowned. “Ain’t I good enough fer yer then?” he cried, grossly insulted.

There was no response.

“Hello, hello,” the rat muttered, “hoy you, Fangface! Are you dead then?” He waited for a reply but none came. Taking heart at this lucky turn of events he plucked up the courage which had fallen about his heels and bowled right over to have a closer look.

The rat’s whiskers twitched. “Burned to a cinder,” he remarked, “but who’d want to lug a duff dead moggy like that in ’ere?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked about him. This was an opportunity too good to waste. With utmost daring and valour he snapped his fingers right in the cat’s face then blew a long, insolent raspberry.

“Ho, ho,” he chortled, “I likes this.” Then he extended one single claw and gave the cat a hard prod.

At once the eye snapped open. The rat squeaked in horror and jumped into the air. “Strike me!” he wailed. “It’s not deaded after all.” And he turned to scarper.

“Stay!” croaked a commanding voice. “Do I not know you?”

The rodent spun round, and the eye stabbed at him with a harsh light. It flickered over his orange fur and the voice said, “Your name is Beckett is it not?”

“Er... yes,” mumbled the rat in surprise, “that be my name—how comes you knowed it?”

“Do you not recognise me?” teased the lulling reply Beckett scratched himself. “Ere,” he declared, “you be one o’ them tigers wot prowled under my cage ain’tcha?”

“Most wise and wonderful rodent,” the cat purred silkily, “how good it is to see you again.”

“Which one are you?” asked Beckett curiously. “Be you that sickly runty one or that ginger tyke who kept making fun at me when I was—ahem, pink?”

“Can you not tell?”

“You’m too mangled an’ singed to know fer sure—you might be either.”

“Then what does it matter? Know only that I need your help.”

“Mine?” cried Beckett greatly flattered. “How come?”

The cat coughed and the head lifted from the folds of the robe. “I am weak,” he said, “I need a place to heal myself, somewhere to hide—away from this harsh world of man. I have lived too long as their thrall. Help me to a place of safety and I shall reward you.”

Beckett sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Oh I don’t knowed about that,” he burbled rubbing his ear, “I doesn’t see why I should trust you. But there is a place nearby, a chamber under the ground it be—right good fer you an’ all, it bein’ so dark like.”

“Excellent,” hissed the cat. “Take me there.”

“Ooh no, I dursen’t! It’s for ratfolk only—they’d never let a moggy down there. I’d get bloody-boned if they found us! Nasty things there are in the tunnels down there, places that ain’t nice an’ what I steers clear of. The Three haunt there ’tis said. Oh no, I can’t never take you!”

“Obey me!” spat the cat and both eyes snapped wide open. A fiery light shone from them and they glowed yellow and red. Beckett tried to step back but it was too late, he was snared in their power and could not move.

The cat laughed softly and smoke curled from his lips. “Come,” he commanded, “lead me to this place—petty rat gods hold no fear for me.” Slowly he rose from his bed of velvet and crept nearer to Beckett, wincing with every painful step.

The orange rat had no strength to disobey. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

Pausing, the cat stared down at his own blackened fur. Even as he looked the transformation was beginning and what had been sable was turning to ginger.

Leech sneered at the irony of it all, and yet perhaps it was better so. He had never been happy as the unloved son of Imelza whose brother was so mighty and noble. His jealousy had gnawed at him then, envying and desiring everything that Jupiter had. But now he was in possession of it all—save one thing only.

Rousing from his evil, brooding thoughts. Leech glared at Beckett and announced, “Do not call me sir, I have a far more fitting title. For I am Jupiter!” he lied. “Lord of All.”

And they stole away into the deep places under the ground and the cat crawled at last into the dark portal that awaited him.

Book 2: The Oaken Throne

In memory of Andrew James Moston, 1990-1992.
Never forgotten and now in his grandfather’s arms.

First published in the UK in 1993

Vespertilio

The city of London sheltered snugly behind its strong, girdling walls. The pale light of the afternoon was already growing dim and soft lilac shadows were now stealing over the stonework, reaching up to the high towers which rose above the narrow, straw-strewn streets.

By the Eastern Gate, the wardens sealed the entrance and set up watch until the next morning. A tall turret reared up on either side of the gateway. One of them was used as a guardroom and holding gaol, but the other had fallen into disrepair and the roof had collapsed long ago. For many years no one had dared climb the crumbling stairway and the arrow slits which stared out at the great river were blank and empty.

Around the abandoned tower the weak rays of the setting sun gently curved, colouring the broken stones, turning them into glowing coals and transforming the clinging mosses into livid flames.

And then the sun sank behind the wooded hills and the tower turned cold and dull once more, a bleak ruin robbed of its fiery plumage. When the moon rose in the night sky its crooked silhouette was stark and severe, the jagged shape of its crown cast ugly shadows across the city and God-fearing souls would not raise their eyes to look on it. Whispers hissed rumours of ghosts and there were those who had heard strange noises coming from that place in the dead of night.

Yet, upon one of the cracked stones of that grim, high place, a small figure sat—watching the bright arc of the moon as it climbed the heavens.

From some remote part of the dense forests that encroached upon the city, a wolf threw back its head and howled. Its mournful voice was taken up by the night and the hollow lament echoed between the frosty stars.

A stifled cry blurted from the mouth of the figure on the tower as a desperate wish consumed his entire body.

“It is not fair!” he wailed, stamping his feet as bitter tears spiked down his cheeks.

Vespertilio—or just plain Vesper—covered his face and his knees buckled beneath the weight of his leaden heart.

For several hours, he had sat there, watching the afternoon fail and the evening draw in. From his lofty vantage-point he had seen the distant hills grow dim whilst below him the streets and lanes emptied. Silence covered all and with each second that passed his young spirit had diminished inside him.

“This night all will be ended,” he sighed. “No hopes are left unto me now and the dawn shall see the curtain fall upon each of my dreams.”

Drawing himself up to his full height, Vesper stared intently over the brink of the narrow ledge.

The ground stretched far below and he closed his eyes in misery. Never had there been so wretched a soul as he—after tonight his life would creep painfully by, without honour and with no chance to prove himself. Everything he had always thirsted for would be eternally out of his reach—life was almost not worth living.

Vesper raised one foot in the air, then with a shout, he leapt from the tower.

Down he plunged, plummeting through the night like a stone. The wind screamed in his ears and his eyes snapped open to behold the terrible fate which raced to greet him. Soon his body would be smashed, broken upon the cobbles below and he would know no more—all his fears and troubles would be over.

A scream rent the night as Vesper hurtled down, the eaves of the stables shot by and then, even as his death rushed towards him, the scream changed to a gurgle which in turn became a high, grim laugh.

“Not yet!” Vesper yelled. “I’ll not be quenched so easily.”

And with that, the young bat opened his wings and skilfully skimmed over the ground, tapping the paving with his toes. Then, beating the air, Vesper soared high over the thatched rooftops once more.

He was an expert at catching the slightest breath of a breeze in his leathery wings, and could outpace any of the other weanings. Stretching out his fingers, Vesper hovered for a moment over the battlements and drank in the scents of the newborn spring. The night was full of excitements and for a brief moment he forgot his woes.

But as he gazed out to where the river twisted and was hidden behind wooded banks, the fears returned and with an unhappy groan the bat flitted wearily back to the ruined tower.

Returning to the ledge, Vesper stooped and took up a small bag.

He was a fine young bat, with large pointed ears and eyes that gleamed like tiny black gems. He had a handsome, furry face which had been known to break into the warmest, slightly toothy grin. His nostrils were wide and they thrilled to the green fragrance that came with the spring. Upon his chin fine wisps had started to sprout which in time, his mother had assured him, would grow into a wiry, bramble-bush of a beard like that of his late father.

The corners of his mouth drooped sadly. If only he could really take after his father—if only he was old enough to begin the training which would make him a Knight of the Moon.

Vesper slung the bag over his shoulder and glanced upwards, to where that bright crescent shone frostily amid the faint stars.

“Is what I ask too great?” he murmured. “Is it my lot to be shamed for all time?” Shaking his head he let out a forlorn sigh and bowed solemnly. “Whatever my Lady wills, I shall serve her.”

Taking a last look at the world around him, he hopped along the ledge, crawled through a chink in the stonework and passed inside the broken tower.

The way was dark at first, but Vesper clicked his tongue and sensed the fallen masonry around him; there was the shattered beam that sliced through the floor ahead and he could feel the curving wall at his side. In the pitch blackness, he expertly avoided these obstacles and feeling dejected and downhearted, turned the corner to join one of the main passageways of the bat realm.

Candlelight now flickered over the walls and the clicks faded from Vesper’s tongue as he ambled home.

It was a cramped, stuffy place, Vesper’s kind had taken possession of the tower some time after the roof had collapsed and many of their halls and chambers were formed from the slanting walkways and tilting floors. Most of the habitable areas were taken up by the living quarters, but the larger spaces were reserved for special gatherings and he miserably reflected that soon they would all be full to overflowing.

Near the top of the tower, Vesper shared a pokey little room with his mother, Indith, and it was this the young bat was making for.

Flitting along a steeply sloping gantry, he looked keenly about him. The air was charged with anticipation and excitement—it was a momentous time for his people. He could hear their babbling voices talking of nothing but the coming night and his stomach lurched sickeningly to think of it.

Suddenly a bat, younger than himself came charging down the gantry, half running, half flying. In his grasp he held a bundle of empty pouches and his joy-filled eyes fixed accusingly upon Vesper.

“Ho,” he cried, “whither hast thou been? Thy mother hath looked for thee.” The youngster flew in circles about Vesper’s head and waved the pouches roughly in his face. “Mark these well,” he sniggered, “for yea, I am in the service of those who fly with the fire-eggs! One day I shall be as they. Soon I will begin the training and go to battle!”

Vesper pushed the gloating child away with his wings and managed a disbelieving chuckle. “Hah!” he scoffed. “You are as addled as that which they carry, Breca—you are far too young to join the pouch bombers. They have made a game of you!”

Breca wheeled round in a high arc and stuck his sharp nose in the air. “Time will tell!” he retorted. “But what of thee, Vesper? What brave deeds art thou to perform this night? Where will the helm of thy father shine? Not on thy head. I’ll wager.” He laughed mockingly and pulled at Vesper’s hair. “Whilst thou hidest under thy mother’s wing, I shall be preparing the pouch bombers for war. Oh ignoble Vesper, thou shalt only be good for raiding the nest of the chiff-chaff.”

At this Vesper growled and flew at Breca with anger roaring inside him. Only cowards and weaklings were sent on egg raids and he cuffed the youngster about the head with the bag in his grasp.

Breca dodged and escaped him, spiralling down the passageway, his sneering voice still hooting insults.

Vesper landed back on the gantry with a thud and glared after the dwindling pest. “Use what little wit you possess!” he called. “If this will indeed be the end of the wars, then why should you be trained? Don’t you see, Breca—we’ll never see battle! There will be no more holy wars to fight!” But the other bat had flown down to where the armies would soon be mustering.

“Lackwit!” Vesper muttered, before turning to continue on his way. But secretly he envied Breca—at least he would be amongst the brave legions of the pouch bombers and see them take to the air one last time. He grumbled under his breath, knowing that when the time came he would be with his mother and the rest of the weanings, expected to do the mundane, honourless duties—why, he might as well be a nest robber after all.

Presently the gantry reached a wide thoroughfare where many female bats hurried to and fro. They were all Daughters of the Moon; for it was in Her realm that they freely roamed, spreading their wings beneath the boundless reaches of night and hearing the music of Her darkness. The Lady was revered by each and every one.

Vesper nodded to those who greeted him, but there was still so much to be done that many barged about their business without a thought for anything else. It was the most important time any of them had ever lived through—no mistakes must be made, nothing must go wrong. Everyone had a task to complete before the night was over. Some carried bowls filled with bright pigment, others were busy polishing their husband’s war gear, while the wet nurses took care of infants and kept them out of everyone else’s way.

As Vesper passed the entrances to private quarters, he caught glimpses of what was happening within. In one darkened chamber, two large matrons were busily preparing weapons for the pouch bombers to take with them. One was engaged in piercing and blowing a wren’s egg, whilst the other poured a strange yellow powder into eggs which had already been emptied, before sealing both ends with wax.

In another dwelling, a large noctule stood grim and fierce with his great wings spread wide as his three daughters scampered round, carefully painting images of flame on the membranes between his massive fingers. He was a great warrior—a Knight of the Moon, whose valour was renowned throughout the twelve colonies. Rohgar was his name and he had been in countless battles, leading the assault against the hated enemy, bellowing war cries and meting out justice to those who dared oppose the council and the Lord Hrethel.

Vesper stared at him for a moment, admiring the war banner painted on the huge bat’s wings and wishing he could be so heroically decorated. Then, turning aside, he hurried on, away from these glorious sights.

“And so the evil mistresses of the wood did cast an enchantment and all our kind were bereft, the birthright which our grandsires were given by the Lady herself was stolen from us.”

The intoning words drifted out of a nursery, where a harassed Daughter of the Moon tried to calm her charges by telling them the old histories. Even the babes sensed the tingling excitement and all were agitated and restive.

When Vesper finally ducked under the curtain which covered the entrance to his home, his mother glanced up crossly. “My son!” Indith said sternly. “Many hours have passed since you were sent to fetch more pigment!”

Vesper shrugged and tossed the bag he had been carrying upon the floor.

Indith looked tired. She had been a beauty in her youth but worry and grief had bent her back and grizzled her fur. She was standing over a bowl of scarlet paint, stirring in the pigment with a short stick. She had stowed other sticks into the loose bun of her unkempt hair but had completely forgotten about this convenient stash and had been forced to go and hunt out another bundle. Around her were a number of similar bowls to the one she laboured over and these contained a rainbow of colours, although a greater variety of hues had splashed upon her face.

“Are you so simple, child?” she scolded her son. “You know how vital was your errand. These pigments are needed most urgently. Our forces must be resplendent as they utter the war cries. The symbols of moon, flame and eye possess charms of protection. Oh why didst thou pick this day to dawdle and have naught but wool in your head?”

She seized the bag he had brought and poured its contents into yet another bowl.

Vesper said nothing but gazed over to one corner of their cramped quarters. There, upon a shelf, cut into the stone wall, his father’s armour glinted.

As if in a dream he made his way across the room and, catching his breath, Vesper folded his wings about himself.

Every day, for as long as he could remember, he had seen his mother polish his father’s armour. It was the custom for bats to wear fearsome helmets when they went to war. These were meant to instill terror in the hearts of the enemy, for the helmets were crafted into horrific faces, with wide staring eyes or vicious beaks ringed with teeth of steel. Each of these helmets—or ‘screechmasks’ as they were known, had individual names, chosen by the Knight of the Moon who wore them.

The one belonging to Vesper’s father was called ‘Terrorgrin’, for it had a long snout that protected the wearer’s nose and a hinged lower jaw with a row of sharp fangs which could clang shut about a fleeing enemy’s head. Two round eyes sat either side of the snout and above these were two pointed horns.

The metal shone like a mirror and the bright colours of the paints were reflected and thrown back across Vesper’s yearning face. He touched the grim object reverently and blinked back the tears that sprang to his eyes.

Beside the Terrorgrin, two armour-plated gauntlets had been carefully placed. Vesper’s father had worn these on his feet, for the gauntlets had talons of razor-sharp blades that could slice through the toughest hide.

“I should be taking you into battle,” he whispered despondently. “You and I deserve one night of glory, to be tempered in the heat of the fray.”

At that moment, the sound of many voices raised in song drifted up from the lower levels. The armies were gathering and were already chanting the victory hymns. For only a short time would the plain-song continue, once they had called on the Lady to watch over them the forces would depart.

Indith lay the mixing stick down for a moment and wiped her brow, smudging the splodges of paint that had splashed there into lurid swirls. She looked at her son and shook her head sadly.

“Poor Vesper,” she said in a gentle voice, “I guess what troubles your heart. This must be very difficult for you.”

The young bat whirled round. “Difficult?” he cried. “Mother, do you not understand? Once tonight is over and our armies have vanquished our enemies, there will be nothing left to me!”

“But we must act now,” she told him, “our Lord Hrethel has decreed it. Would you let our chance of victory slip by because you were not old enough to wear your father’s armour?”

Vesper stared sullenly at the floor. “Of course not,” he mumbled, “I hate the squirrels as much as anyone. If it were not for them. Father might still be alive.” He hesitated for a moment before he lifted his head and stared at his mother with hope brimming in his eyes. “Please,” he implored, “no one need know, if thou wouldst let me fly with the others, I vow not to get in their way. I only want to be a part of it—somehow!”

“No!” Indith firmly replied. “It is no merry game that General Rohgar leads the might of the twelve colonies into. All have been trained and know their part exactly. The pouch bombers must learn each other’s movements to the smallest degree—the slightest deviation from their plotted route would be disastrous. Fire eggs are deadly tools of war, Vesper, not nursery toys and only the most skilful Moonrider may bear them.”

“But Mother!” he begged desperately. “In this, the war to end all wars, I merely want to observe. I want to see those squirrels perish for what they and their Starwife have done to us. They are filthy creatures—would you deny me that?”

“We all despise them Vesper,” Indith replied—her voice trembling with emotion. “Those loathsome savages have inflicted much sorrow upon our kind. How many times have I desired to don the armour of your father and slay some of those tree rats myself?”

She took a deep breath and tried to control the anger that was bubbling inside her. Vesper waited and chewed his wispy beard while his mother calmed herself. Eventually Indith shook her wings then put them about her son’s shoulders.

“Oh my dear child,” she said with a faint smile, “fear not, there will be other times to prove your mettle.”

“Will there?” he asked doubtfully.

Indith hugged him tightly. “Tomorrow you shall know it. Once our warriors have destroyed the Starwife and all her hateful subjects, the enchantment she wrought will be broken forever and then you will know.”

“What will it be like? To have our birthright once more—what manner of things shall we see?”

Vesper’s mother closed her eyes and chanted dreamily—her voice blending with the hymns floating up from below. “Prophecy and insight,” she cooed, “bestowed upon us by the Heavenly Lady. By Her leave our race may look into the hearts of others, view distant lands and glimpse what may come to pass. That is our gift my child and by the dawn we shall possess it once more.”

Vesper unwrapped himself from Indith’s wings. “Why did the squirrels take it from us?” he asked.

“Jealousy and fear,” she replied, hopping back to the bowl of scarlet pigment. “Ever have the tree rats hated us and dreaded our birthright—lest one day we use it against them and their squalid lands.”

“But we would never have done such a thing!” he protested. “Are all squirrels so mistrustful and full of malice?”

“Every one!” she affirmed. “Never trust the subjects of the Starwife, my son, nor any of the other branches of their unholy house. The only squirrel you can be sure of—is the one dangling on the end of a gauntlet.”

“Yet they must be very powerful, to cast the enchantment and to have made it last all these many years.”

Indith gave the paint a severe stirring; it slopped over the edge of the bowl and drenched her toes. “Oh yes!” she spat, “They have power—of a sort, but its origin is totally evil! That is how they have managed to keep their realm protected all these years, by weaving a wall of dark magic around it to keep us out. But soon they’ll learn; soon our agent will complete her work and the defences will be no more. The land of Greenreach shall fall!”

Abruptly, the distant hymn came to an end and they knew the pouch bombers were taking to the air. Indith uttered a small gasp of annoyance, gathered up as many bowls as she could carry and hurried out of the chamber to deliver them to the other Moonriders who would still be waiting.

Alone, Vesper looked back at the screechmask and sniffed unhappily—the greatest night in all their history and he was too young to take part. It really wasn’t fair—if only there was some way.

1 - Blood on the Oak

It was a dark time, a time of magic and menace. Great forests covered the land and the world was still wild and dangerous. In the ancient woods, spirits of stone and stream lingered and fearsome beasts prowled through the gloomy leaf shade.

The folk who dwelt in the tiny hamlets at the forest’s fringe feared what lurked in the frightening realm of root and branch.

The serfs and villeins who waited upon the knights and tilled the fields, trembled when the sun set behind the surrounding forests. In their fancy, the powers of the dark were abroad. Only a fool would venture from hearth and home after dusk, when demons stalked through the unlit land and in midnight woods all manner of terrors shrieked and hunted for prey. Everyone believed that dragons crept stealthily between the trees, blowing poison from their immense jaws, and the humble folk feared these imaginary creatures far more than the real dangers they had to endure.

Yet, if only they knew what was truly awakening, deep within the medieval forests. If they had but the slightest notion of the real evil which was taking shape and growing more powerful with each passing moonrise.

For all things it was a deadly time, yet in some isolated places, the light of reason and understanding continued to shine. Age after age, back to the dawn of dawns, when the first oak sprang from the soil and the hawthorn bloomed, the Starwives had ruled.

According to their legends, the black squirrels were the first to awaken, born among the branches of the new trees upon the green hill which reached down to the great river. There, in the Greenreach, they were divided into five royal houses and they took for themselves lands to govern. Yet over all the Starwife reigned.

While the proud princes departed to seek new realms, the Handmaiden of Orion remained in Greenreach, for there was the source of her power and there the spirits of growth and life wandered.

But as the years passed and the generations slid by, the royal houses were separated; their lands dwindled as the forests grew dark and their borders shrank until they were like islands struggling to repel a black tide and the woods that surrounded them became filled with horror.

Yet, in the land of Greenreach, the flowers continued to bud. No frost nor breath of winter touched the sacred hill and there at least the spirit of the Green still walked, blessing the groves and trees with his presence.

At the summit of the holy place, a mighty oak stood, its branches spread far and high and within its vast trunk the Starwife dwelt, watching the darkening world and grieving for it.

For six hundred years the Hallowed Oak had towered over the blessed land and its roots reached deep into the earth, delving down into the caverns and dark grottoes that twist beneath the world. And there, moving silently through a dank, dripping tunnel, a cloaked figure moved with stealth.

It was a tall, black squirrel who, with furtive steps, crept along the slimy path. A long staff was clenched tightly in her grasp, at the top of which a candle dimly burned.

The frail yellow light guttered in the stale airs which moved through the underground passageways and the squirrel’s shadow swelled vast behind her.

Her face was gaunt and her hair was scraped back over her bony head. The large eyes which glared at the treacherous ground were set deep behind a wedge-shaped nose and heavy lids drooped over them. Upon her brow she wore a circlet of silver and the brooch which fastened her black cloak was fashioned into the shape of an oak leaf.

It was an unpleasant face and the candlelight fled before it, as though it, too, shivered at such a grim visage.

The Lady Morwenna cursed the mud which oozed over the path. It was undignified to have to venture down here—but soon all humiliations would be over.

“Where is that wretched door?” she hissed to herself. Only she had ever dared to descend beneath the Hallowed Oak. No other squirrel, red or black had ever had the courage to explore these ghastly caverns. A sinister smile split Morwenna’s face. “Well, if they have,” she muttered in a voice as sharp as her features, “none have ever returned.”

The tunnel began to wind and she breathed a sigh of relief, for a moment she thought she had taken a wrong turn—even she was not completely sure of the way.

Holding the candle before her, she strode confidently forward and there, appearing out of the darkness, was a small wooden door.

Leaning the staff against the rough wall, Morwenna fumbled for the keys which jangled at her waist. They were attached to a large iron ring and were of many different sizes and designs. Squinting in the flickering light, she selected a small, rusted specimen and slid it into the lock.

The door opened a chink, it was very heavy and she had to push with all her strength before entry was possible.

The chamber beyond was loftier than the passageway and she could straighten her back at last, but the place stank. The foul reek of stagnant water and rank mould invaded her nostrils and the squirrel spluttered for a second, mirroring the action of the candle.

Then she mastered herself and looked about her, holding the flame above her head.

She was standing upon a muddy shore which fell away into turgid water, the surface of which was covered by green scum. It was impossible to tell just how great the chamber was, for the light did not penetrate far into the blackness, yet judging by the resounding echoes it must have been immense.

Morwenna pulled the folds of her thick cloak about her, keeping out the pervading chill, and cast her glance upon the shore.

The mud was churned with many, frenzied footprints. Here and there a splayed claw could clearly be discerned and Morwenna noted with satisfaction that there were no signs of the last meal to be found.

She raised her sharp face once more and stared blindly into the dark. “Dear ones,” she crooned, “come see what dainty I have for you. Come to me my lovelies—where are you?”

From the invisible distance there came a sudden “PLOOP!” as a bubble erupted on the surface of the water. Morwenna grinned and took from a pocket in her cloak some shreds of raw meat.

Another bubble burst from the foul water and a vile belching croak echoed around the cavern.

The squirrel threw the scraps upon the shore and waited, her paw resting upon the hilt of a dagger at her side.

Now the chamber was filled with horrible gurglings, the water seethed and bestial grunts roared towards her.

Into the candlelight, floating on the surface and cutting through the scum, sailed a pair of round, golden eyes. They blinked when they came close to the shore, wincing at the harsh flame. Then the eyes rose from the water.

The head on which they sat was one of the ugliest nature had ever created. Clusters of warts peppered the snout and blistered down the ridged spine. The creature’s mouth was misshapen, being repulsively wide and the glistening lips dripped with slime. A gnarled and webbed claw thrust forward, squelching through the mud as a vast toad hauled itself from the mire.

It was an odious, bloated abomination. Two narrow nostrils snorted the bad air, questing for the scent of fresh meat. Onto the slippery shore it lumbered, heaving its pale, sagging belly over the mud to where the squirrel was waiting.

“There,” Morwenna purred, “see what I bring you.”

The globular eyes roved in their bulging sockets, looking from the squirrel to the scraps that had been thrown on the floor.

Morwenna raised her paw and her hideous pet waited for the signal. From the murky water beyond, other sounds were bubbling nearer, but the toad’s brothers would have to go hungry this time.

Quickly, she made a sign and the creature dived at the morsels upon the ground. Black mud flew everywhere as the vile beast slobbered and swallowed its way through the meal.

“There’s my beauty,” Morwenna lovingly murmured, “there’s my fine jewel.” As she said this, and while the toad’s attention was fixed solely upon the raw meat, the squirrel deftly drew her dagger from its sheath. Carefully, she stole behind the guzzling horror and slowly raised the blade.

Without warning, she leapt forward, bringing her foot violently down upon the back of the toad’s head. The beast let out an outraged squeal as its face was forced into the mud and, squirm though it may, it could not escape.

“Fret you not my darling,” Morwenna assured it, “there’s naught to fear—’twill not take long.”

The dagger flashed in the candlelight as she brought it close to the monster’s putrid skin. After a moment’s consideration she found the largest of the pustules that clustered over the slimy back and pricked it with the blade. At once, a watery, dark green liquid squirted from the wound but Morwenna was ready and collected all that she could in a tiny phial of blue glass.

The toad wriggled beneath her and gargled huge mud bubbles in protest, but Morwenna had got what she came for.

“’Tis over now, my emerald,” she said soothingly. “What a fuss, pretty one.” She tucked the dagger back in the sheath and placed the precious phial in her cloak pocket. As she rose and stood back from her pet, the creature thrashed its stumpy arms and the head reared angrily out of the ooze.

The squirrel jumped backwards as the wide mouth lunged for her, snapping its bloodless lips.

“How dare you!” she screamed, reaching for the candle staff. “Get you back into the water—I’ll teach you to snarl at me!” Furious at this unspeakable rebellion, Morwenna struck the toad with the end of the staff, clouting it round the offending jaws until the golden eyes squeezed shut and the beast shambled a hasty retreat to the water’s edge where it plunged silently into the blackness and sank from view.

The Lady Morwenna waited until she was sure the thing had gone before returning to the doorway. From the dark pool, several new pairs of eyes gazed morosely across at her and she gave a cruel little laugh.

“Have patience, my other loves,” she called. “Shortly your rancid bellies will be full of the sweetest meat you have ever tasted.” And with that she closed the door behind her.

With grim determination, she made her way back through the winding tunnels. Up she strode, passing under curtains of fibrous roots and narrow caves of cold stone. Her work this night was not yet over, there were still some matters she had to attend to—and now she was prepared.

“One final measure and the deed will be done,” she told herself, “then will all those years of fawning and wearing a servile mask be at an end.”

Up she climbed, up out of the dank grottoes, up to where the mud no longer flowed over the path, but where the earth was dry and the soil fragrant and wholesome.

Wiping the sticky grime from her feet, Morwenna paused before a plain wooden door and unlocked it swiftly. This led into the Hallowed Oak and she hesitated before entering. Was there anything that would betray her evil intentions? Taking a moment to groom herself and adjust the circlet upon her brow, she opened the door and walked inside.

Within the ancient tree, all was quiet. Silver lamps were suspended from the carved ceiling and they cast deep shadows over Morwenna’s hooded eyes. A flight of stairs cut into the living timber rose before her and she quickly blew out the candle she was carrying before ascending.

Over the centuries, the craftworkers of Greenreach had wrought many intricate and beautiful designs into the stairway and about its walls. There were images of the thirteen important trees which formed the squirrel calendar and the emblems of all the royal houses were repeated in an endlessly twisting border. On the ceiling, arranged about the lamps, were the patterns of stars and these were inlaid with burnished gold that threw back the silver light until it glittered and danced over the steps.

Morwenna paid the elaborate decoration no heed. She had been climbing these stairs for most of her life and she never noticed nor appreciated the labour that had gone into creating them. Now her mind was focused on one goal only and nothing could have distracted her from it.

The stairway was long and winding, spiralling as it did within the trunk of the great oak tree. The doors that she passed led only to store rooms and the chambers where the serfs slept. These were mostly red squirrels, for their wisdom was not as great as their black cousins and they indulged in too much laughter to be considered useful for anything else.

As she passed one of the dormitories, Morwenna allowed herself a sneering smile—yes, only one of the older race, such as she could contemplate the ultimate, treacherous act.

“M’Lady.”

The voice startled her and wrenched Morwenna from her reverie. A guard was standing before her, a spear in his grasp.

She eyed him for a second. He was a black squirrel like herself. A tunic of green, edged with gold, showed that his duties were confined to the Hallowed Oak and the protection of the Starwife.

Morwenna gave him a syrupy smile and spoke the passwords. The guard bowed and stood aside.

She had reached the grand hall and here too, the artistry of those long dead proudly showed itself. Intertwining leaves in perfect detail rippled over the curving walls, seeming to grow up to the vaulted ceiling where blossoms of every kind were suspended by golden wires.

The hall was filled with sentries and guards. Red squirrels laughed together as they hurried about their duties and Morwenna gazed at them dispassionately. The merry voices failed to touch the black heart in her breast. Not a soul would be spared, she had decided this long ago.

From the crowd, a squirrel maiden came running towards her. “My Lady Morwenna!” she cried. “Stay a moment. Would you not tarry a while? We are all anxious for word of Her.”

Morwenna turned. It was Fearn—one of the royal princesses, those maidens who dwelt in the sacred groves. She also wore a circlet about her brow and in its centre sparkled a finely cut stone. About her shoulders she wore a mantle of purest white and a belt of silver was fastened about her waist.

“Have you marked any change?” the princess asked. “My sisters have sent me to discover what news I could.”

The sharp-featured squirrel managed a frosty smile and the wedge-shaped face took on the aspect of one burdened with care and concern. “As yet there is none,” she replied in a hushed voice. “Alas my mistress still lies abed and grows weaker, I fear.”

“Then she is failing,” Fearn uttered sorrowfully. “What unhappy tidings I have to tell my sisters. Tell Her that we have prayed and may the hours that remain be peaceful.”

“I shall indeed.”

The young princess waited for Morwenna to curtsey, before leaving to break the sad news to the others.

She was hardly out of sight when Morwenna’s expression transformed into one so ghastly that a red squirrel scampering nearby dropped the tray he was carrying and gaped at her dumbly.

“Run to your sisters,” Morwenna spat, “let them outwardly mourn, they don’t deceive me. I know that their hearts shall secretly beat the quicker, hoping they will be chosen.”

She span on her heel and the black cloak swirled around her. On she went, crossing the main hall and taking the royal stairway, that slender flight which few in the realm had ever climbed. This led directly to the chambers of the Starwife, and Morwenna had one final appointment to keep with her life-long mistress.

A wide and impressive doorway opened before her. Within was the throne of the Starwives and Morwenna was sorely tempted to deviate from her path for a few minutes—but such indulgences could be enjoyed to the full later on. Leaving this place behind her, she climbed another stair and came to her mistress’s bedchamber.

Two sentries barred the way but they stood aside as she approached and she opened an ornate door as silently and as gently as she could.

Like a thief, she crept into the room.

One small lamp flickered in the far corner, filling the chamber with warm, cosy shadows. Rich tapestries adorned the round walls and by a large, shuttered window was a beautiful bed that appeared to grow out of the floor, having been carved—like the walls, from the growing tree. Vines and berries twirled about the four posts which reared at each corner, vanishing into the fringes of a sumptuously embroidered canopy.

Morwenna craned her neck, but the bed was empty. Then she saw her.

Almost hidden behind one of the bed curtains, a small and shrunken form sat slumped in a chair. The figure was silent and still, betraying no signs of life. Morwenna raised her eyebrows—perhaps her venture underground had been in vain.

She closed the door behind her and at once a faint gasp issued from the chair.

“Who is it?” whispered a frail voice.

“’Tis I, madam.”

“Oh, Morwenna—where did you go? I called to you but there was none to hear me.”

“I slipped out for the briefest of moments, madam,” Morwenna lied. “I think perhaps you slept and wandered in a dream.”

“There may be truth in that,” the cracked voice admitted, “and yet I could swear it does feel like many hours have passed. Come here, let me look on you.”

Morwenna drew close to the chair and smiled woodenly at her mistress.

The Starwife rolled back the blanket that she had tucked beneath her whiskered chin and wrapped it around her knees. She was an ancient squirrel, whose black fur had long since turned white with age, the muscles of her body were wasted to nothing and her bones were dry and brittle. Her face was so emaciated that the skull was clearly visible beneath the shrivelled and withered flesh. She seemed more dead than alive, yet there was about her an air of majesty which the advancing decay could not hide.

Long, untold years she had reigned, governing her subjects with wisdom and compassion. But now the Starwife was dying.

For many days now, the present Handmaiden of Orion had been too weak to leave her bedchamber.

She had felt Death creeping upon her many times over the recent years yet always she had managed to shrug him off to continue her work. It was she who, in the late flowering of her youth, had woven the barriers about Greenreach to keep out the attacking bats and there was so much still to be done. Eventually, however, that sinister visitor had come for her and would be put off no more. She had never felt so close to his malignant influence before. Her very insides seemed consumed with the grave and it took all her powers to remain awake.

The ghost of a smile tugged the crabbed corners of her mouth. “I haven’t left you yet,” she gasped, “oh, but this fever plagues me like nothing I have known.” Raising a crippled, arthritic paw, she pointed at the window and asked for it to be opened. “There is no air in here,” she explained, “and my breaths are laboured enough.”

Morwenna pulled the shutters open and stared out at the Blessed Hill. The sacred groves were in full bloom and everything was at peace. Here and there, warm glows shone from the four surrounding trees as folk made their way to their own beds. Soon they would snuggle down, fearing nothing, for no one could assail Greenreach while the magical defences kept their enemies away.

“What is the morrow?” the weary voice of the Starwife asked. “Is the day of the alder already upon us?” She slid back, against the pillow which supported her head, and tutted huskily. “Then it will be the first I have missed. Have the maidens cut the alder wands? Great were the celebrations in my youth.” She turned her head towards her handmaiden, but Morwenna was still staring out of the window and seemed not to have heard a word she had said.

“Morwenna,” the old squirrel called, “what ails you? There is turmoil behind your eyes.”

The other pulled away from the sill and gazed coldly at her mistress. “You are mistaken, madam,” she muttered. “I am quite well. It is you who are stricken.”

The Starwife frowned, but there were too many important decisions to be made and her troubled mind did not detect the malice in Morwenna’s voice. Her withered paws closed about the silver pendant which hung around her neck and her eyes closed as she collected her thoughts.

“There must be no more delays,” the Starwife said, “a successor must be announced.”

Morwenna walked over to a shelf and took down a jug which contained a sweet smelling, honey-coloured liquid. Pouring a quantity into a bowl she glanced slyly back to her mistress to make sure she was not watching, then took the blue phial from her cloak. Holding her breath, she let three dark drops fall into the bowl before slipping the phial back to her pocket.

“Drink of this,” she said, offering the bowl to the frail form in the chair.

The Starwife received it gladly and took small sips, her trusting eyes turned upon her faithful handmaiden. Morwenna stood back, watching the poison slowly disappearing from the bowl. Strange that it had taken so long to take effect. For a whole week now she had plied her mistress with the deadly mixture, yet this would most certainly be the final dose, why, the old hag barely had the strength to lift the bowl.

“Yes,” the ancient one continued once the vessel had been drained. “I have made my choice. Morwenna, I want you to summon the royal princesses. Tomorrow the heralds shall announce the accession, what better...” she paused to cough, “what better occasion than... than Alder... Alder Day?”

A choking fit prevented her saying any more and Morwenna watched with a cruel smile curling over her angular face.

“I think not,” she hissed, “the princesses can stay in their groves, let them hide there whilst they may.”

The Starwife ceased her coughing and stared at her handmaiden as though she had gone mad. “What... what say you?” she stammered, and for the first time she beheld her servant’s true nature.

“This night the old regime of twig and leaf will end,” Morwenna snarled. “No more shall the land of Greenreach be isolated from the world. A most glorious new power shall emerge to seize control and its mighty reign shall stretch unto eternity.”

The old squirrel’s eyes grew wide with horror. “What moonkissed fancy is this?” she cried. “Hearken to what you say.” But the poison had done its deadly work and a vicious spasm seared through her.

Morwenna unclasped the brooch at her throat and removed the cloak from her shoulders. “Long have I toiled over this,” she declared turning the garment about to display what was hidden within.

The Starwife fell back against her pillow, racked in the most severe agony. Blood was in her mouth, yet as she stared at her handmaiden she forgot all pain and knew only fear.

The inside of the cloak was a black tapestry and the scenes it depicted were vile and repugnant. A malevolent light burned in Morwenna’s heavily lidded eyes. “Many were the nights I laboured,” she whispered, “and into the very fibres I did weave spells of smothering and silence; charms that will never yield and enchantments so great that no other power can penetrate them.”

“I... I do not understand...” the Starwife cried in her anguish. “For what purpose have you done this?”

Morwenna emitted a strange high laugh and whirled the cloak around her. “Why—to cover the Starglass!” she hooted. “Then will its strength fail and its might withdraw from our borders. The barriers that you raised shall be cast down by me!”

“No!” the Starwife wailed, but even as she tried to call the guards, the pain in her chest grew too great and her voice died in her throat.

Morwenna stared at the dying squirrel, who was gasping and choking like a stranded fish. “Now you have drunk from the cup of my ambition,” she spat venomously, “to me it seems sweet, but I fear you have not found it so. Speed to the Green!” And with that, she strode to the door.

“Quickly,” she called to the guards outside, “my mistress is most unwell. Run to the herbmaster and bring him hither. Hurry you both!”

The guards glanced fretfully at her, and peered beyond to where the ancient squirrel sat stricken and contorted upon the chair. Dropping their spears, the pair went scurrying down the stairs as fast as their legs could take them.

The treacherous handmaiden chuckled darkly. Let the herbmaster come—it will be too late, but now to make use of the time and the unguarded way that had been left open to her.

A narrower flight of steps rose to the right and she wasted not a moment. This was the sacred stair, and at its end, in the very crown of the Hallowed Oak, was the Chamber of the Starglass.

The room was a perfect circle, yet it was dark, no lamp burned with silver flame and no window let in the moonlight. But from the centre of the chamber, something shimmered and pulsed. Here was the heart of Greenreach, and the secret power behind the might of the Starwives—the Starglass.

It was a disc of smooth black glass, set within a wooden frame into which mysterious signs and devices had been crudely inscribed—long, long ago. Inside was locked the wisdom of the heavens and only the one who held the Starwifeship could command and wield it.

Morwenna entered the dim chamber, her vile heart pounding. Slowly she crept towards the centre of the room where the Starglass rested upon an elaborate table. It was as wide as she was high and for a moment she doubted if her cloak would cover it. But no, she had made certain that the measurements were precise, many years ago when first she plotted and schemed.

Breathlessly, she stood beside the great disc and gazed upon its glimmering surface.

Although there were no windows in the chamber, the whole of Greenreach was reflected in the Starglass. In the centre was the hill and there were the groves and the ring of lesser trees. There the green sward stretched down to the great river and here, the borders of the great forest began.

Morwenna steeled herself and unfurled the cloak she had spent so long devising. Then, with a sweep of her arm, she cast it over the Starglass and a horrible blackness filled the chamber.

At once the peace of the night was disturbed. The enchantments were failing, melting and dispersing from the unguarded borders. Strange noises filled the air and the doom of Greenreach was assured.

In her chair, the Starwife wept, sensing the downfall of her realm. A cold wind now tore through the groves, plucking the blossom from the boughs—all was ending.

Sobbing, she clutched at her throat, where her palm touched something cold. With a frail cry, the dying squirrel’s heart dared to beat with hope. Morwenna had made a mistake.

Grasping the chair arms, she urgently dragged herself forward and tumbled to the floor. Desperate seconds flew by as she gathered whatever strength remained. The blood thumped in her temples and the poison blistered through her, devouring her insides and consuming her soul like a rapacious cancer.

But the Starwife was not done yet. Inch by inch, she crawled across the floor, hauling herself to the open window, where she clutched at the sill and her wasted arm raised her body until she leaned against the wall and stared at the world outside.

A dark cloud had covered the moon and the hill was steeped in shadow. Terrible voices clamoured in the night, screaming throughout the sky and striking terror into those on the ground. An unspeakable evil was brewing and, as the Starwife gazed about her realm, she knew it was too late.

With a deafening rush of wings, the huge cloud began to disperse. A vast swarm of bats came swooping down in a gigantic phalanx and their blood-curdling cries tore through the tormented darkness.

“No,” the Starwife wept, “Morwenna—why have you done this? You have betrayed us all!”

In a great, triangular formation the pouch bombers came. Spiralling out of the sky, they dived swift and deadly. Each wore a leather harness, attached to which were six pouches containing the terrible fire-eggs. Only the most agile and steadfast of Moonriders were selected to carry these lethal weapons of war—for one ill-considered move would prove fatal.

Upon their wings, two ovals were painted, encased in flame. For in the pouches they carried were two small eggs and each contained a different but volatile powder. When the shells were broken and the compounds mingled the result was catastrophic.

“The flame of victory is with us!” the bats shrieked as they plunged expertly between the branches of the trees.

The arms of the Starwife buckled and she collapsed onto the sill of the window as she saw the first of the pouches being torn from the harness.

Down it plummeted, whizzing through the air until it hit the ground.

An almighty explosion rocked the green hill and a ball of crimson flame blasted upwards.

A single tear rolled down the Starwife’s wrinkled face as she witnessed the end of her blissful realm.

Another fiery tumult split the darkness and hundreds of panic-stricken voices shrieked in alarm.

One after another the fire-eggs erupted, and their dazzling flames blossomed like deadly flowers about the Hallowed Oak. The birch tree of the outer ring caught fire and the glare of the blaze made it seem as though a vengeful and bloody morning had dawned. From the main entrance of the oak tree, a stream of guards and sentries came running, bearing spears and shields. Out of the lesser trees other folk fled. Homes were burning and a number of the terrified squirrels swooned in the heat and were trapped by the eager blaze.

“The bats!” they shrieked. “The bats have come!”

Confusion and panic were the squirrels’ undoing. Too long had they trusted in the strength of their Queen and the barriers she had woven. In their darkest dreams they had never feared assault—but now it was happening all around and nobody was ready or knew what to do.

The pouch bombers soared in a wide circle before coming in for a second attack.

Squirrel guards hurled their spears, but every weapon missed its mark as the bats swerved and dodged aside. Another volley of fire-eggs was released and on the ground the chaos was absolute.

Two pouch bombs exploded in one of the sacred groves and a thunderous storm of flame ripped through the trees as though they were parchment. A fierce orange glow lit the heavens as the hilltop blazed and palls of dense black smoke flooded into the sky.

“Stand and face them!” cried the royal guards to the others who ran blindly by. But a madness had seized the folk of Greenreach and their wits had left them. Everything was burning now and red flames dripped from ancient boughs, singeing the earth and shrivelling the grasses. Only the Hallowed Oak remained untouched, a pinnacle of sanity amidst the crackling uproar that raged around it.

From the inferno which roared uncontrollably within the groves, seven smouldering figures came staggering. Through plumes of billowing smoke and clouds of hot ash the surviving royal princesses stumbled—their parched mouths unable to cry for the five sisters they had left behind. On scorched knees they fell as the fires consumed the glades and bowers where once the spirit of the Green had walked.

The pouch bombers glided over the devastation. Their part was done and they laughed, cheering and applauding each other’s efforts. Then, in one graceful movement, the formation veered away, up to where the others were waiting.

Resplendent in their screechmasks, the Knights of the Moon had seen it all. Their shielded eyes had witnessed the destruction of the Blessed Hill and their hearts were nearly bursting with excitement. Impatiently they hovered in the air, biting back the urge to fall upon their enemies. But now the time had come. As the triumphant pouch bombers flew by, their brethren threw back their armoured heads and gave a fearsome shout.

Down swooped the ferocious generals, and the captains screamed after them. As one immense shadow, the bat host dived upon the burning realm with the talons of their gauntlets stretched wide and ready. The lethal blades sliced through the choking fumes, glittering from the fierce heats, and bright arcs of light scored the sky.

The squirrels who saw them quailed; now all hope was lost. Terrible screams drowned the noise of the blazing trees as the first of the generals came hurtling amongst them.

Rohgar, with Slaughtermaw upon his head, fanned out his wings and hurtled over the shrieking squirrels. The talons of his gauntlets raked through four of the filthy vermin and his bellowing laughter boomed out over the sloping lawns. A guard with an upraised spear challenged the huge noctule as he raced between two crackling trees but Rohgar’s gauntlets flashed out and the foul creature fell dead to the ground.

Everywhere, the captains and their winged armies were slaying the abominable tree rats. Screechmasks turned blood red as the slaughter increased and gore rained down from the vicious talons.

The squirrels were powerless to resist. Already vanquished by the nightmare of the fire-eggs, they were no match for this more savage onslaught. The flying demons were unstoppable—nothing escaped their vigilance. The shields of the guards were slashed in two and any who tried to fight were cruelly dealt with. Several bats would attack a fleeing victim, plucking him from the hill and bearing him into the sky, only to let him fall to a grisly death.

From her bedchamber, the Starwife’s eyes drank in the monstrous spectacle. More deadly than the poison was this to her yet she could not wrench her gaze from what was unfolding below her window.

The heat from the blazing groves was unbearable and the fur on her face was scorched.

“So it is over,” she muttered slowly. No tears glistened in her eyes, for the night was beyond emotion now. There was but one meagre chance left, one last way to cheat her enemies.

Clasping the amulet around her neck, the ancient squirrel closed her eyes and poured out her waning strength.

About the Blessed Hill, the carnage continued and death screams echoed across the great river.

In the distance, London slept. The barons snored in their solars and the pages slumbered in the halls. In the kitchens the serfs sweltered by the hearth and the dogs twitched and dreamed in the courtyards.

The horses dozed in the stables, their hot breath steaming in the sharp air. Nearby, the groom buried his face deeper into the hay and murmured grumpily to himself. Miles from Greenreach, the city was calm and still—but not all were lost in peaceful drowse.

The mews was warm and dark. A slant of moonlight slid through the poorly secured shutter, but none of the birds of prey who rested upon their perches within could see it.

Each wore a hood over its eyes and their feet were tied to the perch by ribbons of leather. With their covered heads tucked under their wings, two merlins stood silent. Nearby, upon a lower stand, the squire’s hobby shifted from one leg to the other. He was an impudent young fellow whose hooked bill always cheeked his elders and betters, but he had naught to fear for no one could rebuke or punish him whilst the hoods were in place.

In the driest corner, upon a perch raised higher than the others, a handsome peregrine falcon slept fitfully.

He was the pride of the lord who had trained him, and his equal had never been seen in the city. Nothing could match the falcon’s swiftness and he was justly respected by all, except perhaps the boisterous hobby. Only today that insolent peasant had been boastful about his own plumage and rude about everyone else’s. But the peregrine had shown great dignity then, not deigning to engage in vulgar jibes and insults. One day, that upstart would bitterly atone for the looseness of his tongue.

From the merlins however, the peregrine commanded the greatest fealty and when they spoke to him it was in humble and devoted tones. It was a pleasant and comfortable life, flying for fat wood pigeons in the day and roosting in the warm darkness of the mews at night. It had never entered the raptor’s head that anything would ever change and he was not like the hobby who longed for his freedom and cried for the heathlands when he thought no one was looking.

But this night, the falcon trembled. The black bars of his plumage quivered, as a sickening shudder travelled all the way from head to tail. Startled out of sleep, gorgeous visions of plump rabbits melted into the hood and he swayed giddily upon the perch.

The peregrine cocked his head and listened. Everything seemed quiet, and he wondered what could have awoken him. Probably that irreverent hobby, he thought to himself, something really must be done about that wretch—it simply wasn’t done to flout authority the way he did.

Moving from side to side in agitation, the bird of prey determined to settle the matter tomorrow when they were both being flown. Just a little scare would suffice to do the trick, plucking the nauseating pest from the air and throttling him would be most beneficial to them both. With this happy prospect in mind the falcon settled himself and, little by little, his head drooped onto his chest once more.

Suddenly he was bolt upright. Unfurling his powerful wings and shaking his primary feathers, he squawked his annoyance.

At once, the other birds blinked inside their hoods and were awake.

A terrible feeling of urgency and fear had overwhelmed their leader’s heart—summoning and compelling him to act. Somewhere he was needed, somewhere a desperate struggle was taking place. The bird cried in dismay, beating his wings and straining at the jesses which held him.

“What ails our lord?” the merlins chirruped, blindly twisting their heads in surprise.

“Poor old stripey pants!” tittered the hobby. “Perhaps he’d like a lullaby to soothe him?”

“Be still!” the merlins cried. “Repent thy insolent words, knave!”

The hobby jiggled and preened himself. “Pooh!” he muttered outrageously.

The merlins recoiled and began gabbling in the direction of the peregrine.

But the great bird was oblivious to all that was said, so anxious was he to escape. His expansive wings thrust at the air and the perch rocked alarmingly. And then, something strange began to happen. The tethers which held the falcon’s feet, moved as if invisible hands had clutched them. Slowly at first, the knots began to slip and were gradually untied by this unseen force.

With a tremendous, shrill yell, the peregrine rejoiced. His feet were free and he immediately tore the hood from his head.

The other birds squealed and trilled in fright. What was happening?

“Our lord is loose!” the merlins wailed. “Our sovereign is at liberty!”

At this the hobby nearly fainted. “Clemency!” he beseeched. “Have pity on a poor chick with no sense in its skull. Wound me not! Or if you must—make it quick!”

But the falcon was not listening. His bright yellow eyes gleamed in the moonlight and fixed upon the locked shutters. Then, with one sweep of his wings he left the perch and flew around the mews in a frustrated temper.

The other birds ducked and cowered as he whirled over their heads; they thought he had gone mad and all began pleading for their lives.

And then, by the same unseen power, the bolt was drawn back and, with a resounding slam, the shutters of the mews were thrown open. The peregrine gave a grim screech, the sound of which made the other raptors quail, and shot out into the night—free at last.

Morwenna hastened from the Chamber of the Starglass and swept down the narrow stairway. All she had ever craved was coming to pass and her pinched face was wreathed in ghastly mirth. The clamour of battle sang in her ears and she revelled in the sounds of the dying. None would be left to oppose her succession to the Oaken Throne and she would be able to take up the silver acorn without fear of reprisal. How well the bats did their work, yet once they had served their purpose, they too would know the meaning of betrayal. Morwenna had other allies and no one could have guessed where her true allegiance lay.

A dark and glorious future was opening before the faithless handmaiden and, as she came to her mistress’s bedchamber, she thrilled at what would come to pass.

Morwenna barged inside—but at once her dreams were snatched away. There, upon the sill of the window, a great falcon sat and, standing before him—swaying and nearly spent, the Starwife held up the symbol of her high office and entrusted it into the bird’s massive talons.

Morwenna screamed in rage and leaped forward, her paws reaching for the silver amulet that dangled from the peregrine’s claws.

“Fly!” the Starwife commanded. “Bear it to safety, let no other claim it!”

There was a beating of powerful wings. Morwenna dragged the ancient squirrel out of her way and lurched at the acorn—but too late. The falcon left the window and in seconds he was out of sight, leaving Greenreach far behind.

In her fingers, Morwenna clutched only feathers—without the amulet she was nothing and she stared at the scenes of burning and slaughter that still raged below—and appeared as one turned to stone.

“Drink deep of this cup,” the Starwife’s cracked voice mocked her, “all your treachery has been in vain. At the very end, the acorn has eluded you and your victory is an empty one.”

Morwenna’s head twisted from the window and her countenance was terrible to behold. Her thin lips parted and a bitter voice came rasping from her throat.

“Too many years have I humbled myself before you!” she hissed. “Too long have I toiled for my own ends to have you cheat me now. This is but the beginning for me—the acorn will be found and I shall rule. But for you—vile old hag—it is indeed the end.”

Quickly she drew the dagger from her belt and took a step toward the ancient squirrel. “Now pay the price!” she cried and, shrieking with evil laughter, put her mistress cruelly to death.

Rushing back to the window, Morwenna shouted at the top of her voice. “Rohgar!” she yelled. “Rohgar! Quickly—I command you!”

Taking a step back, she waited a moment and presently a ferocious screechmask appeared over the sill, followed by the large noctule. With a rush of his leathery wings he alighted upon the ledge but the eyes which glared through the slits of Slaughtermaw seethed with hostility and anger.

“Curb thy tongue,” he snarled, “the legions of Hrethel are commanded by none but he and the council. It would be tragic indeed should I forget what part thou played this night and give you over to my armies.”

But Morwenna was not afraid, and replied with haughty authority. “Be silent!” she snapped. “Your triumph is not yet assured and your lord would be most displeased should you fail. Remember, I am in communion with him and have his complete trust.”

Rohgar growled at her insolence and shook his wings to show displeasure. This tree rat had an inflated opinion of her own worth—it would be most pleasant to let his gauntlets close about her scrawny neck.

“Hear me!” the squirrel continued before he had the chance to threaten her again. “The silver acorn has escaped us! The harridan despatched it before she died—it must be retrieved at all costs!”

A hollow laugh rang within the screechmask. “So!” the bat cried. “The perfidious one has been robbed of her shining bauble. What care I for the loss of your heathen trinkets?”

Morwenna leaned forward, her voice rising to a shriek. “Idiot!” she screamed. “Without the amulet I cannot accede to the Starwifeship, nor can I wield the might of the forces locked in the Starglass. Only with the acorn about my neck can I undo the spell laid upon your kind and restore your birthright!” She spat the last sentence and her words had a remarkable effect upon Rohgar.

“What say you?” he bawled. “Tell me where this trinket may be found!”

“Your legions let it slip by,” Morwenna snapped back. “Even now a peregrine bears it to some distant place of safety—I know not where. Go find this powerful talisman, Rohgar, take a host of your brethren and return the prize to me—then shall prophecy and insight be given back to you.”

The bat lashed his wings and circled over the hill. Furiously, he called to his captains and yelled his commands. Like a black mist, the bats rose from Greenreach, leaving behind their wounded and dying victims and, in an enormous sweep across the smoke-filled sky, the desperate chase began.

Morwenna moved towards the doorway, glancing with contempt at the body of her late mistress. The stairs outside the bedchamber were deserted and not a sound issued up from the main hall. All the guards were dead, barbarically slain upon the hillside and only a few terrified serfs remained huddled under tables or lay trembling in storerooms.

Descending the narrow steps, Morwenna rubbed her paws together and her tail flicked with agitation. If Rohgar thought she would place all her trust in him, then he was a greater fool than she had anticipated. Her alliance with the legions of Hrethel was only temporary and, with a wicked grin glowering over her face, Morwenna determined to send her own, more sinister, messenger to retrieve the silver acorn.

2 - Aldertide

Far away, amid the trackless and dangerous forests, a bright dawn gently edged into the pale, clear sky. It was a beautiful spring morning and surprisingly warm for the alder month. Here, the unruly tangle of the wild wood became ordered and the grass grew thick and green—free of scrub and nettles. Within the borders of this oasis of calm, the trees flourished straight and tall, attended and cared for by those who dwelt there.

Here then, the second noble house of black squirrels had long ago made their home. Coll Regalis—the Hazel Realm, it was called, for the hazel was regarded as the fount of all knowledge and the one who ruled that land wore a bronze fruit of that tree about her neck.

Ninnia was her name and her subjects loved her, for she was wise beyond mortal minds and by her counsel and guidance the colony had protected its borders for many years. No magic defended the Hazel Realm, for only their cousins in Greenreach possessed such power. This land was kept free from harm by a constant vigil. Many sentries were posted near the untamed forest’s edge and the watch was never neglected.

Today, however, all thoughts of the dark were banished. It was Alder Day, a date high in the squirrel calendar, and wonderful festivities had been planned.

The warm rays of the morning sun gilded the avenue of trees which led to the circle of nine hazels. Upon the green lawns an excited and merry crowd had begun to gather. The celebrations were to begin early and already those entertainers who still dared to travel were arriving.

Striding through the dewy grass came all manner of outlandish folk and the children of Coll Regalis rushed to greet them, dancing around each newcomer as he strode into the central clearing.

Stalls were swiftly erected, with colourfully striped canopies and ribbons flying in the fragrant breeze. The merchants arranged their wares in pretty displays and called to old friends as they waited for the festivities to officially commence.

Three jolly red squirrels sat down and began lacing themselves onto tall stilts. It was not long before they were tottering loftily through the crowds—giggling and pushing one another, while those below tried to leap up and catch their tails. A fire-eating weasel cursed his luck when he discovered that his torches were damp and refused to light, while a travelling band of acrobatic voles were practising ‘The Daredevil Pyramid’ and getting it hopelessly wrong.

Through the thronging multitude, a strange figure slowly wound his way. It was a tall stoat. A jester’s red and yellow head-dress was pulled snugly over his ears and the bells which hung from the three drooping points jingled sweetly as he went. Behind him the stoat pulled a garishly painted cart which contained all his tricks and props and as he approached the clearing, he hummed humorous ditties to himself.

High above, from the branches of the central oak, a young squirrel maiden looked down—intoxicated with the glamour and delight of it all. She was a lovely creature, with ebony fur and large brown eyes; her dark hair fell in long tresses about her shoulders and she scampered from bough to bough to see what new joys she could discover.

This was Ysabelle, daughter of the Lady Ninnia and the Lord Cyllinus and never had the forest been graced by such beauty as she possessed.

The strains of a happy tune drifted up from below as the musicians practised. A flute piped the loudest and Ysabelle found her feet tapping to the melody, then began dancing over the branches.

“M’lady!” squeaked a nervous voice. “M’lady, come away from there! Oooh, it’s so dangerous! You might break your neck—I can’t bear to look!”

A mouse had peered out from a curtained window in the trunk of the tree and her small paws were thrown over her face.

“Don’t be silly, Griselda!” Ysabelle laughed as she pirouetted on a slender branch. “I’m in no danger. I have nothing to fear—the height does not scare me.”

“Well it do me, M’lady,” the mouse complained, her eyes stealing a peek at the clearing below them. She winced and drew back inside. “’Tain’t right for one such as I to be so far up—and ’tain’t seemly for you to be cavorting so.”

Griselda had looked after Ysabelle since the day she was born and fussed a great deal over her charge. Red squirrels were the usual choice for nursemaids but, in her wisdom, the Lady Ninnia had chosen a mouse instead to care for her daughter. Griselda was a worried little body, prone to fretting about the smallest detail.

She was a plump fieldmouse and her chestnut hair was always hidden in a large cap of white linen. The frills of this shaded her eyes and tickled her whiskers, so she was continually blowing at the irksome thing from the corners of her mouth—but it never entered her head to change the cap. She was a stickler for tradition, and although those of the black squirrels were not her own, she zealously defended and adhered to them. This was the cap of a nursemaid and it was her duty and privilege to wear it; so wear it she jolly well would—however inconvenient.

Ysabelle traced out a dainty little dance in time to the brisk music and the mousemaid stamped her foot in irritation.

“You stop that at once!” she demanded. “Why, with your hair all loose and askew, what will folk think? That I’m not fit to wait on you—that’s what! Is it your intent to shame me, M’lady?”

The young squirrel stopped dancing and laughed. “Oh Griselda!” she said with a grin. “You win. I’ve no wish to cause you shame. You do worry so. I’m quite sure no one thinks you are a bad nurse.”

“That’s as may be, but you never can tell what nastiness some folks’ tongues is capable of.” She glanced at the ground again and nearly wilted with fright. “Ooh, do come in, M’lady,” she implored, puffing at the brim of her cap. “Makes my head all squiggly it do, looking down there.”

Ysabelle capered over the branches and climbed in at the window. “It’s such a marvellous day—to think that this year I join the alder maids.”

The mouse pulled her charge away from the hazardous opening and into the room. It was a cosy place, containing two beds, the smaller being Griselda’s. Fine tapestries were draped over the walls, some of them worked by Ysabelle herself in those tedious winter evenings that had passed, and clean rushes were strewn over the floor.

The maid extracted a twig from the squirrel’s bushy tail. “You won’t be going nowhere, M’lady,” she clucked, “not till you’ve braided your locks and made yourself decent. In front of all them folk—I ask you, and most of them strangers too!”

Quickly, Ysabelle twined her long hair in nimble fingers until two braids hung down her back. Then, with a little help from Griselda, she coiled these upon her head and sprinkled some water over her face.

The mouse scrutinised her critically, smoothing and patting with her small pink paws before she would let Ysabelle go.

“Did you see the stilt walkers?” her charge asked. “They really are so clever.”

“Tomfools the lot!” Griselda tartly replied. “If they wanted to be so tall they should have got themselves born saplings. There, you’re presentable now, M’lady. Get you on down.”

Ysabelle rushed for the door, then halted, came running back, gave the mouse a grateful kiss and dashed down the stairs.

“Don’t you forget any of your steps mind!” Griselda called after her. “I’ll be along shortly!”

Outside, the dew had melted from the grass and the early spring flowers had thrown back their heads to release their perfume to the air.

A merrytotter—or see-saw—had been set up under the shade of one of the nine hazels and children were queuing up for a ride on it.

Beneath a fluttering canopy, two large chairs had been arranged and around them many courtiers scurried, preparing for the arrival of their lord and lady. Some were busy raising banners and hoisting the standard of the Hazel Realm to the top of the central oak, while others made certain that everything was ready for the all-important dance.

By now the voles had managed to perfect their act and, to the wonder of the crowds, were leaping about the lawns and flipping each other into the air to great applause.

Winter finally seemed to be over and the subjects of the Lady Ninnia had determined not to miss a moment of the revels. From stall to stall they scampered, visiting each new entertainment with wonder and delight.

Only when a horn blew was their attention diverted from the amusements, for this was the signal for the main part of the morning to begin.

From the central oak, a procession of squirrels came, and those in the clearing parted to let them through. Out marched the counsellors—the four advisers to the sovereign. All were old, black squirrels, with sombre expressions upon their proud faces. They were led by the eldest and most learned of their number—Godfrey Gelenos. One of his many duties was to teach the young princess the histories and customs of the land and he never went anywhere without a book or manuscript tucked under his arm. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to spend long hours with his nose pressed against the pages of some scholarly document, and it was rumoured that even the Lady Ninnia had bowed to his judgement on more than one occasion.

Following the humourless-looking advisers, came nine maidens who tried to be serious but kept breaking into fits of giggles. Ysabelle was among them and it was she who led the laughter. Behind these came a red squirrel carrying a cushion of purple velvet in his paws, upon which a number of alder wands were laid and the bearer positively strutted along to be so honoured this day. The crowd cheered when they saw him and he winked proudly at his friends.

Then the noise subsided to an expectant babble as many guards paraded from the entrance, their swords brandished in the air—heralding the arrival of their monarch.

So came the Lady Ninnia with the Lord Cyllinus at her side.

She was an elegant squirrel, whose serene face held a timeless beauty which nothing could wither. Her features were delicate as any bloom and, covering her ears, she wore a veil of some fine gossamer-like material which floated on the air as lightly as the strands of a spider’s web. Every step she took was gracefully majestic and all who saw her bowed or curtsied. Hanging around the Lady’s neck, a bronze hazelnut gleamed in the early sunshine and upon her long, tapering fingers she wore rings of silver and gold set with precious gems.

At the canopy, the procession came to a halt. The lady and her consort took their seats and the counsellors assumed places beside them. Then the wand bearer came forward, pointed his toe and made a perfect bow, offering the cushion up to her.

The Lady Ninnia gave a warm smile and took the nine alder wands in her hand.

“’My thanks,” she said to the red squirrel, “’twas expertly done.”

The bearer blushed to the ears and burbled something inaudible before stepping aside.

The lady’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before turning to the maidens who were impatiently waiting nearby. “Aldertide has worked its charm once again,” she observed, glancing at each. “In my youth, I too was an alder maid, and great was my excitement that morning when first I danced. Rejoice in the ceremony, thrill to every note that the fiddlers play—for the dance shall lead you into adulthood. Every step guides you to a new life; just as the trees which you waken begin the year afresh, so too shall you bloom.” With that her eyes rested tenderly upon her daughter.

Then Ninnia addressed the rest of her subjects. “The life of the trees is sacred to us,” she declared, “and by them we measure our seasons and years.

Few occasions can rival the joy that Alder Day brings—for with it comes the rebirth. Let us all now celebrate another dawning. Begin the music!”

At once the fiddlers struck up the alder tune and the pipers followed their lead. This was the cue for the maidens to step up to the thrones and receive their wands. When this was done they all curtsied then proceeded to dance in a line towards the avenue of trees.

The first tree that the maidens reached was the birch and, with laughter in their voices, they raised their wands and shouted to the indwelling spirit. “Awake! Awake!” they sang. “Thy sleep is ended.”

Then, just to make sure, they danced round the trunk and beat the bark with the wands—crying, “Have no fear for Spring is come! Put out thy leaves, oh sleepy one!”

After that, they danced to the next tree, which was the mountain ash, and repeated the performance.

Everybody came to watch this age-old ritual, even the tradesfolk left their stalls and it was the entertainers’ turn to be enthralled. Only the voles appeared to continue their act, but they were actually balancing on each other’s shoulders to obtain a better view.

The dancers visited each tree in the avenue before returning to the nine hazels where a small fire had been lit and into this they threw their wands. A great clamour of cheering and applause burst out, hats were thrown into the blue sky and the air was shrill with whistles as the other festivities resumed.

Breathlessly, Ysabelle ran back to her parents and they both held their arms out to her.

“My dearest,” the Lady Ninnia cried, “how proud you have made me this morning.”

Ysabelle held onto her tightly before giving her father a hug.

The Lord Cyllinus stroked his daughter’s hair and kissed her forehead lovingly. He was a quiet, thoughtful squirrel, head of a house of princes, and he adored his child more than anything in the land.

“Did you see me, father?” she asked. “How was my dancing? Did it compare to the others?”

With paw on heart, the Lord had to admit that he had not even noticed that there had been any other dancers. “You were as the sun and they the stars,” he told her, “you did outshine them all. Why, I doubt if there is a soul present who was able to take his eyes from you.”

Ysabelle gurgled with pleasure. “I did stumble and falter on three occasions at least!” she chuckled. “But what a perfect morning this is. Have you ever seen such a day before? Everyone is so happy—if I could, I would wish for it to last forever.”

At this the lady Ninnia glanced at her husband and laid her paw lightly on his arm. “I think our daughter yearns to join the merrymaking,” she said, “and at Aldertide a princess may do as she pleases. Let her roam amongst our subjects and enjoy the entertainments.”

Cyllinus gave her a doubtful look, then relented when he saw the eagerness on his daughter’s face. “Off with you, my Belle,” he told her. “Go partake of the revels.”

Ysabelle kissed him. “Do you think the stilt walkers would let me attempt to match their skill?” she asked.

Her father nodded, “Who could refuse you aught?” he smiled. “I know that I cannot—go child.”

So, into the joyful crowds Ysabelle disappeared. There was so much to see and to do—only a fraction had she spied from the branches of the oak and her heart beat excitedly in her breast.

The delicious smells of the pie-stalls now mingled with the scents of the flowers. All the fruits of last autumn’s preserving jars were there: apple tarts, blackberry buns, pear sponges, plum pies, walnut scones and a dozen varieties of seed cake. These sumptuous delicacies were all on display and many squirrels munched contentedly while others stood entranced at the antics of the entertainers.

A hedgehog had impaled hundreds of coloured ribbons upon her spines and was flitting around a cleared space with the bright streamers billowing behind as she whirled and capered. It was not a very successful act however for the hedgehog was quite plump and her steps rather ungainly, deteriorating at times into bizarre duck-like waddles. The folk who watched were not sure whether they ought to laugh and many politely covered their grins with their paws. One small squirrel was heartily tucking into a damson tartlet when the prickly performer tripped over one of the ribbons and tumbled head over heels into the audience. The poor squirrel nearly choked as fragments of damson and pastry exploded from his mouth when uncontrollable laughter consumed him.

Nearby, the troupe of voles were having more success. The Daredevil Pyramid had been completed twice already and now they were encouraging some of the onlookers to take part in the act. Ysabelle admired them tremendously and wondered if she would be picked.

“Are there any amongst you kind and goodly people,” cried one of the voles as he balanced upon a wooden ball. “Just one, who dares to attempt the simplest of our heroic feats?”

Before Ysabelle could raise her paw, someone grabbed her arm and tutted crossly in her ear.

“What are you thinking of, M’lady?” squeaked Griselda at her side. “Think of your position—the royal houses can’t partake of such frivolities. Why, one day—and may it be far off—you’ll have to follow your mother and govern these folk. How could you command their respect if they remember you acting the fool? I never ever did hear of such a thing!”

“But ’tis only in fun,” Ysabelle argued. “Surely there’s no harm in merriment?”

The mousemaid brushed the floppy brim of her cap from her eyes and huffed coldly. “Such things aren’t for you!” she reminded her. “Why, it might be one of your irresponsible red cousins I was talking to—instead of the future lady of the Hazel. In truth, I am shocked.”

The young squirrel knew it was pointless to continue. “Very well,” she relented, “I will behave, and in the solemn, tedious way which befits my station.”

Griselda brightened immediately. “Thank you, M’lady,” she said. “Now, we’ll have no more talk of joining the revels—observing only shall be enjoyment enough. Besides, I do think some rain is coming—then will this nonsense be washed away.”

Ysabelle looked at the sky. The mouse was right, a great storm cloud was rolling over the forest roof towards them, but it still seemed many hours distant and she pleaded to be allowed to enjoy the morning whilst she could.

“Oh very well,” the maid relented, “but remember thy conduct, M’lady. I know, come see the jester—I did hear he is most amusing.”

Through the milling throng the mouse led her mistress, passing by many of the stalls Ysabelle had wanted to visit.

There, a trio of sparrows chirped, aided by the lilting voice of a speckled thrush; next to them the fire-eating weasel had begun plying his second trade and was busily telling fortunes. Past the acorn shy Griselda bustled, squirming between the gathered folk until they came to where many creatures were laughing.

In the midst of them, the stoat jester had set up his pitch. Sitting upon his outlandish cart he had been performing a comical play with the aid of humorous and insulting puppets.

A cruel caricature of a black squirrel was in his right paw, whilst in his left a red squirrel jiggled and twitched.

The assembled onlookers were applauding warmly as Griselda and Ysabelle squeezed to the front.

The puppets were put away and the stoat took something else from his cart. It was an inflated rat’s bladder tied to the end of a stick and he leapt onto the grass with the ridiculous looking object clutched in his paws.

“Who am I?” he cried, pulling a sour and serious expression.

“A jester!” one of the red squirrels piped up.

The stoat glared at him with feigned anger and began beating the unfortunate creature about the head with the bladder.

“Is there naught inside thy noggin?” he demanded. “What? Do they not teach thee thy lessons here?”

A gleeful murmur issued from the crowd as they recognised the impudent impression.

“Why, ’tis Master Godfrey!” they giggled. “He’s Master Godfrey!”

The jester strode about the cleared space, bashing the noses of those who sniggered, whilst all the time the daylight grew dim as the storm cloud moved swiftly through the sky. “Verily ’tis I,” he announced, “Godfrey Gelenos—prime counsellor of the Lady Ninnia. Yet, why do you laugh so? Are all your wits so dull? Do you all have need of some sense? Shall I knock it into you?”

Someone blew a raspberry and the stoat set about him at once, to the great amusement of everyone else—everyone except Griselda that is.

“Scandalous,” she said with pursed lips. “’Tis vulgarity of the lowest sort. Come M’lady—I was wrong to bring you hither, the fellow’s nothing but rude.”

Unfortunately for the mouse, the stoat heard her and he spun round to face the owner of this dissenting voice.

“What have we here?” he yelled, throwing the bladderstick behind him. “A mouseling, I believe. Come, my dearest little nibbler—let us dance a jig together.”

Before Griselda could stop him, the stoat plucked her from Ysabelle’s side and whirled her round in a mad dance. The mouse shrieked, and the laughter of the audience increased tenfold. Round and round the jester spun her, ignoring her pleas for mercy. There was nothing she could do except trot and caper as best she could, for her awful partner was strong and the jig so fast. Then her cap fell off and landed on the head of a cheeky youngster who ran away and hurled it into the branches of a tree.

And then, when Griselda thought she would faint, the dreadful stoat stopped the dance and jumped to one side, leaving her lurching and lumbering in a wobbly circle—dazed like a drunken rat.

“Oh my!” the mouse sobbed, once the world had stopped spinning. “Oh my! I feel terrible.” She rounded on the jester, ignoring the laughter which thundered in her burning ears and scolded him crossly. “How dare you!” she shrieked. “Never have I been so ill used!” But the insolent wretch only smiled and poor Griselda had to salvage what little dignity she had left and escape as quickly as she could.

With her head in the air and her tail erect, the mousemaid stomped from the dreadful scene and went in search of her cap.

Ysabelle’s ribs were aching. She felt sorry for Griselda but it had been very funny. She looked back at the jester and, to her surprise, found that his eyes were upon her. For a moment Ysabelle feared she would be next in the crazy dance but the stoat merely made a swift bow that set the bells of his head-dress jingling.

“I crave your pardon,” he said humbly, “methinks I outraged your companion. ’Twas all in the name of mirth, I assure you—no harm was meant.”

“I’ll be glad to tell her that,” Ysabelle replied, “but tell me, who shall I say apologised? What is your name?”

The jester raised both his arms and suddenly there was a blue acorn in his left paw. With a wave of his right, a yellow and a red appeared beside it and he began juggling them at once.

“Wendel, my mother did name me,” he said. “Wendel Maculatum. A travelling duncefellow am I and accomplished fool—never have I met such a simple gowk as the one who stands before you. From the pot of learning I did but take a sip and found it so bitter to my taste that I did spit out what I supped. Beneath my tinkling hat, not an ounce of brains do I possess and that I like full well. My life is a happy one and for nothing would I exchange it.”

No sooner had he spoken than one of the acorns dropped onto his head with a loud ‘Crack’. The jester let out a strange cry, allowed the other acorns to fall to the ground, then did a spectacular backwards somersault—landing on his knees with his arms outstretched.

“So I beg thee again, Mistress,” he called with a laugh, “tell thy companion that Wendel is awash with regret for the indignity he did cause her.”

“I shall indeed,” smiled Ysabelle, not believing his remorse for an instant, “and now I had better find her.”

She gave the stoat one last smile, then made her way through the crowd.

Suddenly a shrill blast echoed over the lawns. The music died on the piper’s lips and the dancers staggered to a standstill as the alarm trumpeted its warning.

All festivities ceased and everyone held their breath—only the direst emergency would cause the border guards to give such an alarm and many hearts fluttered fearfully.

The face of every creature slowly turned heavenwards, and there, in the middle of the bright clear sky, a vast black storm cloud blotted out the morning sun and everywhere was plunged into an icy gloom.

Upon her throne, the lady Ninnia stared at the immense blackness overhead and its shade seemed to enter her spirit. It was a strange, dark mass—not like a real cloud at all. “Green spare us!” she whispered when she realised the truth.

“What manner of evil vapour is that?” asked her husband. “How can it move across the firmament so swiftly when only the slightest of breezes blow?”

But Ninnia had risen to her feet and spoke quickly to her counsellors. “Hurry!” she commanded, “find my daughter—take her to safety at once!”

Master Godfrey stared at her questioningly, then he too realised the peril that had come upon them. Without further hesitation, the prime counsellor gave a yelp and barged into the silent and watchful crowd.

Worried murmurs now hissed from everyone’s lips and the Lady Ninnia called to her subjects in a voice filled with urgency and dread. “Beware!” she cried. “Run for cover! Save yourselves! That is no cloud—it is a host of bats! The forces of Hrethel are upon us!”

At that her people screamed and panic seized them. In their haste to escape, families were separated, stalls were blundered into and pies trampled underfoot. With frightened howls, the voles scurried to bolt-holes and the beribboned hedgehog dived under the flimsy shelter of a torn canopy.

Only the black squirrels remained upon the lawns—their eyes fixed upon the bats high above.

“Never have so many Knights of the Moon crossed our borders,” the Lord Cyllinus muttered under his breath, “yet why do they not attack? Why remain up there? Are they waiting—toying with us to increase our fear?”

His wife touched the bronze amulet about her neck, as if searching for an answer. “I cannot tell,” she answered shaking her head, “but does it not appear to you that as yet the enemy is unaware of us? I doubt if they even know we are here. Remember that the sun confounds them, no bat goes to war in the daylight.”

Cyllinus dragged his eyes from the great cloud and cast about the confusion that rampaged over the lawns. “Where is Gelenos with our Belle?” he asked. “I pray they are safe within the oak.”

“Behold!” Ninnia cried. “See, my husband—the winged beasts are already engaged in battle.”

Cyllinus glanced upwards once more and, sure enough, it seemed that the bats were mobbing some other creature of the air. Now the sounds of hideous voices were heard over the Hazel Realm and tiny points of dazzling light flashed within that dark mass as countless steel talons executed their deadly work.

Alone, amid the rushing clamour of terrified squirrels and mice, Ysabelle stood. Her large brown eyes gazed intently at the horror above and her ears caught the furious beating of many wings. She had heard hundreds of tales about bats, how wicked and cruel they were, but she never dreamed that she would see one. Now thousands of the unclean nightmares were directly above her. A wintry cold seeped into her muscles as she faced this terrible spectacle and the unnatural twilight grew deeper all around.

The immense host was gripped in a frenzy of hate and anger. They thrashed their wings and struck out wildly with their gauntlets—nothing was going to cheat them of their birthright and though the sun bewildered and blinded them, they had pursued the quarry far and wide and now he was theirs.

A feather drifted from the seething cloud and the high voices of the Moonriders exulted in triumph—they had conquered and it was beaten.

Upon the ground, Ysabelle saw a flurry of bloody feathers fall from the shadowy mass and she shook her head in dismay. What vicious savages those creatures were.

At that moment the boundary wardens came racing from the borders. Into the clearing they ran, with longbows in their grasp.

“Green guide our arrows!” they called, stringing their bows and taking aim.

With a sharp hiss, fifty darts went singing through the sky, plunging deep into the bat swarm.

Ysabelle watched as a dozen Moonriders tumbled from the darkness and were dashed against the trees below.

Another torrent of arrows whistled upwards, yet—even as the shafts shot into the vast cloud, something glinted and fell through the air like a glittering stone.

The squirrel maiden stepped forward in wonder as the shining missile came hurtling down and before she knew what she was doing, Ysabelle had caught it in her paws.

Trembling, she opened her fist and gazed at the wondrous thing in her palm. There, gleaming in the sunlight, was a silver acorn.

Ysabelle gasped, but there was no time to think. For, as she raised her eyes from the symbol of the Starwives, the squirrel maiden screamed.

Ysabelle threw up her arms; a stream of crimson rained down and spatters of hot blood showered upon her.

Shrieking, she leapt away—just as a great shredded mass of feathers came crashing to the ground.

Ysabelle was too horrified to speak; in ghastly tatters, the body of the peregrine lay still upon the blood-dewed grass. The talons of the bats had been cruelly efficient and the once proud lord of the air was dead.

Numb with terror, the squirrel maiden stared at it for a moment—then her ears heard...

The bat host was bellowing with rage. Out of the sky the Knights of the Moon came, the jaws of their screechmasks open wide. Down they dived, their wings folded—plummeting after the body of the falcon, down to where a solitary squirrel stood with the amulet in her fingers.

Ysabelle saw them, she saw the dreadful face of the leader’s barbaric helmet draw closer and watched as the blood dripped from the gauntlets which already reached for her.

“Guide our arrows!” cried the sentries as they fired into the rushing enemy.

“Get down!” a voice shouted to Ysabelle. “Get down!”

The squirrel wailed and threw herself upon the ground. Two pairs of talons sliced the empty space where she had stood and she could feel the draught of the bat’s wings as it raced past.

“Stay there!” the voice shouted.

Ysabelle heard something clattering towards her, but she dared not look up.

Wendel Maculatum, travelling stoat and general ninny, pelted towards the maiden. With the handles of his cart in his paws he sped to save her. The captains of the infernal swarm were almost upon them. Ysabelle covered her ears and the jester let out a painful howl as a bitter blade raked through his shoulder.

Hurling his cart forward, Wendel launched himself after.

Ysabelle stared as two rickety wheels skidded to a halt either side of her. Then, panting for breath and clutching his wounds, the stoat dived under the cart.

“Hold on,” he yelled. “’Tis our only chance. They have us!”

The full fury of the bats fell on the jester’s cart.

Ysabelle closed her eyes and clutched the underside of the little wagon for dear life. The noise was deafening as the ferocious might of the Moonriders ripped and tore at the painted wood above.

“Why doesn’t someone do something?” Ysabelle wept. “Save us please!”

“Don’t you be afeared,” Wendel bawled, trying to sound brave, “your archers are doing their best.”

“Look out!” Ysabelle screamed.

One of the bats was crawling beneath the cart towards them. His screechmask removed, cruel black eyes glared at the pair of them and he bared his fangs at the squirrel who held the silver acorn.

“Aaiiee!” Wendel whined. “Keep away villain!” He kicked out with his feet, struck the bat’s jaw and sent him sprawling against a wheel where his head cracked on a spoke. The creature slumped in a heap—but others were coming after.

The cart bucked and jolted, tearing the skin from Ysabelle’s palms as she vainly tried to hold on.

“It’s no use!” she sobbed. “We are lost!”

The stoat winced at the pain in his shoulder but his eyes were on the bats who steadily crept nearer. “’Tis a sorry end for a jester!” he babbled. “No laughter to see me out!”

Roaring like a thunderstorm, the legions of Moonriders hurled themselves against the cart until it was totally obliterated. It was this that held their full attention—so desperate were they to retrieve the amulet. None paid any heed to the wardens of the Hazel Realm as they let loose volleys of arrows. Even when their brethren fell dead to the ground they continued to vent their wrath upon the humble little wagon.

From a distance, the Lady Ninnia watched the terrible spectacle with her heart in her mouth. Tears were in both her and her husband’s eyes. Their daughter was the focus for that boiling anger and they were powerless to save her.

“Belle!” Cyllinus murmured.

Then the guards of Coll Regalis drew their swords and, with grim faces, charged at the frightful enemy.

So blade and talon clashed. In the deadly combat that ensued, squirrels were slain by screechmask and gauntlet but many bats were impaled upon spear and sword. The bows of the wardens continued to sing and the toll of the dead mounted rapidly.

Faced with this unexpected challenge, the bats faltered. Already the sun dazzled and bewildered them and they were still weak from the chase. Now bright swords glared from all sides, mirroring the fierce sunlight in a mesh of blazing steel and they beheld how many of their number were already dead upon the grass of this strange land.

General Rohgar squinted about him, the talons of his gauntlets gouged deep into the cart and he snarled within Slaughtermaw. One of his captains shrieked beside him as an arrow plunged deep into his chest. Another Moonrider was struck from behind and tumbled lifeless to the ground. With a furious beating of his wings, Rohgar took to the air and called his brethren to follow.

“Come,” he bellowed, “this is not the time! The daystar confounds our senses—let us withdraw to the darkness of the forest. These morsels can wait till nightfall.”

He soared into the blue sky and, like a plume of black smoke, the rest of his army reared up and followed.

But the boundary wardens continued to shoot and a great number of retreating Moonriders failed to reach the safety of the dark woods.

The squirrels watched in silence as the host departed, flying in a straggly formation over the treetops until they were lost from sight.

“Ysabelle!” the Lady Ninnia shouted.

Running forward, she pushed through a sea of the wounded and dead—to where the jester’s cart stood splintered and broken.

Ninnia held her breath as she saw the damage that the Knights of the Moon had wrought—if their talons could do that to wood, she dared not think what horror awaited her.

“Mother?”

A meek voice spoke from beneath the wreckage. Ninnia’s heart leapt and she heaved at the cart to lift it.

A strong paw touched her own as Cyllinus joined her and together they hurled the battered shelter aside.

There, trembling and huddled against the stoat, was Ysabelle.

The young maiden wept and threw her arms about her parents. “It was awful,” she cried, “there were so many. Father—we couldn’t have held them off any longer. They almost... they almost...”

Several moments passed as the three black squirrels held one another. Behind them the guards lay down their weapons and offered prayers of thanks, while from the trees and countless bolt-holes, other folk nervously ventured.

“Ooh aah eeh!” Wendel muttered as he gingerly staggered to his feet. “Never have I faced so unappreciative an audience. ’Tis the first time they truly were after my blood.”

Ysabelle wiped her eyes and put out her paws to him. “Mother,” she said, “this stoat did save my life. Without him the bats would certainly have killed me.”

Both Ninnia and Cyllinus turned to the jester. He was a sorry sight, his wound was bleeding badly, yet even in this desperate hour he looked comical. The red and yellow head-dress was torn and hung sadly about his face like three drooping ears. He stared at the two squirrels and made a painful bow.

“Majesties,” he spluttered.

“Good sir,” Ninnia began, “you have saved our beloved daughter. For such a gallant deed no reward would be enough, yet name what you will and it shall be thine.”

“Whatever your heart desires we shall grant,” Cyllinus added, “for our Belle is precious to us.”

Wendel gaped at them for a second then gave Ysabelle an impudent wink. “Gracious lady and noble lord,” he said with a chuckle in his voice, “tell me—what would a fool do with such a reward? Nay, leave the jester be, let him continue his merry craft and spoil him not.”

“As you so wish,” Cyllinus replied, “yet your wounds need attention and our woodwrights can at least repair your cart. What say you..?” He turned to his wife but she was gazing at their daughter.

Ysabelle held up her paw and there, shining in her fingers, was the silver acorn.

Ninnia touched the bronze hazelnut about her own neck and the world grew chill once more.

Her husband frowned and the crowd that had gathered about them gasped in wonder. “What does this mean?” he asked in a whisper. “What omen of disaster is this?”

The lady Ninnia closed her eyes and when she answered her voice was filled with grief. “Greenreach has fallen,” she said.

3 - Farewell to the Hazel

Master Godfrey hurried along the corridor and tucked the scrolls he had been studying under his arm. Although the meeting was not due to start just yet he was anxious to be one of the first there. For many years he had served the Lady Ninnia but never had such a crisis occurred before—never again would Aldertide hold any joy for the folk of the Hazel Realm. The memory of the morning’s events would remain long after he had sped to the Green.

The council chamber was a great room adorned only by the banners of the five houses. Two thrones dominated one wall and before these a series of plain benches were formally arranged. Master Godfrey grunted at the guards outside the entrance and waved them aside as he strode within.

At once he drew himself up and stared about him. The chamber was full. The Lord and Lady were already seated and all manner of folk were crammed onto the benches. Sitting on a smaller throne, the young princess sat with her maid, having bathed three times to be rid of the falcon’s blood.

“Master Godfrey!” the Lady Ninnia called. “Come, we did delay the meeting for your arrival.”

The squirrel cleared his throat and strutted pompously to his place beside the thrones—vexed that he had not been the first to arrive.

His fellow counsellors nodded solemnly as he took his position—it was indeed a most grave and dreadful day.

“Did you discover what you sought?” Ninnia asked.

Godfrey patted the scrolls he carried and said that he had.

“Then we must make haste and begin,” she said before directing her gaze at the multitude of troubled faces that were trained on her. “A grievous and ill-fated day has this become,” she addressed them. “Who could have thought when the day of the alder dawned that its joy would be invaded and marred by our enemies?”

Everyone shook their heads and muttered angrily.

Ninnia held up her hand for silence. “Please,” she told them, “this is not a time for vengeful words, nor talk of war. Let us consider what strange circumstances brought this disaster upon us.” She signalled to the sentries who were standing at the back and they hurried from the room only to return a minute later, dragging something behind them.

The crowd caught their breath; some of the black squirrels growled fiercely, others leapt to their feet and drew what weapons they had. A red squirrel buried her face into her bushy tail while another let out an accusing shriek and tried to clamber over his neighbours.

“Peace!” the Lady commanded. “Bring him forward.”

Bound in chains and surrounded by guards, the prisoner was dragged. He was a Knight of the Moon—one of Rohgar’s many captains. His screechmask and gauntlets had been confiscated but his pride was not so easily taken. A livid wound scarred the bat’s chest and a great rip had rendered his wings useless—yet his sharp eyes which roved about the room were filled with arrogance and hatred.

Into the centre of the chamber the prisoner was thrust, right into the very heart of his enemies. If only he was free—then would they know true terror.

“Stop there!” one of the guards ordered. The squirrel yanked on a chain and the bat fell awkwardly upon his face. The silence in the room seemed to press down as every eye fixed upon the bat and burned him with their loathing.

Ysabelle could not bear to look at the vile beast—what a spectre of ugliness. She shuddered at the sight of him and was grateful that nothing so accursedly repellent roamed abroad in the daylight. By her side Griselda did not disguise her own feelings and pulled an expression of pure disgust.

The clink of the chains was the only sound as the creature lumbered to its feet. He would not be subjugated by this filth—they would not see him grovel on his knees!

“What is thy name?”

The bat glowered at the squirrel queen and ached to kill her.

Ninnia asked him again, “I know that your kind understand our tongue. What is thy name?”

He spat on the floor and his beady eyes grew narrow, sliding from one of his captors to another.

“Of the fallen,” Ninnia continued, “thou art the only survivor—my archers are skilled in their art. The tally of thy dead has mounted to over seventy, but there are doubtless many more who were struck down outside our borders.”

The prisoner snarled and lurched forward, but the guards held him and, though he bared his fangs, Ninnia resumed the interrogation.

“Over seventy Knights of the Moon,” she repeated, “is that not a shameful waste of life? Even now their bodies are being burned on a great pyre. Will you not tell me what mission brought your forces hither?”

The bat made no answer.

“Ysabelle,” the lady said gently, “show to our guest that which you found this morning.”

Slowly, Ysabelle rose from her chair, her eyes staring at the repulsive bat. Then she raised her paw for all to see and uncurled her fingers. The silver acorn gleamed in her palm and everyone held their breath.

At once the prisoner squirmed and struggled, straining at his bonds to free himself. Griselda squealed, fearing that he would succeed and scampered round the back of the thrones. But the chains were strong and the guards were not about to release him.

“Tell me,” Ninnia commanded and now her voice was cold and frightening, “what terrible fate has befallen the land of Greenreach? Why did the Starwife surrender her symbol of office to so strange a messenger as the one your kind savagely murdered?”

A mocking sneer crept over the bat’s face. Why not tell them? Let them know the awesome might of Hrethel’s forces—let them spend their remaining hours quaking in mortal dread.

“Heglyr is my name!” he declared in their speech. “Captain of the ninth colony—and may my words give thee no comfort.”

He twisted his vile head and stared at the entire assembly, relishing the fear he saw on their faces. “Greenreach has indeed fallen,” he hissed, “our legions destroyed the stinking lair of the Starwife this past night—and she too has been deservedly put to death!”

Anger and astonishment rippled through the chamber, the Lord Cyllinus gripped the arms of the throne until his knuckles turned white and Ysabelle gasped in disbelief. Only Ninnia seemed unmoved.

“Impossible,” her voice rang out. “The power of the Starwife is unassailable—nothing can break through her defences!”

Heglyr threw back his head and guffawed. “Is that so?” he crowed. “Is that really the truth? Then know this, a traitor have we nurtured in the bosom of that squalid land. ’Twas our creature who opened the way and the pouch bombers did wreathe the hill with a crown of fire. Nought remains there now, only ash blooms upon the charred branches and death fills the air.”

Ysabelle could bear it no more; she despised this stunted abomination and to hear him gloating was too much. “You massacred them!” she cried. “You cowards! They did nothing to you—what right had you to take their lives? May you and your wretched kind rot!”

“Return to your seat,” Ninnia said firmly. “Do as I ask.”

Her daughter obeyed and Griselda came and took her paw. “That’s telling the nasty devil, M’lady,” she whispered.

“Tell me the name of this traitor,” Ninnia demanded.

The bat merely sniggered. “I would fain cut out mine own tongue first!” he told her. “But this I shall willingly tell thee. None here is safe, for when the sun sets behind the world’s rim, our forces shall return. All will be rested and ready for battle. I have no doubt that others of our kind have been mustered; even as we bandy words the legions are swelling. Come nightfall they shall descend on thee and with them they shall bring the dreaded fire-eggs which nothing can withstand. Enjoy this day to the full, oh petty monarch, for verily it is thy last.” And with that, the bat chuckled, laughing at their scared and stupid faces.

There was a silence which slowly slipped into a frightened babble of voices until the chamber was in uproar.

“Silence!” the Lady called, but no one heard her. So terrible was the prospect of the coming evening that they could think of nothing else.

“We will have order in here!” Master Godfrey had stepped forward and was clapping his paws for attention. “The Lady Ninnia has called for silence, listen to what she has to say. You there, Mistress Toggle—shut up!”

“But if Greenreach has been destroyed,” the squirrels protested, “what chance has our little realm? No magic defends our borders. If the bats don’t get what they want we shall all be murdered!”

“That’s right!” laughed Heglyr. “Each and every one shall taste the steel. Surrender while you can, give up the pagan bauble. Let me take it to my kin.”

A few of the red squirrels listened to his advice and thought it was the only solution. “Yes!” they yelled. “Give it back, give the acorn to the bats!”

At this, Ninnia strode from her throne. “Give it back?” she repeated. “The amulet belongs to no Moonrider! Only a Starwife may possess the silver—what madness are you contemplating?”

“But the Starwife is dead!”

“Then a new one must be found!”

“But all the Greenreach maidens have perished!” they cried.

Ninnia paced before the thrones, fingering her own badge of office. Gradually the outbursts were quelled as all looked to her to find the answer. Surely her renowned wisdom would find a way to save them. Finally silence reigned once more, with only the footsteps of the Lady to disturb it.

At length, she returned to the throne and breathed deeply. When she finally spoke her voice was slow and deliberate, as if trying to control some deep and powerful emotion. “There is but one course we can take!” she declared, blinking away the tears which had sprung to her eyes.

“Whatever befalls us, the acorn must be withheld from the forces of Hrethel. It is our duty now to restore a Starwife to Greenreach. To this purpose we must send an army to the holy land and rid it of the bat menace.”

The squirrels stared at her, too stunned to speak. It was the prime counsellor who eventually put their doubts into words. “But, forgive me,” Godfrey muttered, “surely our strength, skilled though it may be, is no match for the might of the Moonriders and their fire-eggs. It would take the combined forces of all the noble houses to vanquish and rout them from Greenreach.”

Ninnia managed a faint smile. “The messengers have already been despatched,” she said softly. “In five days the four armies shall meet on the borders of the holy land and the battle for it will commence.”

“Fools!” Heglyr yelled. “What pitiful schemes you plot! None of you will ever leave this place—my kind shall hunt you down. What chance have you against them? The armies of your cousins may meet in Greenreach but you shall not join them. Tonight the acorn will be given to Rohgar and all your designs shall be ended!”

Master Godfrey eyed the prisoner uncertainly; he did sound awfully confident. Leaning forward, he addressed his sovereign. “Madam,” he began, “I presume this is why you asked me to find what maps of the outlying country I could. But tell me, just who is to take up the silver? You know of course that as you already possess the bronze, you cannot accept another—unless of course you relinquish the Hazel?”

“Fear not, Master Godfrey,” she assured him, “I have worn the bronze for far too long to surrender it now and I know that my place is here.”

“Then you must choose,” he said solemnly. “An heir to the silver must be found.”

Ninnia glanced at her husband and the guilt in her eyes betrayed her thoughts to him. “No,” he breathed, “you cannot!”

But the Lady raised her paw. “The choice has already been made,” she said flatly. “The new Starwife, the next Handmaiden of Orion, shall be the one who caught the silver acorn—my own daughter.”

The assembly spluttered in surprise and everyone turned to look at the young princess.

“M’lady!” Griselda squeaked, clutching her mistress’s arm with one paw and her own heart with the other.

Ysabelle stared dumbly at Ninnia. She could not believe what was being said—she had no desire to be the Starwife and her spirit quailed at the thought of it.

Cyllinus sprang to his feet. “Look at the child!” he cried. “See how she trembles at your words. Is this your wisdom, My Lady? Would you send our beautiful daughter from this realm and into certain death?”

“It would be death for her to remain,” his wife snapped back.

“Then let her die with us!”

“If she journeys to Greenreach she may not perish—that way there is hope.”

The Lord slammed his fist on the arm of her throne. “What hope?” he roared. “You know full well what dangers lie without our borders! Have we not heard the rumours? In the deep forests the cult of Hobb is rising—growing stronger with every day. Would you send our Belle into their midst? Do you know what they do to those they catch—would you inflict such horror upon your own child?”

Ninnia glared at her husband and her gaze smouldered with such furious rage that for a moment it seemed she would strike him. Then the tension eased and she quickly composed herself, but when she spoke her tone was bitter and recriminating. “Is that the regard you hold for me?” she asked. “Do you truly believe I would spend my beloved’s life so wantonly? Not easy is this for me, Cyllinus! The course I have chosen is perilous, yet there is no other.”

Her eyes left him and she turned to face her daughter. “Would that there were a different path,” she said softly, “but often the most difficult is the only way. Gladly would I go in her stead—alas, that cannot be. If I could foresee no hope, then yes we should be together when the fire-eggs begin to fall.”

Ysabelle lowered her eyes and stared at the amulet in her fingers. She hated it and wished someone else had caught the wretched thing. It was hard for her to understand all that was being said—why did her mother want to send her away?

The Lord Cyllinus gazed at her sadly. “Do you really think there is a chance?” he asked.

There was a pause as Ninnia hesitated. “Only the faintest glimmer,” came the frightening reply.

Griselda could not bear this any longer. “M’lady,” she blurted, “I know I’m only a fieldmouse and haven’t your great wisdom, but what’s all this talk of leaving? Why can’t we just hide from the bats when they come? There’s no need to go that long way to your holy land.”

“Hah!” scoffed Heglyr. “See how the vermin squirm and squabble. Run where you may—our flames shall find you!”

“There is your answer, Griselda,” Ninnia told the mouse. “And you, my husband, do you see now?”

Cyllinus stared at the repulsive bat and he pictured the brutal scenes that would unfold that night. He shivered and returned to his seat. “So be it,” he reluctantly agreed. “Into the forests the acorn must go—back to Greenreach, and may the Green watch over it.” Then he rested his chin on his fists and said no more.

“Then we can delay no longer,” the Lady said. “Ysabelle must leave as soon as possible. Before the afternoon comes she must already be on her way.”

At her side, Master Godfrey pressed his fingertips together and nibbled his bottom lip. “Who shall travel with the princess?” he asked. “The trackless woods are a peril, the entertainers who arrived this morning are the only ones who now dare to travel and most of them journey together in great numbers and already they have departed. We must send many guards and sentries with your daughter to protect her.”

“My thanks, Master Godfrey, I do know that.”

“Then how many shall accompany her?”

Ninnia glanced at the subjects who crowded the chamber—this was an evil day and she cursed her tongue for the terror that it was about to speak. “All of them!” she answered.

“But... but My Lady!” Godfrey stammered, and the room was filled with horrified murmurs. “That would leave our land defenceless—surely we should retain some of our archers at the very least?”

“They would be useless against the strength of our enemy!” she declared. “All hope now lies with my daughter. It is she who must be protected. Our guards shall escort her through the forests to the holy land.”

“What about those of us left behind?” cried a red squirrel. “Are we to hurl stones at the Moonriders or hit them with sticks while you and your family escape?”

“You there!” Godfrey protested. “Show respect to the Lady!”

Ninnia waved him into silence and smiled grimly at the insolent squirrel. “Each has a right to speak his mind,” she told him. “As to arms—there are more than enough for all who remain. I do not think we shall resort to throwing stones—a sword and spear shall be in every fist.” Then, taking hold of her husband’s paw she said, “And this night, I too shall bear weapons. For even though our warriors are gone we must make it a glorious battle. With our lives we shall buy time for my daughter and those that guard her. The acorn must escape the vigilance of Hrethel’s forces—that is the task set before us and I shall not ‘escape’ as you put it. This is my realm and if it falls then so do I.”

“Be sure of that!” Heglyr hooted gleefully. “What folly you speak and how easily you will fall victim to my brothers.”

The Lady stared at the prisoner. “A pity you shall not be here to witness it,” she told him, “for you also shall journey to Greenreach.”

“I?” Heglyr snorted. “For what purpose?”

“Along the way I’ve no doubt my guards will be able to extract much useful intelligence from you. They will need to know how your forces are deployed in the holy land—perhaps you will also be persuaded to divulge the identity of your traitor there?”

“Never!” the bat bawled. “Thou shalt learn nothing from me!”

“That remains to be seen!” Ninnia said and Heglyr recoiled from the menace in her voice. “I have every faith in the honour of my subjects. I trust none of them would sink to the baseness of your kind but who can tell? When they are far from here and if their need is great—what means shall they employ to loosen your arrogant and defiant tongue? In the deep shadows of the dark forests I fear for what may befall you, my fine, fallen warrior.”

Her words filled Heglyr with fear—so all the stories were true, these tree rats were indeed monstrous and cruel.

Without warning, his head whirled to the side and his fangs snapped at the guard holding his chains. The squirrel leaped back and in a trice Heglyr was free!

“Hold him!” the Lady commanded.

But the bat scurried from the guards and the crowded chamber rang with shrieks and screams as he charged up to the thrones.

Cyllinus ran forward to protect his wife as Heglyr lunged at her. “Damn you into the darkness!” the prisoner screeched as rough paws seized him. “I’ll not be made to betray my Lord Hrethel!”

Whirling round, he struck the guards with his damaged wing and, with a mad laugh bellowing in his throat, he rushed at one of the sentries.

Before the squirrel could move, the bat had thrown himself upon his spear and, with a hideous gurgle, the laughter ended.

At Ysabelle’s feet, Heglyr slid silently to the floor. His upturned face seemed to stare up at her, but she knew that the wide eyes were unseeing.

Griselda covered her mouth but a shrill scream still forced its way through. Her mistress however looked on the dead bat feeling nothing but contempt.

“Good!” said Ysabelle coldly. “I’m glad it’s dead. It was ugly and vile and I hate all their kind!”

The Lady Ninnia said nothing. It was not like her daughter to be so cruel and for the first time in her life she wondered if her wisdom had failed her.

The day that had begun so merrily and which had held so much promise, was now transformed into a desperate time of grievous dread. All the boundary wardens had gathered within the avenue of trees, along with every royal guard and sentry, but midday had come and gone before the preparations were complete.

The great company resembled a vast, spiky caterpillar. A bristling array of spears and swords formed its spines and the round shields of Coll Regalis were its hide. The host was ready, and though each of the squirrels, red and black, despised the fact that they had to leave their land defenceless, all knew their duty. On foot, Greenreach was far away and they had prepared for a tiring march which would last for many days.

From the central oak, Ysabelle came. None of this seemed real to her—so awful was the nightmare that she almost expected to wake up at any moment. Moving in a daze, she crossed the clearing and made for the mighty rows of her guard.

Over her shoulder she carried a bag which Griselda had packed for her. The mousemaid had fussed a great deal about having to leave—the thought of the forests terrified her and even as she collected Ysabelle’s belongings she uttered distressed whimpers.

“M’lady!” she called, scurrying over the lawn after her mistress. “Stay a while, wait for me. Oh what madness is this? Into the jaws of terror we’re rushing!”

The mouse was burdened by many baggages: a bulging knapsack was strapped to her back, a satchel was slung over her shoulder, two fat wallets were fastened to a belt about her waist and as she ran her mousebrass jiggled and swung madly about her neck.

“I’m sure to have forgot something,” she scolded herself, running through the lists in her head. “Oh well, it can’t be helped now.”

Catching up with her mistress, Griselda panted for breath and watched her curiously. Ysabelle looked awful, her face was drawn and her eyes were glazed. She appeared to be on the point of collapse. The mouse’s heart bled for the squirrel maiden. The poor mite—she was far too young to take on the terrible responsibility of the Starwifeship.

Griselda wondered if she ought to say something to cheer her, but her own feelings were so low that any attempt would fail dismally.

They came to the head of the army. A large crowd had formed about the rows of guards and the sight was painful to witness. The entire population of the Hazel Realm was once more upon the lawns although this time the only sounds were wretched and the tears that flowed innumerable.

Wives clung to husbands, children wailed—confused and forlorn because their fathers were going away—and their plaintive cries tormented the doughtiest of soldiers that day. The grief of mothers was also to be heard; to see their sons arrayed for war and the certainty that they would never meet in this world again was too much to bear. Coll Regalis was already a land in mourning.

Standing at the forefront of the lamenting crowd, Ninnia and Cyllinus waited for their daughter to approach.

“Belle!” the Lord cried. “My precious darling.” He threw his arms about her and the two remained locked in a desperate embrace.

Ninnia stood apart. A bleakness overwhelmed her, she wanted to reach out and never let go of Ysabelle. Her soul screamed within her, but she must not falter—not now. The mask must stay in place a little while longer. It would be the undoing of everything if she succumbed to her feelings.

“Remember us, Belle,” Cyllinus wept, “when the dangers are past and you sit upon the throne in Greenreach. Think of us. Do not forget me, little one.”

“Oh Father!” Ysabelle sobbed. “I don’t want to leave. Please do not make me!”

Cyllinus glanced at his wife, but her face was like stone.

“You know you must,” the Lady said. “Come, Daughter—make haste to be gone. You shall have to put much distance between yourself and this land before night falls. The litter is prepared for you.”

Taking Ysabelle lightly by the paw, she led her to where a group of eight guards saluted and came to attention. A large, gilded couch stood at their side; upon this the princess and her maid would be carried to the holy land, protected on all sides by her mighty escort. A pale green canopy was draped over the litter, and soft cushions had been arranged to make the journey as comfortable as possible.

“This will bear you to Greenreach,” Ninnia told her. “Griselda shall accompany you and Master Godfrey will be your guide. Only he knows the route you must take, for only he has studied the charts and maps of the land. I know many of my subjects deride him, but Godfrey Gelenos is a most learned scholar—do not hesitate in taking his advice. When you are the Starwife you shall have need of his counsel.”

“I don’t want to be the Starwife!” Ysabelle protested. “It isn’t fair!”

Her mother wavered, even now it was not too late.

“You must fulfil your destiny,” she said at last. “The Starwifeship is already yours. All that remains is for you to bring the amulet and the Starglass together. Once that is done the power of the heavens will be yours to command. Use it wisely, for the forces locked within the silver acorn may be used for good or ill. On your journey, never be parted from it, always wear it about your neck.”

“I wish I could use it now to protect us all!” Ysabelle snapped. “When I get to Greenreach, the first thing I’ll do will be to use the magic against the bats—I’ll set a terror in each and every one. They shall not live long to rue what they have done!”

Ninnia stepped back from her. “The day grows old,” she said quickly. “Master Godfrey is coming, and you must leave now.”

“Ooh, M’lady,” Griselda cooed, “look at the prime counsellor—see who’s walking with him. Well I never did!”

Down the avenue of trees the eldest of the queen’s advisers came and at his side walked Wendel the jester. The two seemed to be involved in a most heated discussion punctuated by vehement shakes of the head from Master Godfrey and feverish hops from the stoat.

“Most certainly not!” Godfrey cried, unfurling a chart and trying to ignore his unwanted companion. “This is a most serious undertaking, there is no room for your base levity here!”

“Oh kind—most benevolent squirrel!” Wendel implored. “Most noble and clever scourer of books, let me tag along—I beseech thee, assuredly I do!”

Here the jester fell to his knees and began hobbling over the grass with his paws clenched before him in supplication. As one of his arms was in a sling, this proved to be very distressing and he whined at the pain in between speaking.

“There!” Godfrey squawked, greatly flustered at this embarrassing show. “That’s precisely the kind of foolery I mean. Now get away with you!”

“You won’t even know I’m there—I vow!” begged the jester. “For a few days only—oooch my poor shoulder! Was it my fault I missed the others? I would have joined them but—eeeh how it pains me! But they left so quickly!”

Godfrey abandoned all hope of trying to ignore him and tucked the scroll he had been studying firmly into one of the satchels that he carried. “Am I to blame for that?” he said tersely. “I do know the voles came looking for you but you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was with the woodwright! My cart needed mending! I can do naught without it.”

“Well, they obviously thought you weren’t worth waiting for. Now, do get up off the ground, you’re getting under my feet!”

He quickened his pace and approached the head of the company, leaving the stoat behind. When he reached the Lady Ninnia, Master Godfrey bowed low and announced that all was ready—the route had been planned.

“Remember,” Ninnia said, “the bats must not guess the way you have taken; the obvious paths must be avoided.”

“Fear not,” he replied sombrely, “it will be difficult but we shall not be marked by our enemies.”

The Lady nodded, then looked to where Wendel sat in the grass—his face miserable and forlorn. “Tell me, Master Godfrey,” she began, “what were you and the stoat talking about?”

The counsellor assumed a haughty and disparaging air. “Would you believe it, madam,” he began, “that nauseating and vulgar personage was asking to join this noble company. Such unrivalled impudence I cannot remember.”

“The other entertainers have left without him?”

“Indeed, and in truth I am not surprised—his constant banal babbling has given me an ache in my head.”

Ninnia looked from the stoat to her daughter and wasted no more time. “Tell the jester he may join you,” she said firmly.

Godfrey gasped and mumbled under his breath, but his sovereign had decided.

“The forest is too dangerous for him to traverse alone and we cannot expect a stranger to remain here to defend our realm. Let him journey with you as far as he wishes—a small reward for the valour he showed this morning. Remember, Godfrey, that without him we should all be mourning the loss of my daughter. Go to him, tell him to collect his belongings—perhaps you will learn to find his ways amusing?”

“Who can say, madam?” Godfrey muttered before stomping off to tell the jester the news. In a moment Wendel Maculatum had leapt to his feet, whistled his thanks to the Lady Ninnia and sped to the Woodwright’s to retrieve his cart.

“Now is the time,” Ninnia said gravely. “Come Ysabelle, you must depart.”

Ysabelle gave her father one final hug and his tears mingled with hers. Neither of them spoke, for the agony of this parting was beyond words. He crushed her against his chest and carried the raw pain of that moment into eternity.

Then Ysabelle turned to her mother, but Ninnia held back. Though she cursed herself, she knew she must not weaken.

“Farewell, child,” the Lady said, and how magnificently she controlled her voice, not a tremor of emotion betrayed her anguish. “May the Green watch over you and may he guide you safely to the holy land.”

With that she walked away and gave the signal for the company to leave.

Ysabelle stared after her mother and sorrowfully climbed into the litter. Griselda had already clambered in and the mouse squeezed her paw tightly. “This is it, M’lady,” she muttered, “into the deadly forest we go.”

The heralds blew their trumpets, but the sound echoed hollowly about the avenue like a funeral dirge. In one movement, the eight guards took hold of the bier and lifted it off the ground. Then, with the wailing of those left behind still ringing in their ears, the great host marched for the border with the waddling form of the jester and his cart taking up the rear. None of them ever saw the Hazel Realm again.

As the sombre procession moved away, the Lady Ninnia moved to her husband’s side.

“Green be with you, my little Belle,” Cyllinus whispered as he watched the last of the company disappear into the distant trees. “I will pray for your safe keeping, and may you come at last to the holy land and be victorious against our enemies.”

Ninnia stared intently at the blank stretch of trees into which the host of Coll Regalis had marched. Desperately she clutched at the bronze hazelnut about her neck and the desolation that she had so valiantly been mastering now consumed her. The grief into which her spirit was plunged was too terrible to bear. Shaking, she fell into her husband’s arms.

“What have I done?” she wept. “Our child is gone, she is lost to us!”

Cyllinus held her grimly, his heart was too injured to feel anything. “You did what your wisdom demanded,” he said flatly, “you did what you had to do, for the good of all.”

“But, I never held her!” she sobbed bitterly. “I never even said goodbye!”

Cyllinus trembled as all the pain his wife had concealed erupted in great, racking bursts of emotion. But all his thoughts were for their daughter and he could not comfort the Lady Ninnia. Awkwardly, he stepped back and looked about the avenue, where similar scenes of grief were being enacted. “There is no time to mourn,” he muttered gruffly. “If we are to be ready for the assault which will befall us this coming night then there is much to do.”

Ninnia stared at him; now more than ever she needed him but Cyllinus had grown cold towards her. She wiped the tears from her face and nodded. “We must prepare to fight a battle we have no hope of winning,” she said.

A dark gleam shone in her husband’s eye—win or not, he would take many Moonriders with him. “For our daughter’s sake,” he said, “we must fight well. A fine Starwife she will be—the greatest that ever there was.”

With that he strode to the centre of the avenue and began rallying his subjects, spurring them to take up arms and give all in defence of their land.

Alone, her soul destroyed and her heart bereft and empty, the Lady Ninnia touched her amulet and closed her eyes. “No,” she breathed, “I was wrong. This time my wisdom has failed me. Our daughter is not ready—to become the Handmaiden of Orion, one must know terrible grief in order to learn compassion.” She gazed after her husband and shook her head sorrowfully. “Even the deaths of us, her parents, are not, I fear, enough. May she find what she needs upon that dark and deadly road which I have sent her. My poor, poor child—farewell.”

4 - Through Gorse and Bramble

The woods that flanked the Hazel Realm were calm and tranquil glades. Many creatures dwelt there in peace—safe in the knowledge that no harm could befall them while the boundary wardens kept vigil in the branches of the trees high above. But now the watchdrays were empty; every squirrel had joined the company of Ysabelle and an uneasy silence possessed the once tame woodland. In the grassy, flower-speckled banks, the entrances to burrows and holes gaped blindly—for each inhabitant was away preparing for the coming battle.

No eyes saw the great army of Coll Regalis march deeper towards the shadowy forest, there was no one to hear the rattle of shield against spear as the host departed from Ninnia’s land. On they marched and the tramp of their many feet was the only voice heard beneath the blossoming trees.

Upon her couch of gold, Ysabelle drew back the curtain and let the sunlight of the warm afternoon play over her features, while upon its fine chain, the silver acorn burned with a cold white fire.

Griselda sat beside her; the mouse had brought some needlework along in an effort to keep her mind off things but this proved to be an exceedingly vain hope. In the space of only half an hour she had pricked nearly all her fingers at least twice and the delicate embroidery she had been working on was spotted with red dots.

“Blether!” she said, throwing the fabric among the cushions and sucking her sore fingers.

Ysabelle glanced down at the embroidery and the scarlet spots seemed to dance before her eyes. Silently she wondered how long it would be until the blood of her parents spilled over the Hazel Realm.

Feeling sick, she turned away and took a deep breath of the spring air.

At the vanguard of the company, Master Godfrey finished instructing the royal marshalls on the route he had devised and stood to one side. As the countless wardens, sentries and guards marched by, he rolled up the maps he had been studying and went in search of the princess’s litter.

“We make good time, My Lady,” he told her. “When evening falls we should have put a fair distance between us and our home.”

Ysabelle nodded as Godfrey trotted alongside but did not know what to say. For as long as she had known him Master Godfrey Gelenos had been her tutor—and a decidedly stuffy one at that. Most of her short life had been spent inventing ways to avoid his boring lessons and thinking up excuses as to why she had not been able to complete a task he had set her.

Now everything had changed, Godfrey was treating her with a respect and deference he had not shown before. Gone was the weary voice of the impatient tutor and Ysabelle found it difficult to adjust to this different attitude.

The prime counsellor cleared his throat. “The straight path to the holy land lies, of course, due north,” he told her, “but we cannot go that way. Once the forces of Hrethel discover our flight, they shall naturally assume that to be our route. This is why I have chosen a large detour into the west which will hopefully confuse our enemies.”

He held out the map for Ysabelle’s inspection and approval but the squirrel maiden barely glanced at it. “Forgive me, Master Godfrey,” she said, “but mine head is too full of grief to think of aught else. Later, perhaps, I will be able to give it my full attention.”

“There now M’lady,” Griselda clucked, patting her mistress’s paws. “This is no time for book learning—why not try to get some sleep?”

“Come, come,” pressed Master Godfrey, with some of his tutorial authority creeping back into his voice, “I really do think you should take a look.”

Ysabelle sighed and stared for a moment at the chart he held out to her. In the centre of the parchment was a detailed drawing of the Hazel Realm, but once outside its borders the pictures became rather vague. The dense forest was everywhere of course, and fine red and blue lines indicated where the main paths and sacred streams criss-crossed the country. Here and there, green symbols showed where holy shrines stood, but apart from a hesitant depiction of a wide river at the top of the scroll there was very little else.

“Is this the best map we have?” Ysabelle asked. “I cannot see where Greenreach lies. Can it be that curious expanse there?”

“No, My Lady,” Godfrey replied. “That appears to be an area of swamp and marsh. The Blessed Hill of the Starwife is up here, near the bend of the great river.”

“But it looks smaller than our own land!”

The prime counsellor coughed and muttered apologetically. “A regrettable trait of our chart makers and illuminators, I fear,” he sorrowfully admitted. “Alas, these parchments are very old and in those simple days our folk were wont to feature Coll Regalis most prominently. Remember that there was very little call for anyone to journey so far. No one ever travelled to Greenreach from our small realm—not in my lifetime anyway.”

Ysabelle frowned. “Forgive me,” she began, “but it seems to me a very small distance between the two. I would deem it to be a day’s ramble at the most.”

“Ah, there again, I fear the chart is deceiving. A good many days shall it be.”

Ysabelle shook her head, “Then I pray we do not lose ourselves in the fastness of the trackless woods,” she said.

“There is no chance of that,” he confidently assured her.

The squirrel maiden breathed deeply. “What madness do we pursue?” she whispered. “Here are we, hurling ourselves deeper into danger, putting our trust in ancient maps and desperate hopes.”

Ever more frequently, the sunlight grew dim as the ceiling of branch and twig became tangled and knotted overhead. Here was the beginning of the wild world and a sensation of dread and apprehension coursed throughout the entire company as they left the safe woods far behind.

“I’m afraid our progress will be slower henceforth,” Godfrey informed Ysabelle. “In places the undergrowth will hinder us and must needs be cut down. If you will excuse me, I shall have a word with the marshalls.”

“Ooh I don’t like this, M’lady,” Griselda miserably whimpered. “If’n we have to constantly hack through weeds and brambles, we shall never get to your holy place and those filthy bats will find us!”

Ysabelle leaned out of the litter and looked to where Godfrey was telling the marshalls to unsheathe their swords and begin cutting through any obstacles in their path. “Fear not,” she told the mouse, “for the undergrowth which slows us down will also screen us from the eyes of Hrethel’s army.”

But Griselda was not so easily comforted. “Well, if they don’t get us the Hobbers will!” she yelped. “You remember the stories I used to tell you, M’lady?”

Her mistress threw the mouse a reproachful look that was mostly born from fear. “Be quiet!” she snapped. “Are we not in peril enough without you wishing to add to it? Keep the ogres of the nursery under your cap, Griselda—I don’t want to hear of them again!”

The mousemaid folded her arms and stared dismally at her needlework.

Very softly, a voice began to chant. Griselda looked up in surprise, for Ysabelle was repeating the lines of a rhyme she had taught her long, long ago.

“Tread not into the fearsome night
But pull the covers high.
Step not into the wild dark wood
For the Hobbers are dancing nigh.”

“Oh M’lady,” the mouse spluttered, “I marvel you can recall that—why, you were only a babe in arms!”

Ysabelle did not hear her; for a brief moment she was back in the nursery. It was a grim winter’s evening and a biting gale howled around the central oak. As a child, the young squirrel had been very afraid—the wind seemed to shriek with evil voices and she imagined that they called her name.

“Who is out there?” her own meek voice had asked.

A much younger Griselda swept the squirreling into her maternal arms and kissed her forehead. “Don’t you listen to them now, my little duck,” the mouse had said. “’Tis but the Hobbers, wanting to lure you out. But they can’t get us in here, can they now? We’m all snug and cosy—and your mammy’s soldiers would never let them near. No, so long as we’re here, nothing shall trouble us—not even the sleep visitor shall haunt your dreams. Fret no more, you are safe from the infernal three.”

The memory of the fear she had felt in her childhood now returned to Ysabelle, and for some time she felt cold and scared. Then its hold was broken, and the mood scattered in tiny ripples as a familiar clattering sound dragged her back to the present. Into the leaf-dappled afternoon, her childish fears melted and once more she felt the warmth of the sun upon her face.

Twisting about, she peered back to where the company stretched far behind and the shadow of a smile flickered over her lips.

“Ho, Mistress!” came a voice above the clattering of the cart’s wheels. “What can be the delay? I did bump into one of thy guards, so sudden was the halt. Not popular is Wendel back there, I fear mine prop wagon did shed some of its splinters into a soldier’s behind.”

Ysabelle’s face broke into a full grin as the jester came hurrying alongside—pushing his repaired wagon before him. A loud ‘Tut!’ issued from the litter as Griselda showed her disapproval of the stoat’s familiarity, but neither he nor her mistress took any notice.

Wendel made a comical bow that set all the bells of his hat ringing madly. “A most peculiar road we have taken thus far,” he observed, utterly bemused. “Surely little can be gained by trudging through every nettle patch and ditch? Or is this some new game devised by Gloomy Gelenos over yonder? If so, I find its merit and wit exceeding rare.”

“Master Maculatum,” Ysabelle began.

“Please, good Lady!” he interrupted, holding up an objecting paw. “Address this Tomfool as either Wendel or Squire Ticklerib, or perhaps simply Jester Long Body, but no ‘Master’—that is a title fit only for the glums and brainpans of the world, not I.”

“Wendel, then,” Ysabelle continued, “now that you are here, stay by my side. I need diverting from the dark roads ahead.”

“Then here shall I remain,” the stoat replied. He bowed once more but just as he was about to straighten, Wendel’s expression changed drastically.

“What is it?” asked Ysabelle, disturbed by his staring eyes and shocked look.

“Thine ear, madam!” the stoat declared.

Ysabelle’s paws went to her ears but she could feel nothing wrong with them. Beside her, Griselda frowned and wondered what the impudent jester was up to now.

“Allow me!” Wendel begged and he leaned forward, cupping her right ear in both his paws. “There!” he cried. “I have it!”

With an extravagant flourish, he appeared to pull a length of brightly coloured cloth from the squirrel’s ear. Ysabelle laughed in spite of her worries and the stoat leapt in the air, whirling the material about him.

“I’ve seen that trick before,” muttered an unimpressed Griselda, “and done better—why, ’tis older than I!”

Wendel pulled a small wooden chest from his cart and stuffed the cloth inside it before spinning round and staring at the mousemaid with a curious look on his face. “Is this not my dancing partner?” he chuckled.

“You keep your distance!” squeaked Griselda as he leaned under the canopy and reached for her. “M’lady! M’lady!”

The jester ran his fingers over the mouse’s lips and suddenly the litter was filled with the flutter of many wings as countless painted moths seemed to escape from her mouth.

“Eeeek!” she wailed as the insects issued forth and tickled her face. “Oh, you wretch!”

Ysabelle batted the moths away with her paw and giggled as they flew from the canopy.

“Dear jester,” she laughed, “if you have any more tricks you had best leave them in your cart. I fear my maid does not approve.”

“Be not so certain, ma’am,” the stoat replied with a wink. “I do believe thy nibbler has warmed to me already.”

“I have not!” spluttered Griselda, fiercely throwing a cushion at the insolent fellow. “Why, I have never seen such disgraceful behaviour! Keep away, you knave, before I tell the guards to see you off and leave you to the mercy of the Hobbers!”

For an instant the stoat’s face lost all trace of humour, as though the mere mention of the dreaded cult had terrified him. Quickly he recovered and said hastily, “Why, here comes another of my many admirers—Master Godfrey of the gloomy disposition and humourless aspect.”

The prime counsellor blustered towards them. With a sniff for the stoat and a nod for Ysabelle, he briefly explained that all was now well and they could set off again—a group of wardens were clearing the way ahead.

“You may return to the rear of the company,” Godfrey dismissed Wendel, “we don’t want the rag-tag cluttering things up here—now run along.”

Griselda’s snort of approval was swiftly curtailed as Ysabelle spoke up. “The jester will remain where he is,” she told Godfrey, “his presence pleases me.”

The old squirrel scrunched up his face and clenched his teeth as the jester stuck out a pink tongue to him. “Whatever you wish,” he said from behind a forced smile.

Through gorse and thorn, the army of the Hazel Realm cut its way. The day wore on and the afternoon shadows grew long. Above them the sky was growing dim and the hour that all of them had been dreading crept slowly closer.

As the shadows increased, Wendel tried to amuse the squirrel maiden and at first she was grateful to him, but eventually nothing could turn her thoughts from the horror they had left behind. As the jester related riddles and nonsense stories, Ysabelle could think only of her parents and his words washed over her like babbling water over an immovable stone.

At the forefront of the company, the wardens hacked and sliced through the thick undergrowth. Their palms were blistered and the blades of their swords notched where they struck hidden roots. It was tough work and the squirrels strained and sweated over it.

Samuel Muin hewed at a stubborn thicket of holly. He had been in the service of the boundary wardens for nearly five years and behind him he had left a wife and three young children. It enraged him to think what would befall his family and his furious resentment was spent upon the vines and branches which barred the way. Every bough of thorn and bramble was, to him, one of Hrethel’s bats and his sword sang through the undergrowth more violently than any other.

He hated this place, it was nothing like the well ordered woods of his home. Here the leaves had been left to rot upon the ground and at times he had to wade up to his middle to push through the mouldering drifts. The sickly smell of leaf decay was everywhere and he hoped that the long journey to Greenreach would not always be so arduous.

Suddenly, his sword ceased hissing through the air. Samuel held his breath and motioned for those about him to do the same.

“What is it?” wheezed his neighbour.

“There’s something over there!” Samuel whispered. “I’m sure of it!”

Everyone stared in the direction the warden pointed. It was a dark hollow in the undergrowth where two ragged thorn bushes met and twisted together.

“I see naught!” someone grumbled uncertainly.

“Look there!” growled Samuel. “Small footprints lead into that gap and see—for an instant a pair of eyes did gleam in the shadow!”

That was enough for the others. With a shout, twenty of them ran forward, brandishing swords and spears. From within the thorn bush there came a terrified howl and a small figure tried to scurry through a narrow opening in the brambles.

“A bat!” the wardens shrieked. “It is a bat we have cornered. Take him! Take him!”

Vesper squirmed between the sharp thorns as fast as he could. His heart thumped in his chest and panic flooded his mind. He had been listening to the approach of the company for some time but had been unable to move for fear of discovery. Now it was too late; as tears of fright ran down his cheeks, he left his cover and anxiously pelted through the leaf piles beyond.

It was no good. The young bat’s left wing was damaged and he was unable to fly. He cursed himself for ever being so stupid. Why had he disobeyed his mother? Why had he put on his father’s armour and followed the Moonriders to Greenreach? Now that armour was gone—Terrorgrin, which his father had worn with so much honour, he had lost and the gauntlets with it.

They had been right—all of them. He had been too young to wear the screechmask. He hadn’t even made it to Greenreach in time, the war gear was so heavy that all the fighting was over when he arrived. All he saw was the fierce flames that surrounded the hill and for a few desperate moments wondered where the other bats had gone. Fortunately, or so he had thought then, he saw the dark mass of the great host in the far distance of the southern sky and immediately set off after. But how weary Vesper soon became, how the armour pulled him down and how his muscles ached trying to keep him airborne.

Eventually, Vespertilio had plummeted from the heavens—even as the sun began to rise. Down he fell, the gauntlets slipping from his feet and Terrorgrin spinning from his head. That was all he could remember, for the bat had struck the branch of a tree and fallen senseless to the forest floor.

When he awoke he found that his wing was hanging limply at his side and the pain of it caused him to cry out. And now his mortal enemies had caught him.

Floundering through the rotting leaves, Vesper dragged his wing behind, but all efforts were in vain. The squirrels had surrounded him and their faces were vicious and cruel.

“Get him!” one of the tree rats cried.

Vesper shrieked as they launched themselves at him and their strong paws seized him roughly. For a terrible second he thought he would be torn to pieces right there, but one of the squirrels pushed the others away and lifted the bat off the ground.

“Maggot fodder!” screamed Samuel Muin into Vesper’s face. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done! Say a quick prayer to your vile lord for, by the Almighty Green, this is the last you’ll see of this world!” He hurled Vesper down and swiftly drew his sword.

The young bat wept and scuttled backwards, scattering the dead leaves about him. But Samuel raised the sword and it came scything down.

“Hold!” cried a stern voice. Samuel Muin whirled round and there was Godfrey Gelenos.

“Keep out of this, counsellor!” the warden snarled.

“I will not!” Master Godfrey firmly replied. He pushed through the ranks of the other sentries that had gathered behind Samuel until he stood beside him and glared at the warden threateningly.

“The worm is mine!” Samuel growled and the murmurs which issued from those around him agreed totally.

“Look again!” Godfrey told him. “What terrible warrior is it you have caught? What mighty general have you captured, Warden Muin?”

Samuel glanced back at the terrified Vesper and his stomach heaved within him. “’Tis... ’tis naught but a child!” he stammered. “Why... why my own son Bergil can be no older!” He dropped his sword and staggered back—aghast at what he had been about to do.

Godfrey turned to the others, they too were sickened. “Does anyone else have a quarrel with this child?” the prime counsellor asked. No one answered. “Then bring him to where the Lady Ysabelle waits—he must be questioned.”

Once more Vesper felt squirrel paws take hold of him, but this time it was different—the creatures were almost gentle. He winced when they took hold of his wing and when they saw this they treated him all the more tenderly. Perhaps they were cowards, he thought to himself as they led him through the rows of sentries and guards. Why else would they have spared his life?

But Vesper soon had other things on his mind, for now he realised how great a host this was. Surely this must be the sum total of all squirrels—never had he believed there were so many and all bore armour and deadly weapons. He blinked at the lethal array of blade and spear and wondered what this portended for the rest of his kind.

Every face was turned on him as he stumbled past and he wondered how long he would stay unharmed, for here too anger and hatred smouldered at the sight of him. Vesper tried not to meet the eyes of his captors, for his spirit quailed and whatever courage he once thought he possessed had fled far away.

A strange frame covered by green material rose behind the armoured heads of the guards in front and the bat found himself even more frightened than ever before. He was going to have to face the leader of his enemies. Vesper felt faint as he tried to guess what the canopy was for—perhaps the squirrel lord was so ugly that he had to be covered at all times.

Godfrey led the bat to where a stoat in a strange head-dress gawped at him stupidly and beads of perspiration prickled over Vesper’s brow. This was it, the old black squirrel drew the green material aside and the young bat saw...

Vesper nearly choked; seated upon a golden couch was a squirrel maiden and a ridiculous looking mouse—it was so unexpected and peculiar that he almost laughed at them both.

“Master Godfrey,” the maiden began, “is this the cause of the disturbance we heard?”

“It is indeed, madam,” came the solemn reply.

Ysabelle stared at the bat and shuddered. “It’s as ugly as the one who killed itself,” she grimaced. “Are there more ahead?”

“I think not, madam,” said Godfrey. “You will see that his wing is damaged. The fellow must have been separated from the main host.”

Ysabelle leaned back, as though the bat offended her sense of smell and she waved a paw in front of her face. “Take it away,” she declared. “Give it to the guards—let them kill it!”

At that Vesper’s cowed spirit rallied a little. “Here, Miss High and Mighty!” he cried. “Who do you think you are? Turn thy nose up at me, would you? Well hear this, no sweet flower art thou! Prettier dungheaps I’ve seen—but few with such low manners as thine!”

“Oh the devil!” yelped Griselda. “Why he’s ruder than the jester!”

“And who art thou, Mistress Plumpmouse? Why do you recline upon a cushioned bed? Are thy legs too weak to bear thee?”

“Take this creature away!” Ysabelle commanded. “Execute it immediately—I want the foul beast dead!”

Godfrey gave the bat a cautionary look and whispered in Ysabelle’s ear. “Remember the use your mother thought to make of Heglyr,” he said. “Perhaps this servant of Hrethel can be persuaded to aid us in his stead.”

Ysabelle listened to his advice, her eyes brimming with loathing for the prisoner. “Very well,” she said when her anger had cooled a little, “bind him and bring the creature with us, I shall question him later.”

So Vesper was bound with ropes and made to march with the company.

Wendel Maculatum watched the guards bundle the young bat out of earshot and he scratched his head thoughtfully. “Methinks you shall come to rue the advice of Master Godfrey,” he told Ysabelle, “for are not all bats instruments of death and despair? Surely we both know that better than he? What viper have we taken into our bosom? Only evil will come of this, I fear.”

For the few hours of daylight that remained, the company plunged deeper into the forest. Dusk was near and every step brought them closer to nightfall. Slowly the light failed and the rays of the sun dwindled behind distant tree tops. All talk ceased as they waited and strained to hear what they knew they must. And then it came.

Great pools of shadow now covered the forest floor and the trees rose dark and threatening on every side.

As if controlled by a single instinct, the entire host of squirrels halted.

Far away, a dull explosion boomed into the night and a red glare shone in the heavens. The battle had begun.

No one moved, all were as still as the trees that surrounded them, whilst the distant explosions continued to balefully light the sky.

“It is the end,” Ysabelle whispered. “Coll Regalis is falling—the fire-eggs have come to them.”

The roaring resounded in all their ears and they lowered their eyes so that they might not witness the awful glare any longer. Ysabelle’s paw took hold of Griselda’s and the two gripped each other grimly. The world they had known was burning and they both knew that even now the Moonriders were attacking.

Only Vesper’s face was raised to the radiance of the mighty blaze and a wonderful rejoicing filled his heart. The forces of Hrethel were victorious once more. He almost felt like cheering, but one quick glance at those around him soon quashed that idea. It would not be long before his kindred found this dreadful army and then he would be set free. The bat gazed long at the crackling glow that illuminated the darkness, then he too had to hang his head, but that was because a broad grin had split his face and he did not want the others to see.

The eight squirrels who were carrying the litter, placed their burden upon the ground and, beneath the canopy, Ysabelle wept.

Suddenly she gasped—clutching her breast as though a knife had been plunged between her ribs. Then she screamed and a violent shuddering seized her. “Mother!” she cried. “Father!”

“M’lady!” howled Griselda, frightened by her mistress’s behaviour.

“They’re gone!” Ysabelle whispered. “They’re dead! I know it—I sensed their pain!”

She sobbed into the mouse’s shoulder, then the host of squirrels lay down their weapons and knelt in prayer and sorrow upon the ground.

“Majesty,” said Godfrey at Ysabelle’s side, “now thou art our sovereign queen.”

The maiden raised her head and drew her palm over her eyes. Godfrey was right—he was telling her that henceforth she must be like her mother and govern them. Trembling slightly, she took hold of the silver acorn and steadied herself.

Her old tutor nodded faintly and his gaze held her for many minutes. “The time is come,” he spoke quietly. “Now, when lesser folk would wither, thou must be true to the blood of thine ancestors. Much greatness is bred in thee, accept now this terrible mantle and take a step nearer thy destiny.”

Ysabelle closed her eyes and his words seemed to reach deep within her, awakening some ancient power which had long lain dormant.

When next she looked up, her glance was keen and clear. She knew now why her mother had forced her upon this road and she was determined that the sacrifice of the Hazel Realm would not be in vain.

In a firm and level voice, she addressed her counsellor and gave her first instructions as queen. “We cannot remain here,” she told him. “Greenreach is still many leagues distant. We must press on.”

And so the journey continued, while behind the silent company, the ruddy night reflected the blood that was being spilled in the land they had left.

For another hour the army marched, until Ysabelle decreed that the time had come to rest.

Beneath the shelter of a dense row of holly trees, where the dead leaves were dry upon the ground, the squirrels made their camp. Blankets were cast onto the soft, musty heaps and a circular tent was erected for the new queen and her maid.

The many guards who were lucky enough not to be in the first watch, ate a frugal and morose meal then threw themselves upon the makeshift beds. But the slumber into which they quickly sank was filled with horror and the ghosts of those they had left behind.

Griselda patted the cushions she had taken from the litter and arranged them inside the tent. “Most unsuitable!” she observed, nibbling the last few crumbs of the oat biscuits which had formed her supper. “A bed of the softest down she ought to be sleeping upon.”

Outside, Ysabelle was speaking to Master Godfrey. So far his strategy had been successful, for the bats had not come hunting for them. No doubt they were searching along the main paths that led to Greenreach, but they would still have to be careful.

“We must travel only in the daytime,” he counselled her, “for then are the eyes of our enemy the weakest. By tomorrow’s night we should already be encamped in a manner like to this. No fires must we light to cheer us or cook our food, for the slightest sign will betray our presence. No doubt the hunt shall travel farther afield the second night and the spies of Hrethel can cover great distances.

“Now do we become truly wary—even if we have to creep through the forest like common thieves and footpads, that we must do.”

Ysabelle pressed her paws together and rested her chin upon the tips of her fingers. “I pray the messengers my mother sent to our kindred arrive safe,” she said. “Without the aid of the other houses we shall be of little use in the holy land.”

Godfrey smiled, “Let such worries concern you when we reach our goal,” he said. “For my part, I fear there will be many dangers between here and that final battle.”

The maiden cast her gaze about the hundreds of squirrels who lay upon the forest floor. The sound of their slumber filtered softly into the night air and she shook her head sadly. “A terrible price have we already paid for the deliverance of the holy land,” she said. “Look at them. How many fathers and sons are present here? All have lost someone this day.”

Godfrey stared at her with some surprise. “How different you have become, My Lady,” he breathed. “Where has the giggling pupil gone to? Most certainly she set off with us—but now she had changed much.”

Ysabelle nodded and let loose a faint, bitter laugh. “Have you forgotten?” she murmured. “’Tis Aldertide still and this morning I danced with the wand. A lifetime ago that now seems—when I was a child without care or want. Curious how even a little time can alter so much.”

“Very proud your parents would be of their daughter.”

She sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily. “Strange,” she said, stifling a yawn, “even after all that has occurred, I feel that I could sleep. Where are the guards you sent to fetch the prisoner? Let us be done with him quickly for I don’t know how long mine eyes will stay open.”

Even as she finished speaking, two black squirrels emerged from the shadows ahead and between them hopped Vesper—his legs still tied together.

The young bat eyed the queen uncertainly—was he to be executed after all?

Ysabelle glanced at Godfrey and her old tutor gave her an encouraging smile. “Trust in your own powers,” he said gently.

The maiden turned to the prisoner and assumed a regal and superior air. “Tell me,” she began, “how many legions of your kind now guard the Blessed Hill of Greenreach? What manner of defences have you employed there?”

The bat pursed his lips resolutely and made no reply.

“Very well,” she said, “then reveal unto me the name of the traitor who helped you massacre our kindred.”

Vesper nibbled his wispy beard and ignored her absolutely. The fact that he didn’t know the answers to her questions was neither here nor there—he wasn’t going to let these pox-ridden squirrels know that. He didn’t even know why Rohgar had led the bat host to the Hazel Realm in the first place.

The more she interrogated him, the more he raised his eyebrows and rolled his small black eyes.

Ysabelle strode forward until she was face to face with the ugly winged creature. “Too many have perished this night,” she spat. “How dare you stand there and say nothing!”

“There’s naught to say,” Vesper shrugged. “I shall not betray my brethren unto thee—whatever you might threaten. Your paltry forces hold no fear for me,” he lied, “’tis thou who shouldst worry.”

“What do you mean?” she snapped.

The bat shrugged once more. “My folk will find you,” he said in a matter of fact way, “simple as that. You might have deceived them this one night but you can never hope to succeed a second time. In utter silence can a Knight of the Moon skim the wind. The first you’ll know of the attack will be when the talons come glinting for your throat.”

Ysabelle lost control and she slapped the bat across his furry face. Vesper reeled backwards and was caught by one of the guards.

“Remove it from my sight!” she cried. “I don’t want to see the creature ever again!”

The guards led Vesper away and Ysabelle turned desperately to Godfrey.

“How can we ever hope for victory over such a race?” she asked.

“Your mother thought there was a chance,” came his soothing reply.

But Ysabelle had had enough that night. “Has Wendel already bedded down?” she asked.

Godfrey sniffed at the mention of the jester’s name. “He took his cart over yonder,” he said waving vaguely into the darkness. “I believe he wanted to try and entertain our red cousins, but I doubt if even they are in any mood for his fatuous antics. A more tiresome and unwanted fellow I never did meet.”

Ysabelle smiled. “Yet he makes me forget,” she murmured. “No—do not go find him. I fear that I am too fatigued for his stories and rhymes after all.” The maiden stretched and nodded to her counsellor. “Wake me at first light,” she said, “I must retire to bed—if I could only forget everything for a few hours it would be a great blessing.”

“Goodnight, My Lady,” Godfrey said, bowing low.

Ysabelle disappeared inside the tent and cast herself upon the bed Griselda had prepared. The mousemaid pattered round her, tucking the blankets in and making sure her mistress was comfortable, before she lay on the smaller bed nearby.

“My poor Lady,” Griselda cooed, stroking the squirrel’s raven hair, “may your dreams be untroubled.”

Presently, they were both drifting into dark oblivion.

Outside the tent the night was black and impenetrable.

For the sentries on duty it was a weird, unsettling time. None of them had ever set foot outside their home before and the sounds of the wild world were unfamiliar and startling.

The forest was strange, and seemed to press in on all sides. A strange scent floated on the still air—a putrid, cloying sweetness that grew stronger as the minutes passed. It tickled the nostrils of those on guard and disturbed the dreams of those asleep. It was as if the seal on some ancient tomb had broken and the mouldering reek of stale centuries had escaped into the night.

Gradually the fetid smell faded, then one by one, each of the squirrels on watch became aware of a tingling between their shoulder blades. It was as though something was spying upon them—as if each tree had eyes to see and ears to hear.

Shaking themselves, they turned their faces heavenwards and strained their eyes, searching for any signs of the forces of Hrethel. But the night was deep and absolute. No star shone and no chink of moonlight crept through the thick, blanketing clouds above.

Not a hint of danger could be seen, yet every sentry gripped his spear and clutched his longbow in readiness for he knew not what. A terrible tension thrilled the air, charging the atmosphere with its tremendous power and all found themselves breathing hard—their hearts pounding.

Wave upon wave of unreasoning fear flowed out from the darkness and wrapped itself around the encampment. It was as if a terrifying evil was gathering about them, and the paws which held the spears and longbows soon began to tremble before the malevolent and overwhelming force.

“Ulric!” one of the squirrels hissed to another. “What is it out there?”

The other wiped a nervous hand over his sweating brow. “Then you sense it too, Ornus?” he replied in a hushed whisper. “I did think it was my own imaginings.”

“Not that,” returned the first, “for why do I quake so? Also I find myself glancing over mine shoulder, expecting to see some frightful horror lurking behind. Something monstrous is abroad this night or my nerves are no judge. Did you mark its stink afore?”

“How could I not? Mine nose still burns from the stench of it. Let us hope whatever is out there will pass us by.”

But his friend made no answer and when Ulric stared into the darkness where he had been standing, it was empty. Quickly, the sentry hurried across and there, lying upon the ground with one arrow in his chest and another in his throat, was Ornus.

Ulric gave a fearful shout and called to the others. Then an arrow hit him in the back and he fell across his dead friend’s body.

“What is it?” the other sentries cried, “Ulric! Ornus! Where are you?”

Suddenly and without warning, the blackness beyond the encampment began to seethe and boil as a horde of dark shapes slithered from the shadows and leaped amongst the startled squirrels.

“AWAKE!” one of the sentries shrieked—then a dagger silenced him forever.

Before any of the sleeping host had time to stir and reach for their weapons, the sinister figures were upon them.

With hollow shouts, that struck terror into the squirrels’ hearts, the raiders attacked.

In her tent, Ysabelle awoke from troubled dreams and shook Griselda from hers.

“M’lady!” the mouse squeaked when she heard the uproar raging outside. “What is happening? Are the bats attacking?” But Ysabelle had sprung from her bed and hurried from the tent. “Wait for me!” Griselda howled, pulling on her cap and gibbering with fright as she followed.

All was confusion. Dark figures charged from the shadows and hideous struggles were taking place all around. Evil knives glinted in the night and ghastly laughter echoed under the holly trees. Taken so completely by surprise, the squirrels were powerless and many of the royal guards died in those first, bewildering moments.

Griselda rushed to Ysabelle’s side and clung to her in terror. “Aaaiiyyeee!” she screamed. “The forces of darkness are with us!”

“Godfrey!” Ysabelle called. “Are you there? Godfrey!”

Only the sounds of battle answered and the maiden looked desperately about her.

She scurried over to where one of her guards lay dead and pulled the bow from his grasp.

“Aaaaaiiiyyeeeee!” screeched Griselda again. “M’lady! Save me!”

The mouse covered her face as, from the darkness, a tall hooded figure came lurching. It had huge claws and beneath its deep cowl two eyes burned greedily. Cackling, it snatched Griselda, plucked her from the ground and threw her over its powerful shoulders.

The mouse screamed again as the monster carried her off into the dark—but Ysabelle was ready.

Swiftly she had strung an arrow to the dead guard’s bow and calling on all her strength, pulled the bowstring back.

The arrow flew into the massive brute’s leg and it howled with rage and pain. Snarling, it threw the mouse upon the ground and advanced menacingly towards the squirrel.

Hurriedly, she fumbled for a second arrow, but even as she took up the feathered shaft the beast towered over her.

Raising its immense claws, it brought an iron fist swinging down and the longbow was knocked from Ysabelle’s grasp.

“MY LADY!” Griselda bawled, scrabbling to her feet.

Ysabelle stumbled backwards as the figure gave a blood-freezing shout and threw back its head. At once the hood fell around the creature’s shoulders and the squirrel screamed. Standing over her was an immense and repulsive rat.

There was no time to run, for the claws were raised again and the same fist came smashing down.

The last thing Ysabelle remembered was the terrified screams of Griselda and then the night closed over her and she was lost.

5 - Elderfire

All was blackness; yet in the empty void, a small thought floated through the dark sea, carried along without consciousness and unaware of the voice which desperately called its name.

“Lady Ysabelle!” came the muffled cry. “Lady Ysabelle!”

Gradually, in the black expanse, the faintest glimmer of light pricked its way. A tiny red star edged into the vast night and that distant voice slowly became clearer.

“My Lady!” it urged. “You must awaken!”

Then the star exploded and the thought snapped back into its host.

“Uuhh,” Ysabelle groaned as her temples pounded and her cheek stung.

“Thank the Green!” the voice declared at her side.

The maiden whimpered, as she became aware of a biting agony in her wrists.

“Father,” she mumbled dizzily, “what... what has happened? Griselda..?”

“Hush,” came the voice, “hush now.”

For a moment, Ysabelle remained still as she tried to collect her jangled thoughts. Her eyes were closed and she had not the strength to open them. Silently, she tried to remember what had happened and where she was.

The image of the monstrous rat reared in her mind and she instinctively shrank away. But something held her paws and the sharp pain in her wrists increased till she heard her own voice cry out.

“Try to stand,” said the other, “see if you can.”

Ysabelle swallowed—her mouth was parched and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Who, who is that?” she asked timidly.

“’Tis I, ’tis Godfrey. Oh, My Lady—we have been so anxious for you.”

A meagre ounce of strength began to seep back into the muscles of Ysabelle’s legs. Awkwardly, she staggered to her feet and waited until her eyes were ready to flicker open.

The lids fluttered and she wearily blinked away the sleep.

It was still dark, but fuzzy shapes slowly swam into view—then she saw Godfrey’s care-worn face gazing intently at her.

The counsellor cried with relief and, from all around, similar gasps could be heard.

“Our prayers are answered,” Godfrey exclaimed, “she is back with us.”

Ysabelle stared at him, for her vision was still a little blurred, then it cleared and she drew her breath sharply. “Your lip!” she cried. “Godfrey, it is swollen and bleeding!”

Her old tutor put out his tongue and gingerly dabbed at the blood which ran down his whiskered chin.

Ysabelle tried to move towards him but found that she could not. Then she looked around her and beheld for the first time where they were.

It was an underground chamber: a dank, loathsome dungeon—a crudely dug burrow where not even a rat would live. The walls were roughly lined with stone, down which foul-smelling slime trickled and oozed over the earthen floor. A great wooden door sealed the dismal place and, flickering pitifully in a small bowl, was a puny candle.

By the feeble light of this Ysabelle could see that, set into the uneven walls, heavy chains of iron had been bolted, and attached to these were many sets of manacles and shackles.

Ysabelle tugged fiercely at her fetters, but the metal bands bit into the raw flesh which they had exposed at her wrists and the chains rattled—mocking her efforts with their cold clanking.

“Be still,” Master Godfrey told her, “we have all struggled, but the restraints are strong and do not yield.”

The maiden slumped against the wall and stared at the others. Apart from herself and Godfrey, she could see only six more prisoners and each was chained and manacled. She knew all of their faces, for they were black squirrels from her escort. Sorrowfully they stared back at her. Some of them looked close to fainting and bore many wounds from the attack upon the camp.

“A glad sight it is to see you awake, My Queen,” one of them uttered. “Master Godfrey has tried to wake you for many hours now.”

“Hours?” Ysabelle asked.

Godfrey pulled on his shackles and edged closer to his sovereign. “Indeed,” he said gravely, “by my reckoning we have been locked in here for the better part of the night. No doubt the sun has already risen above us.”

“But I don’t understand,” Ysabelle spluttered. “What happened? Why are we here?”

Godfrey looked across at the others and they nodded—she had to be told. Clearing his throat and sucking the air through his teeth so that it whistled, he began.

“I am very much afraid that the rumours we had been hearing for these few years past are true!” he declared in a hurried and frightened rush. “The cult of Hobb has indeed grown again. Oh, My Lady, would that you had never lived to hear such awful tidings. And from mine own lips as well!”

“The Hobb cult!” Ysabelle breathed in horror. “Then it was they who attacked us?”

Godfrey waggled his head in confirmation. “Most assuredly,” he cried, “the followers of the infernal triad have captured us.”

Ysabelle’s knees buckled a little but she propped herself against the wall as the terror of the situation impressed itself upon her.

Many years ago, the three gods of the rats were worshipped in the depths of the dark forests. It was a pagan heathenism which all thought had finally died out. This hellish triad was called the Raith Sidhe and they revelled in death and bloodshed.

According to the legends, the greatest of the three was the Lord Hobb—a hideous demon in rat shape. It was to him that the high priests of the cult made evil sacrifices and slaughtered any who would not join their dreadful congregations. The consort of Hobb was Mabb, a frightful apparition who plagued the dreams of the unwary and inspired them to murder. The sleep visitor, she was called, and in the past, those in her service had been responsible for innumerable wars. Finally there was Bauchan—the artful one, whose name was a byword for villainy and mischief. It was said that he could wear any shape he desired and, in disguise, stalked the waking world unnoticed.

At one time, they had been worshipped in great numbers, but were now only a dim memory—and to many had become merely bogeys to frighten and bribe children with.

Ysabelle could hardly believe it. “Are you certain of this?” she asked.

Godfrey bowed, despising himself for being the one to tell her. “I am,” he muttered. “While you have been unconscious, one of our gaolers has visited us.”

“He’s right ma’am,” piped up one of the other squirrels, “a right nasty piece of work that villain is too. Been pinching and squeezing us, as if seeing how ripe we are.”

“Silence, Felago!” Godfrey sternly shouted.

“I was only saying!”

“Yes, well don’t! I really do not think we should dwell on so unpleasant a thought as that,” Godfrey said quickly. “Soon the rest of our forces shall come looking for us. I’ll wager we will not be kept locked up for much longer.”

“So you think the rest of the company survived?” Ysabelle asked in great relief. “I thought we were the only ones left.”

Another of the squirrels lifted his head and shook it grimly. It was Samuel Muin; a deep cut ran across his forehead and the fur on his face was matted by his own blood. “Not that kind of attack,” he said, “more of a dash and grab tactic. Nah, them stinking Hobbers don’t have the guts for a real fight. Sneak up in the dark is all they had in mind, just charge in, do some throttling, then bear the booty away.”

“And are we that booty?” asked Ysabelle.

“’Fraid so—begging Your Lady’s pardon.”

“So the rats have us,” the maiden uttered miserably.

Godfrey sucked his teeth and raised his eyebrows. “Well not quite,” he said. “It’s not just rats. You see, My Lady, the followers of Hobb are not restricted to those stupid creatures any longer. Now other animals have become enamoured of the darkness—if I had only listened to those rumours. No wonder the entertainers travelled in large numbers. They did say that the forests were being swallowed by an evil tide of hellish disciples, only I did not believe them—theatrical hysterics I put it down to.”

“It isn’t your fault,” she assured him, “no one could have predicted the attack. I hope Griselda is safe—all we can do is try to plan our escape.”

“Hah!” cried a voice from the deep shadows in a dark corner. “Listen to her now—what’s it like, princess?”

Ysabelle stared in surprise as a small figure shuffled to its feet and edged into the gloom.

“You!” she cried.

Vespertilio dragged the chains which had been fastened about his ankles and moved forward as far as they allowed. “Oh, what a pretty show this is!” he chuckled grimly. “Glad am I to be here and see thee brought so low. Now taste the bitterness of captivity thyself—oh royal one.”

“Keep your snout shut!” growled the sentry nearest to him.

“Tut, tut!” Vesper cried in mock indignation. “We cannot have that—all are equal now. Are we not prisoners together? Surely that makes us kinsfolk of a sort?”

“No bat is kin of mine!” shouted Samuel Muin.

Another squirrel strained at his manacles and snarled fiercely, “Did I not tell thee to keep silent—you stunted devil?”

“No,” said Ysabelle firmly, “let the winged one speak. He does not frighten me. As Godfrey has said, we will not be prisoners for long. Our army shall come and then all will be well.”

“Hoo, hoo,” chortled Vesper, “don’t be too sure. What army would seek beneath the ground? A whole night they have no doubt been searching. I’ll warrant they have already passed overhead and are gone far away.” His words echoed around the dreary chamber and the squirrels wondered if he was right.

“You seem very at ease,” said Ysabelle. “What makes you so light-hearted? You are in the same predicament—you should hope our forces do find us!”

Vesper clicked his tongue, then ambled back into the darkness of the corner. “My position is the same as before,” his voice drifted out to her, “all I have done is swap my captors and gained some companions.”

“But these are Hobb worshippers!”

“So you say, but I see little difference—they have at least untied the bonds you set upon me. Now my wings are free.”

Ysabelle shook her head—exasperated at the conversation. It was then that she noticed.

“The acorn!” she cried. “Where is it? Godfrey, the amulet is missing!”

Her adviser sobbed woefully. “Alas,” he wept, “I know—when they brought you in it was gone from about your neck. Perhaps it fell when you were taken and even now your maid is keeping it safe. Oh, My Lady, I pray that is the case.”

Great tears ran down Ysabelle’s face. Everything that had happened had been for that silver acorn and she had lost it. Wretchedly, she closed her eyes—a fine Starwife she had proved herself to be.

From the shadows, Vesper laughed softly.

The pathetic candle had burned very low by the time footsteps were heard outside the stout wooden door.

Ysabelle pulled herself up and glanced questioningly at Godfrey.

“Our gaoler,” he declared, “come to taunt us once more, no doubt.”

In the passage beyond the dungeon, the shambling footsteps halted. Ysabelle turned her head and listened, for out there a horrible voice was giggling and tittering to itself.

“Oooh not long,” it trilled excitedly, “then it’ll be time, oh yes—oh yes.” A key turned in the lock and the heavy door was pushed open.

Ysabelle’s eyes grew wide with astonishment; she had expected the voice to belong to a rat, but that was not what entered the chamber.

A large hedgehog came pattering inside. It was a foul creature with squinting little eyes that were too close together. A wet, snuffling nose drooled at the end of a long snout and filthy bristles sprouted over its podgy cheeks—meeting the main sweep of its spines behind its tiny ears. The body of the gaoler was fat and it breathed with difficulty as glutinous rolls of flab quivered and wobbled when it moved. Its limbs, however, were exceptionally small and weedy, in fact its feet were so dainty that it was impossible to see how the animal managed to walk on them.

Twirling a bunch of keys in its claws, it teetered into the centre of the chamber and clapped its palms together in delight.

“Oh,” it panted, “what a fine feast! Nine of the prettiest little darlings ever to have graced my cells! A pleasure to care for them—it truly is.”

He tip-toed round to where Ysabelle was chained and cooed ecstatically. “What a pearl!” he squeaked. “How lovely to have you with us at last. Why, you naughty, naughty fellows!” he scolded the others. “You ought to have told Pigwiggen the fair one had stirred.”

The hedgehog tottered closer and Ysabelle balked before his horrendous breath. “Aw,” he exclaimed, “she’s so shy. Well, don’t you fret none, my dove—Pigwiggen will take very good care of you.” He reached out with his claws and gave Ysabelle’s cheek a hard tweak.

“Unhand me!” she demanded and around her all the squirrels bawled at the hedgehog and threatened him fiercely.

Pigwiggen threw his arms in the air and tripped daintily backwards. “Now, now,” he cackled, “I didn’t harm the little treasure—I was just testing.” He shook his spines and a cloud of dust and soil gathered about his fat body. Then he went up to each of them in turn and laughed.

“How’s your leg now?” he asked the first of his prisoners. “Ooh, it is healing well. Not nearly as messy as when you first arrived.”

The squirrel, who was a sentry called Gwydion, merely gazed right back at the odious creature and said nothing. This was the third time the hedgehog had visited the dungeon since they had been taken. He loved taunting the captives and could not bear to see them without measuring the flesh upon their bones.

Slobbering, he poked Gwydion in the stomach and crowed with glee in anticipation of things to come. Then he scurried to the next squirrel. From one to another, the foul hedgehog danced, wrinkling his nose a little when he squeezed Godfrey’s stringy arms. Finally he came to Vesper and pulled the bat from his dark corner.

“Should be very tasty when fried,” Pigwiggen muttered, stretching one of Vesper’s wings. “I do hope there’ll be enough left for me to sample.”

“Go sit on yourself!” the young bat yelled, for the inspected wing was the damaged one and his eyes watered when the hedgehog pulled at it.

Pigwiggen laughed indulgently then twirled about and drummed his fingers on his glistening lips. “Oh, what a divine selection,” he cried passionately, “so many fancies and toothsome beauties to relish and savour. Of course, you’ll be wasted on most of them—they don’t have such a refined palate as do I. What a gathering it will be this night. How I am looking forward to it.” He put his claw upon his brow as if the glamour and excitement of it all was just too much. Then his horrible little eyes swivelled slyly towards Ysabelle and he giggled in a most vile manner that made the maiden shudder.

“Oh, it will be so extra special,” Pigwiggen cooed, smacking his lips, “for never have I tasted royalty before. Does blue blood taste any sweeter than the common variety, I ask myself?”

With that, he waltzed over to the door and, with a final squeal of giddy delight, locked it behind him.

Ysabelle turned a frightened face to Godfrey. “What do you think that meant?” she asked in a faint whisper.

But Master Godfrey could not bear to answer and only hung his head.

“It means what it says,” came the reply from the corner where Vesper sat. “Have you never heard what the worshippers of Hobb do to their victims?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

Vesper snorted, then told her anyway. “We’re going to be peeled, my fine Lady—old Pigwiggen’s going to make a bloodybones of us all!”

For what seemed an age, Ysabelle, Vesper and the others remained in the dismal chamber. Presently the candle burned itself out and they were plunged into darkness, but no one came to renew it and for a long time they were without any light whatsoever. Occasionally the young bat clicked his tongue to see what they were doing, but he was more concerned with his poor wing—that foul brute had made it worse and he nursed it in doleful silence.

Ysabelle was never sure if she slept at any time during that period of grim darkness. Occasionally she would feel her head nodding but could not tell if she had indeed fallen asleep, for the waking world was as black as her dreams and she drifted between the two, not knowing which was which.

“My Lady!” Godfrey eventually woke her. “Listen, the time has come.”

The sounds of footsteps once more echoed along the passage beyond the door, but this time there were many feet tramping towards them. Ysabelle and the others held their breath as the key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.

At once the dungeon was filled with light, for many torches blazed in the passage and Vesper and the squirrels shielded their eyes from the sudden brightness.

“Unchain ’em!” came a gruff and growling voice.

Ysabelle blinked and stared at the entrance.

Framed in the doorway was Pigwiggen, but behind him was a large group of ferocious-looking rats.

“Be quick about it!” one of the vermin barked.

The hedgehog skipped delicately into the chamber and began to unfasten the manacles of Gwydion, the squirrel nearest the door. Then he proceeded to free each and every one of the others. “Come, my chicks,” he cried, “your time is come—the night is beginning!”

When she was released, Ysabelle carefully blew on her wrists and slid her paw into Godfrey’s who stood beside her.

“What will happen?” she asked. “Where are they taking us?”

“I dare not ask myself that,” he answered.

“Hoy!” shouted the largest rat. “Pipe down there! I don’t want to hear any of your mewling!” He raised his fist and in his claw he brandished a large cudgel.

One by one, the prisoners were led out, gripped and prodded by many sharp fingers. The passage beyond the dungeon was just wide enough for them to traipse three abreast and, surrounded by their captors, Vesper and the squirrels stumbled miserably along it.

The tunnel rose in a gentle incline and soon those at the front felt a breath of cold night air upon their faces.

A curtain of weed and grass covered the entrance and the large rat swept it briskly aside before leading the others out.

From the damp underground, the prisoners filed into the open, then each stopped and stared in disbelief.

They were on the brink of a large basin-shaped dell that was ringed with trees whose misshapen roots had broken from the earth and wound about the edge like gnarled and twisting snakes. Down in the centre of this great hollow a group of three standing stones reared from the short grass and before them a tall bonfire of elder wood burned brightly.

But what made the squirrels gape and gaze in fright was the sight of those gathered there.

About the stones, many thousand worshippers of Hobb yammered and shouted. Ysabelle and Vesper had never seen such a hideous collection of creatures. The rats who waited there were the most evil specimens of their kind, and alongside them countless other races cackled and roared. There were rabbits, hedgehogs, voles and weasels. Even some mice could be seen slinking between the jostling bodies of their foul brothers. Also mingled amongst this dreadful company were rooks and gore crows whose sleek feathers shone in the firelight and whose sharpened beaks cawed with black merriment. High in the trees, lesser birds perched, huddled beside rats and shrews with torches in their grasp and malice in their glance.

A tumultuous cheer went up as all eyes turned to where the prisoners staggered from the tunnel entrance.

Ysabelle pressed herself against Master Godfrey and her tail drooped. “What nightmare is this?” she gasped. “Where have all these vile abominations come from?”

Godfrey shivered as he held her. “I don’t know, madam,” he said nervously. “It’s as if the foulest scrapings of the forests are assembled here. Oh, what an accursed time this is.”

“Ho, my jewels,” gibbered Pigwiggen as he came puffing from the passageway, heaving his blubbery bulk into the chill night air. “What a fine celebration we shall have. Is it not a magnificent congregation—did I not tell you it was to be exceeding special?”

The rat who had led them spat on the grass and glared impatiently about him. “Hedgepig!” he shouted. “Tie these up and watch them till they are needed.”

Pigwiggen tugged at a bunch of prickles on his forehead and smiled ingratiatingly. “Of course, brother, it shall be attended to at once.”

The rat spat again, then he leapt down the slope to join the terrible gathering below.

Five other rats remained and Pigwiggen handed each a length of rope and told them what to do.

A large claw grasped Ysabelle’s shoulder and dragged her over to one of the twisting roots. Quickly she was tied to it with her paws stretched behind her back. The others were attended to in the same way, except Vesper whose wings were wrapped about an almost vertical piece of root and tethered to his feet.

“Now we can wait,” tittered the hedgehog, strutting before his row of trussed up appetisers—his eyes mirroring the blaze of the bonfire, “we shall wait and we shall see.”

Ysabelle trembled. Below her a thousand wicked faces stared up and she knew they were devouring her in their dark and malignant minds. “Help us someone,” she wailed despairingly. “Save me please!”

“Fear not, My Lady!” Godfrey called over from where he was bound. “Have faith in the Green! We may yet be saved!”

“I pray it is so!” she answered. “But I’m so afraid—so terribly afraid. Look at them, they’re just waiting to kill us—I cannot bear it!”

“Try not to let your spirits sink,” he cried, forcing a hearty tone into his voice, “think of something else—keep your thoughts off the devils down there.” He looked about them and, in his finest tutorial manner, shouted, “Remember the alder dance which you performed yesterday—think only of safe, happier times—remember that even in the midst of the darkest night a dawn must come.”

She tried to do as he said but it was impossible with the clamour of all those repulsive and eager Hobbers resounding in her ears. “I cannot!” she wept. “I simply cannot!”

“You must, you must think, what were the words you sang to the trees in the avenue?”

Ysabelle dragged her eyes from the seething masses and tried to concentrate. “Awake!” she managed to cry at last, “Awake! Thy sleep is ended!”

“That’s right my most excellent student and fairest Lady!” Godfrey sang encouragingly.

“Have no fear for Spring is come!” Ysabelle continued between her desperate sobs. “Put out thy leaves, oh sleepy one!”

“Well done!” Godfrey cried.

But Ysabelle sank to her knees. “It’s no good,” she wept, “even the tree we are tied to is the yew—Idho, the tree of death! Am I to awaken that? Are we not compassed round with death already? Tread not into the fearsome night,” she stammered unhappily. “Step not into the wild dark wood...”

Godfrey’s heart bled to see her so distressed; he glanced at the others and they too were crying for her—even Vesper seemed moved by the maiden’s suffering.

“Let us all beseech the Green for our deliverance,” the counsellor suggested.

Each of the squirrels bowed their head—then suddenly, the sound of a shrill horn split the night. Ysabelle craned her head—perhaps her army had arrived to rescue them. She cast her eyes wildly around the madness which raged before her, but not a sign of her host could she see. Then her spirit dwindled inside as she saw the source of the echoing sound.

On the far side of the dell, from the trunk of a dead yew tree, a spindly rat came marching—with a horn raised to his lips. With deliberate slowness, he strode about the rim of the dell to where a large barrel stood. From somewhere in the vast crowd below a slow, discordant dirge began as another rat started beating a horrid tune upon two grinning skulls. Hearing this, the former blew the horn one last time, then bowed and stepped aside.

An earsplitting shout erupted from the assembled Hobbers and in their claws they all flourished what looked like sticks. Then they charged up the slope and plunged the sticks into the barrel. It was a chaotic scramble as those barging upwards met those hurrying down.

Godfrey narrowed his eyes at the confusing spectacle—the ones who had dipped their sticks were now making for the bonfire. A flash of understanding illuminated his mind as the first of the creatures held the stick into the fire and lit it—they were Hobb lanterns and the barrel must contain some kind of pitch judging by the way the flames spluttered so readily into life.

Vile and raucous songs now resounded from the dell as more and more of the lanterns were lit. They were made of baked clay, having a short handle below a bulbous depiction of a rat’s head. This was hollow and open at the top, holes for the eyes and mouth had been cut into the rest of the frightening face and flames dripped from the gaping jaws. Now all the Hobbers’ lanterns were ablaze and the countless round eyes shone horribly.

Pigwiggen capered on the brink, giving excited little hops. It was all so beautiful to him.

Then a grim and grisly dance began about the bonfire and the standing stones. The worshippers of Hobb waved the lanterns above their heads, weaving patterns of flame in the smoky air.

Ysabelle watched in morbid fascination. The lanterns seemed to float above the Hobbers like demons of fire and her eyelids grew heavy as the lurid symbols woven below, mesmerised and entranced her.

“Hobb,” the creatures chanted. “Hobb, Hobb, Hobb.”

The rats whirled round and the rooks circled over the stones—calling the deadly name in cracked and ugly voices. The chanting continued, the dancing became faster and the cries grew louder. Ysabelle found that beads of sweat had broken over her brow despite the cold of the night. Then with one last, bloodthirsty shriek to their god, the creatures fell to their knees—facing the standing stones.

To Vesper and Ysabelle’s horror, there came a flash of purple smoke—shot through with fiery sparks, and when it cleared, the tallest stone was no longer empty.

“Bless me!” yelped Vesper in terror.

“Godfrey!” Ysabelle howled. “It’s him! Hobb has come!”

Upon the stone a terrifying apparition stood with its arms outstretched—the raw head and bloody bones—in which guise the leader of the Raith Sidhe was rumoured to appear to his followers.

Ysabelle screamed as the peeled cadaver turned slowly round to view the infernal congregation.

“No,” Godfrey called to the squirrel maiden, “that isn’t Hobb—look! Do you see, no magic animates that corpse—it is but a costume! The thing that they worship was banished from this world many ages ago.”

Ysabelle stared at the awful figure and was reassured. It was indeed false—the shreds of sinew were only ribbons of coloured material and the shape of the peeled flesh was but cunning needlecraft that Griselda might have admired, if the subject had not been so macabre.

“That must be the high priest of this region,” Godfrey told her. “I have read that they dress up to impersonate their evil deity, mimicking him in their foolish adoration. Yet he is still just as deadly nevertheless.”

Upon the stone, the alarming figure abruptly leapt into the air and threw himself into the crowd. Snatching up a Hobb lantern, the figure ran three times around the bonfire then returned to its lofty position.

A frightened gasp issued from Godfrey’s throat as the high priest sprang back upon the stone. For there, hanging about the neck of the ghastly fiend and gleaming in the harsh light of the lantern—was the silver acorn.

Ysabelle saw it too and she shook her head in disbelief.

“The amulet!” she cried. “He must have stolen it from me!”

“Mercy,” gibbered Godfrey as a dreadful suspicion began to form at the back of his mind. “What madness are they about?”

But now something new was happening. The high priest held up his lantern and the frantic yammering of his followers ebbed and died. An unearthly quiet fell about the crowded basin as they all strained to catch his words.

“Children of the Raith Sidhe!” the costumed figure declared, throwing its head back and flinging its arms open wide. “Welcome! Once more are we assembled in the ring of Banbha to do homage!” it grandly proclaimed. “In this sanctified place do we honour and revere the Mighty Three. Praise their unholy names and do obeisance. Hobb, Mabb and Bauchan!”

The crowd roared fanatically and stretched their claws towards their leader in complete devotion.

The high priest basked in their adoration before continuing. “But this night,” he announced, “our celebrations are special indeed—for no ordinary sacrifices have we captured, but noble beasts from Coll Regalis, and amongst their number is one born of the royal line itself.”

Ysabelle cringed, the voice of the high priest rang coldly and seemed to cut right into her. She watched as the crowd eagerly spun round to stare, but when the bloody-bones figure pointed straight at her, she squirmed and looked away.

The mouths of the thousands that filled the dell, lolled open and their tongues slid greedily from their jaws.

“Now let the Lord Hobb be worshipped!” the high priest demanded.

Countless lanterns bobbed in the air and the shouting resumed.

“Here we go,” gurgled Pigwiggen, “this is the moment.” He teetered forward and clapped his claws with joy. “Well, well, my succulent berries,” he addressed the prisoners, “which shall be first?”

He hopped a little jig that brought him close to Vesper and pulled at the bat’s large ears. “Shall it be you—oh cuckoo in my delicious nest?” The young bat glared back at him and the hedgehog hummed happily to himself. “No,” he announced, “not thee, not yet!” Turning aside, he considered Vesper’s neighbour and nodded with satisfaction. “Of course,” he said brightly, “what better way to begin than with something strong and probably full of flavour.”

He motioned to the rats who stood nearby and two of them came forward to untie the selected squirrel.

“No!” bawled Gwydion as the ropes were cut from his paws and the rats led him down the slope. “For pity’s sake!”

Pigwiggen chuckled, “Well, at least his leg won’t be hurting for much longer,” he mused. “A fine tail that one had though; p’raps if I asked I could have it afterwards? Keep the winter draughts out lovely that would, and my poor neck do ache so.”

“Stop this!” Godfrey yelled. “You must!”

But the hedgehog took no notice, wondering only why his food was always so loud and fond of shouting.

In horror, Vesper stared after Gwydion as the rats dragged him through the crowds to the stones. The young bat shook with fear; he had never seen anything so terrifying as the grisly scene which now unfolded before his eyes.

Ysabelle cried out and quickly looked away as Gwydion was pinned down upon the flattest stone and the peeling knife was raised.

“No!” murmured Godfrey as a triumphant cheer roared from the loathsome Hobbers.

“Heathen scum!” cried Samuel Muin.

Warden Felago clenched his teeth and kept his eyes tight shut and the other three squirrels yelled in anguish as the evil work was done and the screams of their comrade were finally stilled.

Only Godfrey forced himself to watch the actions of the high priest. The heathen devil was holding the silver acorn aloft for all to see, then it plunged down and when Godfrey saw it next, the amulet was covered in blood.

“Come, Hobb!” the figure called out. “Join us here!”

“What’s happening?” Ysabelle cried. “What is he doing?”

The high priest steeped the acorn twice more, and with every sweep of his arm he called to his master.

Godfrey shook all over. “Invoking the Lord of the Raith Sidhe himself,” he answered.

“But you said that was impossible!”

“That was before I saw the acorn about that villain’s neck!” the tutor exclaimed. “That amulet holds tremendous powers—until it is joined with the stabilizing forces of the Starglass it is a perilous device. I dread to think what may befall the world if it is used for evil! There is every chance that Hobb may indeed appear!”

“Bring another victim!” the high priest called.

Pigwiggen hurriedly untied another squirrel and the rats led the unfortunate fellow down to his awful fate.

“Ooh,” Pigwiggen wistfully sighed when he was alone with the remaining prisoners, “hearken to those sounds—an expert peeler is our leader, nothing goes to waste. He’s not one of those ham-fisted hackers who just want to have a go. Real nice job that one does—proper art it is—a pleasure to watch him at work.”

The hedgehog leaned forward and stood on his toes to get a better view. They were enjoying themselves down there—he glowered at the other Hobbers enviously and his mouth slobbered to see them.

“Coo,” he muttered, “how they go at it, look at them a-carousing—they’d best not forget me, they’d best put some giblets by!”

He jumped up and down in agitation, wringing his claws distractedly.

Godfrey eyed him and he tutted sympathetically. “Poor, poor Piggywiggy!” he said. “It isn’t fair, is it?”

The hedgehog spun round, a confused and hungry expression fixed upon his ugly face.

“Just look at all your friends down there,” Godfrey continued. “Well, you cannot in truth call them friends, can you? They won’t save you anything, and after all your hard work guarding us so well. Just listen to them guzzling and stuffing their filthy faces—not a drop nor a shred shall you get.”

Pigwiggen was beside himself with despair—he had looked forward to this all day. It had been a long time since he had eaten fresh meat and drunk warm blood and these dainties were all so violently desirable.

“Quiet!” he told Godfrey, with a stamp of his foot. “They won’t forget me.”

Godfrey laughed and his fellow prisoners stared at him in amazement—what was he doing?

“Well, even if they do remember,” he told the slavering hedgehog, “there won’t be much. Just look how many of them there are and how few of us to be shared round. I know what will happen, my prickly friend, those at the front shall scoff the most and those at the back won’t even get a lick. Up here you have no chance.”

“Ooooh!” moaned Pigwiggen, tearing at his spines. “’Tain’t fair—that’s downright selfish and greedy.”

“Bring another to the altar!” the high priest’s voice rang from the stones.

Pigwiggen whimpered and reluctantly untied another of his precious lovelies.

When two rats came to take him, the squirrel called Felago did not cry out but gazed back at Ysabelle. “For the Hazel Realm,” he said simply—before they hauled him to his doom.

Godfrey winced at this new torment, but he had to resume what he had started.

“Oh deary me!” he shouted above the horrendous cheers which met this fresh victim. “Not many of us left, are there? Only six—soon it will be only one and when that one has gone... what shall you do then, Pigwiggen?”

The hedgehog was biting his claws in dismay. “Not one juicy drop for me,” he lamented, “not a morsel to be had, no marrow to slurp and no bone to chew.”

“Of course,” Godfrey persisted, “there is a way to cheat them.”

“Cheat?” snapped Pigwiggen crossly.

“Only of what you deserve,” Godfrey goaded him.

The hedgehog scratched himself, then pattered closer to the tutor. “How could I do such a thing?” he asked in a conspiring whisper.

“You could always slip away with one of us,” the squirrel replied, “go to some dark retreat and have a quiet munch of your own, with none to disturb you.”

Pigwiggen’s eyes sparkled at the thought and he moistened his lips as his beady eyes roved towards Ysabelle.

Godfrey saw it and an approving smile lit his face. “If I might proffer a suggestion—may I nominate my mistress? See how tender her young flesh is.”

Pigwiggen squealed in rapture. “Yes, yes!” he vigorously agreed. “I shall take her!”

Godfrey shook his head. “Not yet,” he whispered, so none of the others could hear, “she won’t go with you. Untie me first—the maiden trusts me. I can persuade her to follow you to your table.”

“Hoo, hoo,” the hedgehog wickedly cackled as he untied Godfrey’s paws, “a fine feast I shall have and nothing will I spare for the others...”

But that was the last they heard him utter, for Godfrey’s fists punched the stupid hedgehog with all their might and he stumbled backwards—rolling into a bristling ball.

“Well done, Master Godfrey!” Ysabelle cried.

The tutor rubbed his knuckles and hastily set the others free.

“Hey!” shouted Vesper. “What about me?”

But the squirrels did not have time to release a wretched bat, for they might be spotted at any moment.

“Let us run!” Ysabelle urged them. “We must escape this nightmare!”

But Godfrey shook his head, “Not yet,” he said, “they would catch us at once—no, I think I see a way to even the balance.”

He scurried along the edge of the dell, keeping well out of the crowd’s sight. Up to the pitch barrel he hurried and with the help of Samuel Muin and the other two squirrel guards he heaved the vessel onto its side.

Oily black goo went splashing and rushing down the slope and when it reached the bottom it spread over the ground, seeping between the feet of the infernal congregation. But the Hobbers did not notice the sticky pitch that oozed over their toes, for the third sacrifice was over and the body was flung amongst them—in the mad frenzy that followed nothing would have diverted them.

“Please,” Ysabelle insisted, “let us go now!”

“No, My Lady,” Godfrey said, “the silver acorn must be retrieved at all costs.”

Ysabelle stared at him incredulously—had he gone mad? How could they possibly hope to take the amulet from the high priest?

Godfrey whispered a few words to the other squirrels and, after a moment’s hesitation they all consented. “Very well,” the tutor whispered before turning back to address his sovereign. “My Lady, we must do all we can—but you stay here. If we do not succeed... then run for your life.”

“But... but Godfrey!” she stammered. “The risk is...”

Too late—the four squirrels were already creeping down the slope.

Over the pitch-soaked grass they slithered, keeping well out of the circle of firelight. Towards the standing stones, they stealthily made their way, at times running back into the shadows to escape the sight of the hellish revellers.

Godfrey kept his gaze fixed upon the high priest who towered over his disciples. The silver acorn still gleamed about his neck and the old counsellor hoped that his hastily conceived plan would work.

But the third sacrifice had already been devoured by the terrible followers of Hobb and some were now wiping their mouths and turning to where the remaining prisoners were held.

“Ahh!” they screamed. “They are gone—only one is left!”

“Find them!” snarled the high priest.

“Look!” shrieked a vicious little mouse. “They’re over there!”

Everyone glared at the dark area behind the standing stones, where four shapes crept through the gloom.

“Kill them!” screeched the high priest. “Kill them all!”

“Godfrey!” Ysabelle called from the top of the dell.

Thousands of Hobbers surged forward through the tarry mire, streaming past the altar like a foul and deadly tide.

Ysabelle watched helplessly as the seething masses rushed for Godfrey and the guards, yammering for their blood. “Run,” she told herself, “it’s hopeless now—he wanted you to run! Escape while you can!” But instead of hurrying away from the horrendous spectacle, the squirrel maiden tore down the slope—to where Godfrey and the others were cornered.

A short, skinny rat whose eyes shone with a ruby light, came charging at the forefront of the infernal crowd. With a long sword in his claws, he let loose a blood-curdling yell and plunged the weapon into the first of the squirrels.

Samuel Muin sprang at the beast and ripped the sword from its grasp. “Maggot!” he bawled. “Go serve thy master in the Underworld!” and in a moment the rat was dead.

Yet more of the congregation took its place and they had many daggers, knives and spears. Samuel swept the sword through the front rows, cutting them down like reeds, and the foul enemies squealed as they fell to the ground.

From the ferocious mob, a huge rat came lumbering. A great pike was in its fist and with a hollow chuckle it ran at Samuel Muin and slew him cruelly.

“Samuel!” cried Godfrey as the hellish horde advanced. Only two squirrels now remained and the last boundary warden ran in front of the counsellor to protect him. But a black feathered arrow came singing from the shrieking mass and he collapsed with it buried deep within his breast.

Alone before the pagan crowd, Godfrey eyed them fearfully. Another arrow was aimed and countless daggers glinted thirstily as the Hobbers came slowly towards him.

Then a foul looking rabbit, whose teeth had been sharpened into fangs, chanced to look behind the solitary squirrel and its grimy ears quivered with evil joy. “Look!” it shouted. “Another of them!”

They all stared past Godfrey, to where Ysabelle came hurrying to her tutor’s side.

The counsellor wailed to see her, then darted forward and snatched a Hobb lantern from a startled vole.

“Kill them!” commanded the high priest upon the stone nearby.

Godfrey dragged Ysabelle behind him and threw the lantern into the midst of the murderous children of Hobb.

With a rush, the pitch-covered ground burst into flame and the worshippers screamed in panic. Sheets of fire rippled outwards and many were roasted alive. The Hobbers howled in dismay and ran wildly from the crackling blaze, for the dell had become a frightful cauldron of swirling flame. Fur was smoking, whiskers frazzled and no one had time to deal with the prisoners—to flee the terrible fire was all they could think of. With flames licking about their feet, they rampaged over the sides of the dell—abandoning those who could not escape.

The foul-looking rabbit bounded from the scene with an insane shriek screeching from his lips. The beast’s tail was burning and its long ears smouldered—leaving two threads of black smoke trailing behind him. Somewhere amid the furnace, a badger screamed, his huge bulk rearing above the flames that blasted upwards to swallow him. With a tremendous crash, the writhing creature fell—overcome with flame and smoke, and in the ruin of his fall, many other animals perished.

A carrion crow furiously beat its wings to flee, but the flames caught it and the bird plummeted into the lethal heat. Streams of rats and squealing mice poured up the grassy banks, with white hot sparks fizzing after them and leaping into their fur.

Upon the stone, the high priest shrieked with fury. A sea of flame raged about the altar and in his boiling anger he threw down his own lantern which exploded amid the fires.

“Now, My Lady!” Godfrey cried, pulling Ysabelle after him. Together they braved the scorching flames and quickly scrabbled onto the stones.

The bloody-bones figure glared down at them—they were responsible for this. Most of Hobb’s children were engulfed in the fiery tumult and his magnificent celebration had been defiled.

A long knife flashed in the high priest’s claw as Godfrey clambered up to him.

“Prepare to meet thine end!” his evil voice rang out. “No agony is too great for thee!” He lunged forward and Godfrey scurried to one side, before leaping onto the top of the stone.

The high priest whirled round and stabbed at the air between them.

“First you,” the tall, masked creature growled, “then the fair one below.”

Standing on the smallest stone, Ysabelle clasped her paws and stared up at them intently. “Be careful, Godfrey!” she breathed.

“A tasty brace of skins you shall make,” the high priest taunted the tutor, “thy blood I shall sup and on her flesh shall I dine.”

With a swift movement, he sprang at the squirrel and the knife shone cold and deadly. But Godfrey leapt aside and, as the blade came slicing down, caught hold of the high priest’s arm.

The bloody-bones snarled and struggled to wrench himself free.

“No you don’t!” Godfrey wailed, trying to shake the weapon from his opponent’s claw.

Frantically, the two figures wrangled, yet the high priest was stronger, for Godfrey was old and too long had he been absorbed in the study of books. His experience of combat was limited and at last the claw that held the knife was free.

“Now die!” laughed the bloody-bones and he plunged the knife into the squirrel’s chest.

Godfrey gasped and his face turned towards his beloved sovereign. “My Lady!” he choked.

“Godfrey!” Ysabelle screamed.

The high priest crowed in triumph as his enemy sank to his knees—but it was not over yet.

With the darkness welling up around him, Godfrey clutched at the scarlet material of the bloody-bones costume. A surprised cry issued from the high priest as the squirrel tore at him.

The world was slipping from beneath the counsellor and he toppled from the standing stone.

Yet his paws were still gripped about the garish disguise and the high priest lost his balance. With a startled yell he followed Godfrey through the air, tumbling and somersaulting towards the ground below.

It was the bloody-bones who landed first and—with a thud, Godfrey fell on top of him.

Ysabelle gaped at them in despair—for neither moved. The high priest was stunned and behind the crimson mask his eyes were shut. Godfrey lay across the prostrate body, his own blood staining the goulish costume.

Slowly, the old squirrel lifted his head and, in a rasping whisper, called to Ysabelle.

“My... My Lady...” he muttered.

Ysabelle rushed forward and knelt beside him. Around them the fire still raged but neither was aware of the fierce, baking heat. “Do not worry,” she sobbed, cradling her old tutor’s head in her paws. “You will recover, ’tis but a scratch, no more. You will get well, Master Godfrey, you must.”

A great sigh wheezed from Godfrey’s lips and he feebly shook his head. “No,” he said, “my time is done.” He raised a shaking paw and clasped his fingers about the neck of the high priest. “Take it,” he gasped, pulling the acorn free and passing it to the maiden, “bear the silver unto Greenreach. Make me proud, my little student. May the Green... may the...” And with that, Master Godfrey Gelenos breathed his last and his eyelids closed forever.

“Godfrey!” she called. “Don’t leave me! Godfrey!”

But only the crackle of the flames answered her and she bowed her head to kiss his brow.

Suddenly a savage claw flashed out and seized the maiden’s wrist.

Ysabelle screamed—behind the mask, the high priest’s eyes glared up at her.

“Give it back!” he demanded. “The amulet is mine!”

The maiden leapt away and the claw lost its grip. Clasping the silver acorn to her breast, Ysabelle span around and ran as fast as she could.

“Garr!” bellowed the high priest. Contemptuously, he flung Godfrey’s body to one side and jumped to his feet. Through the narrow eye slits of the bloody-bones costume, the loathsome creature watched Ysabelle hare up the bank of the dell.

Still tied to the tree root, Vesper wriggled and squirmed—but the ropes were firmly tied. From this vantage point, he had seen everything and when the pitch caught fire he had feared that the escaping Hobbers would slay him in their anger. But though many smouldering and singed worshippers raced past, none had paid him any heed.

In silence, the young bat witnessed the final struggle between Godfrey and the high priest, and through the billowing curtains of smoke and flame, he had seen the old squirrel die.

Now Ysabelle clambered over the edge of the burning basin and Vesper cried in amazement as she hurried over and hastily untied his bonds.

“You’re coming with me!” she told him in a rush of words.

“What..?” he began, but the squirrel maiden roughly shoved him forward.

“Hurry!” she commanded.

Vesper turned on her angrily—this tree rat wasn’t going to order him around any more. His mouth opened to tell Ysabelle exactly what he thought of her, but then his eyes saw that the altar stone, where the high priest had stood, was now empty.

“Come on!” the bat shouted, hopping quickly through the undergrowth. “Run!”

Ysabelle hurtled after him, and the pair of them raced beneath the yew trees and vanished into the darkness of the wild, midnight forest beyond.

6 - Out of the Misty Hawthorn

Ysabelle had never run so desperately in all her life. She and the young bat were level now. Vesper scooted through the long grass, not once daring to glance behind. Twice he stumbled, tripping over hidden roots, then he trod on his own wing and tumbled head over heels into a heap of rotting leaves. Quickly he recovered, grumbling fretfully about his broken wing then set off once more.

Ysabelle almost stopped to help him—for the bat was her only chance now. She wavered a moment as Vesper picked himself up then bounded forward again.

Suddenly, she ran headlong into a thick cobweb that spanned two trees. The sticky nets clung to her face in a suffocating mist and, spluttering in disgust, she wildly tore it away.

“Hurry!” cried Vesper as he raced by.

Ysabelle spat the last strands of spider’s web from her mouth and hastened after him.

The forest was a grim and frightening place. Hideously shaped trees loomed out of the darkness, and even they seemed intent on stopping the escaping prisoners. Spindly twigs reached down towards them, raking through their fur, scratching their faces and tangling in Ysabelle’s long, unbraided hair.

Further into the unlit wildness they ran, until their hearts hammered against their ribs and the air they breathed wheezed into their lungs in great gulps. A desperate weariness overtook the unlikely pair and, increasingly, their steps faltered.

Ysabelle knew she could run no more. The muscles in her legs burned with fatigue and all she wanted to do was throw herself into the long grass to rest. Gradually, the squirrel maiden slowed her pace and the distance between Vesper and herself quickly widened.

“Wait!” she called, trying to catch her breath. “I must... must sit for a moment.”

The bat continued running. “No time!” he shouted back. “If you want the Hobbers to catch you—it doesn’t worry me. Tarry here all you wish.”

Bent double and panting hard, Ysabelle fumed to hear him. She would show that miserable, small-eyed villain! Straightening, she watched as Vesper disappeared from sight—then she tore after.

With enormous strides, she swiftly caught up with him. The bat had stopped and was staring at the ground. Ysabelle reached out and seized him by the scruff of his neck.

“How dare you not wait!” she cried. “How dare you run away! I’ll...” Then she realised why the bat had stopped—but it was too late for her.

Vesper had been standing on the edge of a ditch, where the ground fell sharply away. Even as Ysabelle grabbed the bat’s furry neck she felt the loose soil crumble beneath her feet. Emitting a cry of surprise, the squirrel maiden slipped, let go of Vesper and slithered down the sheer bank.

“Heeeeelp!” came her startled wail as she tumbled down.

But Vesper was also in difficulties. Ysabelle had thrown him off balance and the young bat frantically flapped his wings to save himself. But it was no good and down he went.

With a squelch and a splash. Ysabelle landed in the soft mud below and rolled into a trickling stream.

For a second, she sat in a most undignified position amid the swirling, freezing water—drenched and dazed. Then Vesper came crashing beside her, but the bat fell headfirst into the ditch and when he raised his head, his face was covered in sticky black mud.

“You stupid, brainless, idiotic, clumsy blunderer!” he stormed, spluttering mud and ditchwater. “For the Moon’s sake! What made you charge into me like that and pull me down? Did you not see why I had halted?”

Ysabelle assumed some of her shattered dignity and glared at the bat angrily. “Hold your tongue!” she scolded. “Choose your words more carefully when you address Ysabelle—daughter of the Lady Ninnia and the Lord Cyllinus!”

Vesper floundered in the mud; the pain of his wing was almost unbearable. “Oh, go eat a wormy apple!” he snapped. “You’re nothing but an uppity tree worshipper.”

The squirrel picked herself up and stared down at him icily. “Foolish of me,” she snorted.

“You’re not wrong there!”

“I meant,” she hurriedly put in, “that it was foolish of me to expect anything more from a baseborn creature like yourself.”

Vesper made a rude gesture to her then wiped the mud from his face.

“Peasant,” Ysabelle muttered, “your kind are no better than those disgusting Hobbers back there. Vermin with wings—that’s what you are!”

“Keep your poxy insults to yourself!” Vesper protested. “It’s you who are called tree rats—we Moonriders aren’t related to them villains. Why, it’s a sore pity you weren’t peeled back there!”

“Listen to how hotly you deny it!” she said with a scornful laugh. “Verily I must have touched upon the truth—vermin.”

Vesper splashed to his feet. “Tree rat! Tree rat!” he yelled.

The squirrel put her paws on her hips. “You’re no Moonrider,” she sneered, “you’re not old enough.”

Her words stung the bat and, with his good wing, he scooped up a great quantity of the cold water and hurled it at her.

“Aaggghhh!” Ysabelle shrieked, dripping from head to toe. “How dare you! I am of the royal house!” She could do nothing but gape and stare as the bat pointed at her and hooted with derisive laughter.

“I can see this is going to be extremely difficult for me,” she managed to utter at last. “It would be better if we said nothing more to one another until the journey is completed. There would be no benefit to either—much wiser to assume a distinct and agreeable silence.”

Vesper stared at her perplexed. “What are you chattering on about now?” he asked.

“Greenreach,” Ysabelle told him. “I still have to get there. Why else do you think I saved you? I would gladly have left you for the Hobbers, but alas I am ignorant of the way to the holy land. I should have been more attentive to poor Godfrey when he was showing me the maps. You, however, have already been there, so now you shall be my guide.”

The bat threw back his head and roared. “Oho!” he scoffed. “Never have I encountered such a wooden head before! What fancy has made thee think that I would be willing to lead you to that place? Oh no, my fine, bushy-tailed madam—if you want to go there you shall have to find it on your own. Vespertilio has had enough of thy company to last him well into old age, so...”

Suddenly, his voice failed as, high above them, they both heard soft, sinister laughter.

Standing upon the edge of the ditch, the tall figure of the bloody-bones was glaring down at them.

Fearfully, Vesper sprang back and Ysabelle stared up in dread.

“So,” the high priest spat, “finally, the two lost lambs are found. What a frightful noise they did make, yet it was their very bleating which led me to them.”

In his claw he held the knife which had killed Master Godfrey and he lifted it high above his head so that the dull night shone over the steel. The blade was still covered in blood and Ysabelle murmured in horror, stumbling backwards where she splashed into the stream once more.

The grim blade flashed a cold light over the hideous bloody-bones mask. “Now,” the figure said in a murderous voice, “it is time for you to return to the fold.”

Tensing his muscles, the high priest slashed at the air and prepared to spring. Ysabelle covered her face, knowing that this was the end—this time she was too tired to escape. Beside her. Vesper’s eyes snapped shut as the terrifying bloody-bones leaped from the bank.

Down the evil creature dived, his infernal gloating filling the ditch with fear and despair. But even as his malevolent form rushed to kill Vesper and Ysabelle—something strange occurred.

The trickle of water that wound between the muddy shores abruptly began to glow. Veins of emerald light streaked through the stream, welling up until the entire forest seemed to blaze with its eerie brilliance.

The high priest’s laughter died in his throat as powerful forces gripped his body, catching him in mid-air, leaving him dangling like an abandoned puppet.

Ysabelle took her paws from her face and gasped in wonder around her. The water was dazzling, it shone like a ribbon of pure sunlight. All shadows were driven far away and, above her, the high priest flailed his arms and legs—unable to move in any direction.

“It’s a miracle!” Vesper whispered in disbelief.

The squirrel maiden dipped her paw in the shining stream. “Praise to the Green!” she cried as the liquid dripped from her fingers like sparkling jewels. “Do you not see? By some happy chance, we have stumbled upon one of the sacred streams that traverse the forest and connect His holy shrines!”

A furious shout made her glance back up to where the bloody-bones figure helplessly writhed.

The water around her increased in brilliance and above, with a shriek of rage and fright, the high priest was hurled upwards—back to the edge of the ditch. As he went flying through the air, the knife was torn from his grasp and fell, spinning harmlessly down into the mud below.

At once the figure scrambled to his feet and attempted to lunge down the bank once more. But each time he tried, the forces that were channelled through the stream drove him back.

“I... I don’t understand!” Vesper stammered, gaping up at the infuriated high priest. “What is happening?”

“The villain is powerless!” Ysabelle laughed. “There is naught he can do to us now. While we remain in this hallowed water we are under the protection of the Green.”

At last the bloody-bones ceased his struggles and stood upon the ditch’s brink, trembling with anger and shaking his fists. His fury burned hotter than any fire and he stretched out a quivering claw that pointed at his unreachable victims.

“Rue this you shall!” he snarled in a voice taut with rage. “If a contest of strength is what thou desirest—then so be it! Soon you shall both wish I had despatched your lives swiftly this night—for now the sport is ended.” He lifted up his arms and called upon his infernal master. “Hobb!” he yelled. “Lord of the Underworld and greatest of the Raith Sidhe—hear now the words of thy servant! Give strength to the curses which I utter in thy unholy names—imbue them with thy might. Let all enemies of thy children perish and let me be the instrument of their destruction.” As he spoke, the figure seemed to grow, becoming a terrible towering shape that was wreathed in awful magic.

Below, Ysabelle and Vesper held their breath; the high priest was calling a terrible doom upon them and, though the power of the Green still coursed through the stream, they both felt afraid. A curse had strength to maim or kill and nothing could save them once the pronouncement had been made. Ysabelle shivered as the bloody-bones glared down and delivered the dreadful words.

“Both shall die!” he roared. “Yet even as they look Death full in the face they shall beg mercy of me—but all to no avail. This now is the doom my Lord shall visit upon them.” Reaching his claw towards Vesper the high priest snorted with loathing. “For his part in allowing the royal maiden Ysabelle to flee,” he declared, “the winged one has chosen his own time of death and is henceforth cursed by that name.”

Behind the mask, the creature’s eyes narrowed as he continued, “Beware the sound of bells, oh Moonrider!” he warned in a hollow voice. “For when thou art surrounded by their clamour—thy death will surely come.”

Vesper swallowed nervously and wrapped his wings about him as this dreadful doom was proclaimed. Then the high priest turned to Ysabelle.

“As for thee,” he hissed, “last of the Hazel line—thy weird shall seek thee out and the terror of it will haunt thy dreams. The amulet which you now wear has thrice been steeped in the blood of thy subjects. On the very stones sacred to Hobb was the sacrifice made and thrice did I call His terrible name.”

The high priest crouched down and put his claw to the raw ears of his costume. “Listen,” he said in a cracked whisper, “already my Lord stirs—ages past was he banished from the waking world—now he is free. The silver acorn has released him and even as I speak he stretches and begins the journey upwards. From the unfathomable reaches of the Pit, the Lord of the Raith Sidhe comes and when he does—Ysabelle, daughter of Ninnia and Cyllinus, shall serve him for eternity in Hell’s dungeons!”

The figure flung its arms wide and gave a horrible laugh. “Now my lambs,” it shrieked, “do you not wish the peeling knife had done its work? To the terror of thy fortunes I leave thee—farewell!” And with that, the high priest turned and vanished into the night.

Quickly, the green light faded from the stream and the forest was dark once more. Ysabelle stared at the ditch’s edge where now only shadows mocked her and shook herself. Lowering her eyes, she looked at the young bat by her side and he gazed back in fear.

“Did you hear that?” she asked. “Did you hear what he said?”

“He said I would die, surrounded by the sound of bells!” Vesper muttered. “I’m going to die!”

“What does that matter?” she cried. “Did you not hear him say that Hobb is coming? Godfrey feared this would happen—he said the amulet had the power. What am I to do?”

Vesper stared at her and anger overcame his present fright. “This is all thy fault!” he shouted. “By thy name was I cursed—and by the stupid rogue’s misunderstanding! ’Twas not I who helped you to escape, it was thee who untied me! By what unjust ruling am I now doomed? It isn’t fair—it never, never is! Would that I could roll back the days and prevent myself flying after the others. Then would I have been spared the sight of thy foul and ugly countenance.”

“And I thine!” she snapped back. “Wait, where are you going?”

Vesper kicked at the water around him and stomped through it crossly. “’Tis enough!” he bawled. “I’m away and shall take my leave whether you will or no. Many leagues would I like to put between us.”

“Your curse won’t be lifted that way!” she called after him.

The bat said nothing but waded miserably upstream, hanging his head sorrowfully, the thought of his approaching death bearing down upon his spirits.

Ysabelle stamped her feet angrily. She needed him to show her the way to Greenreach—if she could only find some way to persuade him. She gazed down at the amulet which hung about her neck and shivered. The silver was tarnished, covered as it was by dried blood. Hastily, she unfastened the fine chain and tried to clean it in the stream. But the blood would not wash off and the acorn remained dulled by the brown-red stains.

The squirrel maiden looked up and watched helplessly as Vesper barged further away. Fastening the amulet around her neck once more, she cast her gaze desperately about the ditch, and then she saw the high priest’s knife embedded in the soft mud. Quickly she ran over and pulled it free.

It was an evil looking weapon—mysterious and ghastly symbols had been scratched into the steel, inscribing charms of death and destruction. Ysabelle shuddered in disgust as she held it—but there was nothing else she could do.

Hurriedly she clasped it tightly in her paw, then set off after Vesper.

“Halt!” the squirrel shouted as she splashed upstream.

Vesper ignored her and plodded further on. He could hear her crashing towards him, but there was nothing she could do to change his mind—or so he thought.

“Now!” Ysabelle cried, catching up with him. “You are going to obey my commands!”

The bat was about to blow a raspberry, when he felt a sharp pain in his back as Ysabelle pressed the point of the knife against his spine. Twisting his head, Vesper saw the blade glitter and he swore under his breath.

“Craven scum!” he muttered. “Are you so base you would use the weapons of that Hobber fiend—the same one that slew your adviser?”

Ysabelle’s paw shook, she hated doing this but she had to get to Greenreach. “Be silent!” she told Vesper. “If you don’t want to die here, then be my guide.”

The bat sighed wearily—he was extremely tired of hearing that squirrel’s voice. “Very well,” he grumbled. “I will show thee the way.”

He lifted his head and sniffed at the air. Even on a dark night like this one, a bat could sense where he was. A hundred and more scents thrilled through his nostrils; the smell of blood and burning was strong on the breeze, but mingled with it were other fragrances. The numbing chill of the forest’s icy heart, the dankness of stagnant water, the distant echo of a great river, and there—the faint rumour of the city.

Vesper nodded, satisfied with the evidence of his nose and turned slowly, not wanting to alarm the squirrel into causing an accident with the knife. Then he began retracing his steps downstream.

“Are you sure it lies in this direction?” Ysabelle asked.

“As certain as Hrethel is my Lord,” he flatly replied.

So the pair of them waded further along the ditch until the shadows of the tangled forest engulfed them.

Oily black smoke issued from the countless cracks and fissures that split the charred ground. Here and there, amongst the rubble of ash and glowing embers, the roasted body of some unrecognisable creature lay twisted and scorched amidst the soot. It was a terrible scene, even the standing stones had fractured under the fierce heat of the blaze—but now the fires had died.

Into the choking cloud of floating ash and smoke that hung above the dell, the high priest came. Through the eye slits of his mask he looked on the devastation and his temper boiled inside—yet he had paid back his enemies with fates more terrible than this and that knowledge soothed him a little.

Carefully, he stepped over charcoal roots, to where the cindered earth sloped down into the ring of Banbha. But the bloody-bones did not venture any further, for already the ground scalded his feet and the fumes of burnt fur and feather made him reel backwards. The sound of lamentation was everywhere as the singed survivors licked their wounds and whimpered in shock.

The mournful cries rang piteously in the high priest’s ears, but he was oblivious to them all. His eyes glinted like two diamonds—and his heart was just as hard.

“Many have fallen this night,” his bitter voice hissed through his teeth, “many of Hobb’s children have perished in the flames. Yet, they were but a fraction—the forest is filled with many more believers.”

He whirled around and strode purposefully to one of the smouldering yew trees. As the figure swept aside a withered curtain of flaking ash, it looked at the blackened dell one last time and hurried down a steep flight of steps. “Soon all shall know what has occurred here,” he vowed, “and every corner of the wild woods will know who is to blame.”

Deep below the blistered earth, the high priest descended. The heats had reached even here and the walls of the passages were baked dry and hard. Quickly, he made for an arched doorway and passed inside.

The chamber beyond was large and the two Hobb lanterns which were fixed to the walls were not enough to illuminate the whole of it. The place was bare, except for that which dominated the far wall.

It was a hideous carving, crudely done in wood and clay; the subject, however, was unmistakeable. Towering in the darkness, the image of an enormous rat head leered, its face contorted into a repulsive scream.

The bloody-bones closed the door behind him and walked briskly over to where the immense jaws gaped and the fangs spiked down.

The light of the lanterns played over the frozen features, giving them a semblance of life and for a moment the high priest stared about him doubtfully. Then he made a humble bow and gazed into the great mouth of the terrible carving.

Upon the wooden tongue, two bright golden discs stared back at him.

“I wish to speak with Her!” the bloody-bones commanded.

The discs blinked and the creature they belonged to prepared itself.

It was a small, yellow toad who sat before the high priest. Warts covered its fat body and slime glistened down its pot belly. With its large, bulbous eyes, it considered the figure for a moment, then shifted its weight upon the carved tongue and gave a slow nod.

The high priest took from his costume a pouch containing incense and cast a quantity of it into the Hobb lanterns nearby.

As the chamber filled with a sickly-sweet smell, the toad’s head waggled and its jowls quivered like jelly. Slowly the bulging eyes closed until only the merest slivers of gold shone in the flickering gloom.

The bloody-bones bowed once more and looked intently at the squat creature. “Is everything ready?” he asked.

No reply came, for the toad had successfully put itself into a trance. Then the wide mouth of the beast gaped open and the high priest knew it was time and he removed his mask.

“Mistress of the distant land,” he called, “priestess to Mabb and destroyer of our enemies—hear me.”

The sleeping toad gave a little shudder and all its loose flesh wobbled and squelched. Then, from its open mouth, a cruel voice issued—yet it was not the toad’s own.

“Quickly,” it cried, “tell me—did you find the amulet—is all well?”

The high priest glanced nervously at the floor. “Alas!” he began. “The acorn was indeed in my grasp...”

“You did not let it slip from you?” the voice shrieked. “Fool! Have you lost it? You know why we need its power! Without it all our designs shall go astray—Hrethel grows suspicious. I need that amulet! Where is it?”

“Mistress,” the bloody-bones tried to explain, “the squirrels were more cunning than I anticipated, they did steal the acorn from me.”

“Idiot!” came the screeching reply. “Must I attend to everything? Can I not put my trust in anyone? Who has the device now?”

“A maiden,” he spluttered, “the daughter of the royal house.”

There was a pause and, during the silence, the high priest fidgeted awkwardly. When the voice spoke again it was filled with doubt and concern.

“This maiden must not become the Starwife,” it hissed. “Find this princess—prove that I have not trusted you in vain.”

“It shall be done,” the high priest assured her. “Already I have lain curses upon her.”

“I am not interested in your curses!” it screamed. “Seek out this maiden and destroy her with your own hand. The acorn must come to me—nothing must get in the way. Do you comprehend that?”

The high priest bowed. “I do,” he said, “and I vow that I shall personally lead the hunt for our enemies—they will not get far.”

“Just see to it that none of your vile followers decide to steal the amulet for themselves!” the voice warned.

“As you command,” the bloody-bones promised, “I shall obey. The acorn will be found.”

“It had better be,” the voice threatened, “or you shall suffer.”

The conversation was at an end and the toad shuddered and only gargled belches now issued from its mouth. Slowly it opened its eyes and watched timidly as the high priest replaced his mask and stormed from the chamber.

Far away, in the land of Greenreach, the Lady Morwenna stepped back from an identical carving, situated in the middle of a marshy island deep beneath the Hallowed Oak. As her toad began to stir she pulled a sour expression and spat upon the floor.

“The silver acorn must come to me,” she breathed, “it must be mine!”

Vesper trudged wearily through the ditch—the high priest’s knife still pressed into his back.

For nearly an hour, he and Ysabelle had followed the course of the stream and both were extremely tired and hungry.

The lids of Ysabelle’s eyes fluttered shut as she stumbled along and she had to pinch herself to remain awake. She couldn’t fall asleep now—not while the bat could snatch the knife away and use it against her. The only way she had discovered to remain alert was to keep talking and, as they waded through the cold water, she chattered incessantly.

“Godfrey used to tell me about the sacred streams,” she prattled. “In the old time the forest was filled with them. They linked the sacred shrines with one another and it was a great honour to tend them, making sure no weeds clogged the banks or halted the flow.”

“Really,” Vesper mumbled without enthusiasm.

“Yes, and those who lived at the shrines were all members of royal houses. It was they who guarded the holy wells and hallowed orchards and kept the evil at bay.”

The bat groaned, how much longer could the squirrel go on squawking? “What happened to them then?” he asked sarcastically. “Someone should tell them they are not doing such a good job.”

“I suppose the Hobbers came,” Ysabelle answered. “We never really believed the rumours though. One by one the shrines are being defiled and their wardens murdered—soon there won’t be any left.”

“You and your precious Green spirit!” Vesper scoffed. “A barrel load lot of use he is!”

“It was His power that saved you before!” she cried. “You were glad of it then!”

Vesper snorted. “He didn’t stop the Hobbers ruining His shrines though, did He?” he scoffed.

The squirrel frowned. “They must have attacked in winter!” she declared—not liking the bat’s disrespectful tone. “That’s when His power is weakest. Has your kind never heard of Him?”

“We don’t care for the barbarities of you tree worshippers,” he replied, “we venerate the Lady of the Moon and have no need of false gods.”

“False!” she cried. “It’s you who are deluded—and we do not worship trees! It’s the spirit of spring and new life we honour—you’d soon miss it if the Green vanished from the world, and if the Hobbers get their way that might just happen. If all the holy places are destroyed, the land will be a darker, uglier place where the only growing things are moulds and fungus. That’s why I have to get to Greenreach; the lights of hope must not be extinguished.”

Vesper scowled and her words echoed in his mind. Strange that a squirrel should be so concerned for the future of the world. He fell silent and his thoughts were fixed upon reaching his own home, where his mother would be waiting.

After another hour’s walk, the water of the ditch began to dry up. The trickling stream grew even narrower and the thick mud spread more thickly about the banks. Eventually the trickle became solitary puddles and then disappeared completely as the ditch was clogged with dense tangles of weed.

“That’s the end of it,” Vesper said. “Do you want me to push through those nettles or do we scramble out of this gully and continue the march up there?”

Ysabelle looked about them. “I don’t like this,” she said, “away from the stream the power of the Green no longer protects us.”

“But there is no more stream!” he argued. “Not unless we start walking back along it. Is that what you want to do—spend the rest of your days tramping up and down the course of this wretched brook?”

“Of course not,” she replied, “but neither do I wish to be caught by the children of Hobb.” She pointed the dagger up the bank and told the bat to start climbing. “For the remainder of the night we shall rest,” she told him. “I will feel a lot safer with the sun in the sky.”

“I shan’t!” Vesper countered. “The daylight confounds me—how will I guide you then?”

“You’ll find a way,” she said, pressing the knife-point into his fur. That quelled any more argument and the bat began to clamber up the side of the ditch, swiftly followed by Ysabelle.

When they stood upon the forest floor the squirrel immediately set about looking for shelter. “We need a place to hide,” she muttered, “away from the trackways.”

Vesper pointed to the dark bulk of a fallen tree. “What about there?” he suggested. “It may be hollow.”

The squirrel shook her head, “No, I think we ought to stay in the open—I do not wish to be trapped in such a confined place.”

Through a carpet of ground ivy, she led him over to where the shaggy silhouette of a large bramble bush stretched above them.

“This will suit our needs,” she nodded, “from under there we can see any enemies before they see us.”

“Didn’t do me much good when your sentries found me,” Vesper piped up.

Ysabelle ignored him, it was the best the forest had to offer and she wanted to rest.

Waving the knife before her, she made Vesper step under the brambles first then, after gathering up some ivy, followed him in.

Once beneath the thorny boughs, the bat sat down and tried to make himself comfortable. Curiously, he eyed Ysabelle as she came up to him, carrying lengths of vine.

“Turn around,” she instructed, “and hold your wings out behind you.”

“Hoy!” the bat cried as she used the ivy to bind him. “Not so tight—even the Hobbers weren’t that cruel. Oooch! Mind my sore wing.”

“There,” she said brightly, tying the Moonrider against a large, solid branch, “I’ll feel a lot safer knowing you can’t take the knife from me and slit my throat whilst I sleep.”

“As if I would,” Vesper protested.

“Oh you would,” she answered, “and well you know it. I’ve kept you alive because you’re useful—but I know you have no use for me. Our kind are sworn enemies, I don’t trust you any more than you do me.”

“How your words wound me,” he chuckled grimly.

The squirrel made sure the vines were secure then settled down a little distance away.

“You won’t succeed, you know,” Vesper told her. “You won’t be able to keep me a prisoner all the way to Greenreach. Something will happen, your vigilance will falter and then the tables will be turned.”

“Oh, be quiet,” she said. “I’m tired and hungry and I just want to get some sleep.”

Vesper said nothing and his ears twitched excitedly.

“What is it?” Ysabelle asked, straining to catch what he had heard.

The bat seemed flustered for a moment, then coughed loudly and remarked in a voice that was almost a shout. “Oh, nothing! There’s absolutely nothing the matter with me—my dearest squirrel!”

Ysabelle stared at him and wondered what he was up to. He was making the most dreadful noise, as though he wanted to be heard by every creature in the forest.

“Hold your tongue!” she whispered. The bat started to whistle so Ysabelle hurried forward and pressed the knife against his throat. The whistling ceased and Vesper made no more noise.

Then Ysabelle heard. High above there was a rush of wings and many high-pitched voices called across the sky in a language she did not understand. A legion of bats were flying overhead, and she knew they were searching for her.

She turned an anxious face to Vesper. “If you do anything to signal them,” she warned, “you’ll be sorry.”

Vesper nibbled his straggly beard. He longed to call to his brethren high above, to tell them he was here so they might save him from this hated enemy, but the blade she held was sharp and he felt it nick his skin. Eventually the bat host passed them by and the night was still once more.

Ysabelle gasped and her breath rushed from her lungs, for she had been holding it fearfully for some minutes.

“They’re gone,” she sighed in relief. Vesper said nothing but glared at the squirrel—his kind would return, they would find him.

Ysabelle went back to her leafy bed and spent some time dragging her fingers through the knots which had tangled her long hair. “It will be a long march tomorrow,” she informed the bat, “you had best get some sleep yourself. I want your wits refreshed in the morning.”

Vesper’s eyes only gleamed at her from the place he was tied. The squirrel smiled, wrapped herself in her tail, then lay her head upon the dry leaves and drifted off to sleep—with one paw clenched about the knife and the other touching the blood-stained acorn around her neck. Soon her gentle snores floated on the calm breeze and the young bat smiled to himself.

Gently at first, Vesper began to wriggle. He kept his eyes fixed on the sleeping form of the squirrel maiden, just to be sure, whilst his tethered feet pushed against the branch. There, very slowly, he started to draw the vines which bound his wings over the thorns. The first of them snapped, then a second, until Vesper’s wings were free and he hurriedly untied his feet.

“Now,” he whispered, glowering at Ysabelle, “’Tis time I repaid your kindness and hospitality.”

Carefully, he crept forward, not making a sound to disturb the squirrel’s slumber.

Vesper reached across and eased the knife from her paw then put it to her throat.

“So do all tree rats perish!” he hissed. “In the name of Hrethel I kill thee!”

The bat drew the blade back and prepared to plunge it deep into her neck. But Vesper was trembling, the knife quivered in his grasp and furrows creased his brow—he had never killed anything before and though he had fought many mock battles with the other weanings, when it came to it—he couldn’t bring himself to such a horrendous deed.

Ysabelle looked so peaceful sleeping there, with her large eyes lightly closed and her raven hair flowing like smoke over her shoulders. Vesper felt that if he murdered the squirrel then he would be accursed forever. Gingerly, he lay the knife at the maiden’s side and stumbled away—sweating with fear. For an instant he had been so close to becoming nothing more than one of the followers of Hobb and he felt ill and confused.

“I must leave,” he told himself, “hurry from this strange squirrel, whose very existence now mocks you, Vesper. What Knight of the Moon are you to let her live?”

He feebly flapped his wings and whimpered the answer, “I know not—yet what else could I do?”

“Slay her and take the amulet she bears to your Lord—then would thy name be trumpeted and sung forever more. ‘Vesper, hero of the colonies—he who put an end to the Hazel Realm once and for all!’”

“Stop it!” the bat wailed. “I will have no part in her murder. What honour can there be in such a cowardly act? None, so let that be an end. Oh Vesper, leave the maiden’s side before you change your mind and despair for the rest of your days!”

Staggering from the bramble bush, the bat fled from the sleeping Ysabelle and tore through the ground ivy, not knowing what to do.

Only a few hours remained before the dawn and a low-lying mist had risen from the forest floor, curling about the trees, filling the hollows and covering the paths.

Vesper cut a swathe through the chill grey vapour, leaving a swirling wake behind him. Then, as he floundered towards a neglected trackway, he stopped and his blood froze.

A desolate and mournful sound filled the young bat’s ears—it was the sound of a solitary bell.

“No,” he breathed in dismay as he remembered the high priest’s curse.

The dismal sound was muffled by the mist and Vesper stared with wide eyes in the direction it came from. Further up the path, where the stark branches of the hawthorns formed a tunnel over the track, a wall of fog clung to the trees and from the depths of this, the bell continued to coldly toll.

With his panic rising, Vesper heard the lonely sound growing louder and he wished he was far away.

“Oh why did I not bring the knife?” he reproached himself. “Everything I do goes awry!”

The dull clanging drew nearer and Vesper thought he saw strange shapes within the dense mist.

Frightened, he spun around and scrambled back the way he had come.

A dark figure loomed before him and Vesper fell on his face in terror as the ringing seemed to surround his prostrate form.

“Please!” he blurted. “Spare me!”

Ysabelle stared down at him in surprise. She had awoken to find the bat gone and to her surprise she was still alive. Vesper had obviously removed the knife from her grasp, yet had refrained from using it. Not knowing what had happened, she took up the weapon and hurried to find him.

“What are you doing?” she cried, as Vesper gaped up at her. “Are you mad?”

The bat almost wept to find that it was only the squirrel he had blundered into. “Listen,” he murmured, lumbering to his feet.

The melancholy bell rang throughout the fading night and Ysabelle shivered to hear it.

“Do you recall what the bloody-bones said to me?” Vesper asked.

Ysabelle nodded and she gazed fearfully down at the mist enshrouded path. “What manner of creature approaches?” she breathed.

Vesper hid behind a tree and pulled her after him. “There!” he said. “The nightmare appears!”

From the thick fog which filled the tunnel of hawthorn, a peculiar figure emerged.

Into the low-lying mist, a small shrew came hobbling. Its long snout snuffled the damp air and its bright brown eyes stared fixedly ahead in an attempt to penetrate the flowing layers of smoke which, at times, covered him entirely. The shrew was lame; a dirty bandage was wrapped tightly about its right leg and it leaned upon a wooden crutch. Over its shoulder, a heavy looking satchel had been slung and about its waist it wore a belt of string.

“Forward, forward,” the small animal chirped to itself, “all clear, all clear.”

Ysabelle folded her arms and looked at Vesper crossly. “There’s your great peril!” she chortled. “My, oh my, I can see why you were so afraid—I’ve never seen such a bloodthirsty-looking rogue!”

Vesper took no notice of her scorn but stared down at the stranger and tapped the squirrel on the arm. “Behold,” he observed, “I fear our diminutive friend is not alone.”

Ysabelle followed his gaze and leaned forward. Strange—from the shrew’s belt of string, another length stretched back into the mist. “What is it?” she asked, but the bat could only shake his head.

“Forward, forward,” the little shrew said again, “path twisting, left two paces at this point.”

From the dense fog a deeper, more resonant voice boomed out. “I have it, Tysle,” it declared. “Two to the left, four summer worms away.”

Both Vesper and Ysabelle watched in fear as the owner of that voice sailed from the mist—attached to the other end of the string.

At first they could only see a large, hooded shape, wreathed in wisps of vapour. Then, as it lumbered further onto the path, the squirrel maiden squealed in horror.

The large figure halted and gave the string a brisk yank. “Wait,” it called to the shrew. “I do believe... wait a moment.”

The newcomer raised its face and pulled the pointed hood from its head. Two blind eyes squinted upwards to the place where Vesper and Ysabelle hid. It was a stout mole who stood there, waiting and listening with its fat head cocked to one side. Tendrils of mist floated about the mole’s middle whilst his sensitive ears tried to catch what he thought he had heard. At the top of the long, knobbly staff that he leaned upon, a bronze bell dangled and clinked.

“Is there aught amiss?” called the shrew, whose ears were the only things visible as he pattered back through the fog to where the mole stood.

“Humm,” considered his large companion. “I feel there are others nearby.”

At this the shrew pulled a short dagger from his satchel and hopped about in a frenzy of excitement.

“Is it Hobbers?” he squeaked, raking the tiny blade through the mist. “Is it Hobbers? Let me at them—fourteen rain worms, Master, that should do it!”

“Peace,” the mole instructed, laying a huge, spade-like paw upon his friend’s shoulder. “No children of the Raith Sidhe I believe... and yet...” Seeming to stare straight at Vesper and Ysabelle, the mole raised his paw and beckoned. “Who watches my guide and me?” he called. “If you be enemies then begone—but if you be friendly, will you not join us?”

Vesper looked sheepishly at Ysabelle, it seemed he was wrong after all. “Come on,” he told her as he left their cover, “there is nothing to be frightened of—they won’t eat us.”

Ysabelle had been staring at the second newcomer in fear, but now she roused herself and put a restraining paw on the young bat’s wing.

“Wait,” she urged, “don’t you see?”

Below them, the mole took the satchel from his companion and dangled it enticingly. “Most willing would I be to share our breakfast,” his voice rumbled, “’tis not lordly fare but serves our humble wants.”

That settled it for Vesper, he shook himself free of the squirrel’s paw and trotted down to meet the two strangers.

“Vespertilio!” Ysabelle desperately cried. “Don’t you see? The bell—it is the warning sign of the leper!”

7 - In the Orchard of Duir

Vesper skidded to a standstill and the mole advanced—tapping his staff upon the stony ground before him.

“What have we here?” the creature asked, reaching out with its paws. “Tysle, what manner of being is it?”

The shrew limped up to Vesper, and studied him keenly. “Bat,” he said at last.

“A Knight of the Moon?” remarked the mole with some surprise. “Have we not espied many of their kind these past few nights?”

“Indeed we have, Master,” the shrew eagerly replied. “Hosts and hosts of them—all a-swooping and a-scouring. You remarked upon it then, did you not? ‘Tysle,’ says you ‘there’s more to this than we know of,’ and you’re right, of course—as ever.”

The mole smiled benignly and brought his wet nose close to Vesper’s face.

The young bat cringed away. Ysabelle was right—the creature was leprous. In irregular patches the velvet of his skin had turned white and in some places had fallen out completely. Strips of cloth bound the mole’s wrists and toes and around his jaws and lips, painful-looking cracks marred the threadbare flesh. It took all of Vesper’s courage not to turn and run, but he could not stop an expression of pity and revulsion stealing over his own face.

The shrew saw this and shook his crutch angrily. “What be the matter with you, winged one?” he squeaked. “Don’t ye pout so or I shall knock the scorn from your big-eared noggin!”

“Tysle, Tysle,” the mole said in a calming tone, “let the poor fellow be. No doubt he has met few travellers like myself on the roads he journeys along.”

Vesper began to stutter an apology, but the leper waved him into silence.

“Not another word,” he said, “until your friend comes down and joins us.”

“M... my friend?”

“I may be near completely blind,” the mole explained, “but mine ears are as sharp as ever they were.”

“Sharper than thine. I’ll wager!” put in the shrew.

The mole cuffed his companion about the head. “Mention not the vice of gambling!” he admonished. “Where was I? Ah, yes—why not call to the one who conceals himself up yonder?”

Vesper glanced back to the tree where Ysabelle was still hiding.

“Come out!” he called.

The shrew ambled forward and peered into the misty darkness. “Ooh!” he exclaimed as Ysabelle came into view. “’Tis a fair beauty, my Master.”

“A damsel?” the mole inquired. “How pleasant—a batling and his lady...”

“No Master—begging your pardon, ’tis a squirrel who approaches.”

The mole struck his staff on the ground in wonderment. “By the Green’s whiskers!” he declared incredulously. “A Knight of the Moon and a squirrel? This is a most unusual spectacle!”

“She do have a knife,” Tysle observed, “and a grit long one it is too.”

Ysabelle now stood at Vesper’s side and she looked on the two strangers much as he had done.

“There,” the mole said, “it’s been a long time since I was ‘in society’ and I may be a trifle rusty, but now I believe the correct etiquette is an exchange of names.” He blinked and stared expectantly in the squirrel’s direction.

The maiden eyed him uncertainly—it would be foolish to say too much. “I am Ysabelle,” she told him, giving Vesper a kick to introduce himself.

“Vespertilio,” he blurted, rubbing his ankle.

“Ysabelle, Vespertilio,” the mole repeated, committing them to memory. He pulled on the string that joined him to the shrew and looped the excess around a hook on the wide belt fastened about his own portly middle.

Then he cleared his throat and stood with his feet apart as though about to deliver a speech. “Now let it be known,” he announced, “that under the warm hills of a land not too distant—I was dubbed Giraldus. A fine appellation and one that I am more than content with.”

He made a slight bow and gave a flourish of his paw. “Alas,” he sorrowfully added, “I recall that at this juncture ’t’would be seeming for me to kiss the fair damsel’s fingers and shake Vespertilio by the wing.”

Ysabelle recoiled but the mole was quick to put her at ease. “Fear not,” he hastily assured, “there is no danger of that—I am not insensitive to your revulsion. No, my vision may be of little use, but I am not, I trust, feeble-headed. The pretty, and I use the word for its irony—the pretty sight which by now you must have seen and been at pains to overlook—no doubt you are both polite creatures—is being ravaged by a woeful disfiguring disease.”

He held up one of his massive paws for their inspection. “Only three claws are left to me this side,” he intoned, “for it is the way with this ailment for the extremities to shrivel—I do hope you are not squeamish—to shrivel and fall clean off the body.”

“I’m sorry,” Ysabelle murmured.

Giraldus leaned heavily upon his staff and sniffed glumly. “You cannot understand,” he uttered. “What is a mole without his paws to shovel away the earth and dig for him? A pitiful figure am I now.”

“I know what it’s like,” Vesper broke in, “my wing is damaged.”

The mole blinked and the blind eyes squeezed shut for a moment. When they reopened, Giraldus had decided to change the subject.

“A seat!” he cried. “Let us not stand in the cold like gibbering rats too witless to notice the icicles dripping from their snouts! Tysle—find something suitable.” He let out the string once more and the shrew went scouting into the mist.

“Over here!” his high voice soon called. “Nice arrangement of logs—not too damp and cushioned with moss. Four spring worms straight ahead then a summer one left.”

Following his directions, Giraldus led Ysabelle and Vesper over to his companion. “There,” he said in a cosy sort of way. “Is that not much better? Now what point in my life had I reached?”

Abruptly the mole slapped his forehead. “I am forgetting!” he gasped, heaving on the string. “Enough of my history, let me introduce my most faithful servant—Tysle Symkyn. He is my eyes in this unhappy world and without him I should trip over every root and stumble into every tree the forest had to offer.”

The shrew scuttled closer to Ysabelle and grinned at her. “How do,” he chuckled.

“And greetings to you, sir,” she returned with a smile, “but tell me, why are you both abroad in the forest at this time of night?”

Giraldus squinted down and patted his servant’s head. “If that isn’t the very question I was going to ask of you,” he said, “but pry I won’t. Yet we have no reason to hide our aim. Tysle and I are on a pilgrimage and are wont to begin our days before the sunrise.”

“That’s right!” the shrew cried, hopping around on his crutch. “A tidy way we’ve travelled—have we not, Master?”

“Oh yes,” Giraldus continued, drawing in more of the string to stop Tysle jigging around so much. “And the route we have chosen demands that we must visit each shrine along the way, whether they still stand or no.”

“A pilgrimage?” Vesper asked, trying not to smirk. “But to where?”

“Why to Greenreach!” came the instant reply from both of them.

Vesper bit his tongue and said no more.

It was Ysabelle who spoke next. “Why there?” she asked.

The mole chortled and the many pouches and bottles which hung from the leather belt around his waist all rattled. “Surely a squirrel has no need to ask that!” he laughed. “More than any you must know what powers are contained in that holy place. For is it not written that about the blessed hill and in the sacred groves of Grinuvicia—to give it its ancient name—the Green Himself does walk?” He clapped Tysle heartily on the back and the shrew’s legs buckled beneath the mighty blow.

“Once we are there,” Giraldus confidently declared, “my servant and I shall both be cured of our ills—he of his lameness and I of this accursed leprosy.”

Vesper hung his head and stared at the ground.

Ysabelle glanced at him coldly, then told the unfortunate pilgrims all that had happened. When she came to the end of her tale, Giraldus gripped the shrew tightly for support and Tysle gazed up at his master with tears streaking down his long nose.

“Then there is naught left?” the mole asked in disbelief. “You say the groves are destroyed and the Starwife killed?”

“A wounded survivor of the attack on my mother’s realm told us.”

Giraldus whipped round to where Vesper sat. “Why?” he murmured despondently. “What for did your forces destroy all my hopes? Is it too much to ask for a fair green place in this dismal world?”

Vesper said nothing; for the first time he had heard the full story and he felt ashamed for what his kind had done. He had not realised the amount of slaughter that had taken place and though he had not taken part in the countless murders he felt just as guilty.

“No,” Ysabelle told the mole, “it was not this bat I spoke of, but another—I don’t think this one was even there when Greenreach was attacked.” She looked at Vesper and remembered that he had spared her life this night. “No blood stains the wings of this Moonrider,” she said.

Giraldus still frowned, however, and Tysle pulled on the string until he was able to waddle over to the young bat and growl at him.

With a forlorn groan, the large mole slid from the log, sank to his knees, then slumped upon the path. “All is lost,” he mumbled, “all our efforts have been in vain, we have journeyed for naught—for now no end can I envisage. Giraldus will gradually fall into pieces. Have I not noticed the disease stealing over me more each day? Now there are no chances left.” He lay his staff across his lap and sobbed as huge tears sprang from his tiny eyes.

Tysle hopped with agitation and dismay to see his master so stricken. “Now, now,” he said brightly, “’tain’t no use a moping and a wailing! A goodly way have we travelled and a merry old time of it have we had so far—the pilgrimage is just as much about getting there as arriving, Master. “Twould be a poorly shame to turn back now, why I do believe it’s downright wrong to even think it!”

Giraldus sniffed a little as he contemplated the shrew’s words. “Yes,” he agreed at last, “I see that now—’twas the evil one trying to subdue me and afflict my faith. Help me up, lad.”

The shrew grunted and puffed as he heaved the bulky mole back to his feet. Then, leaning upon his staff once more, Giraldus affectionately tweaked the end of Tysle’s nose.

“Two staffs do I possess,” he told Ysabelle. “The wooden one I require for my infirm body, but Tysle is my soul’s support. ’Tis he who props my sinking spirits and sets them spinning with his unfailing optimism.”

“Are you still going to Greenreach?” Ysabelle asked.

The mole pulled the pointed hood back over his head. “That was our destination when first we set out,” he answered, “and it has not altered, though what we may find when we arrive might not be to our liking. That is where we are bound.”

The squirrel maiden wrung her paws together. “Let me go with you!” she asked abruptly.

Both Tysle and Giraldus stared at her and a gasp came from Vesper.

“But you can’t go with them!” the young bat hissed.

“Why not?” she cried. “That is where I’m headed, after all, and if our paths lie together...”

“But... but...”

Giraldus gave an understanding smile. “I believe your friend fears for your safety,” he said gently, “and I must admit that I too am amazed at your suggestion. Mark me well. Lady, I am a leper and as such not a fitting companion for anyone.”

“Excepting me, o’course!” trilled Tysle.

Ysabelle shook her head. “Nonsense,” she protested. “From all I have seen and heard, I do not believe I could have met two more trustworthy creatures as yourselves. It would be an honour to me if you would let me accompany you.”

Giraldus bowed his head. “You do me and my servant much kindness,” he breathed, “and such a stout heart will not go unrewarded. The Green will watch over you, Mistress.”

Vesper was astonished at Ysabelle’s compassion for these strangers, and the doubts which had only just begun to surface in his mind about the holy wars, took root.

“What about me?” he asked suddenly.

Ysabelle stared at him. “You are free to go,” she said dismissively. “I have two guides now; you are a captive no longer.”

“Glad am I to hear it!” he cried. “Yet what of me? My way also lies with you—for a great part at least.”

“Then come with us,” she said.

Vesper eyed her uncertainly; he had no desire to brave the vast forest on his own, it would be much wiser to be a member of a larger group. And yet—there was something about the mole he did not trust. That warning bell rang whenever the staff moved and the young bat had not forgotten the curse laid on him.

“Very well,” he replied. “I’ll join you also.”

“My heart is lifted,” Giraldus proclaimed, “but, before we depart, let us offer up a prayer to He who has brought us together.” Lacing his remaining fingers, the mole muttered a Green Psalm.

“Now,” he said cheerfully, “let us be off—three summer worms, Tysle!”

A faint pinkish light was rising over the towering treetops as the dawn broke over the world. The mists which covered the path were tinted a delicate orange and seemed to glow as the sun climbed into the sky. Bathed in the golden morning, the forest looked a much safer place and the clean scent of the dew refreshed each of the strange party who wandered through the fragrant carpet of leaves.

It was not long before Ysabelle remembered that the last time she had eaten was two days ago. On hearing this, Giraldus pulled on the string and sent Tysle off in search of mushrooms. It was here that he explained the method of measuring the shrew’s lead. Each particular length related to a memorable worm the mole had once had the pleasure of eating. Spring worms were the shortest, and the longest allowance of string was accounted in autumn rain worms.

Given a lead of twenty of the latter, Tysle hurried off—only to reappear some minutes later with a quantity of freshly harvested mushrooms. Together with some bread and cheese which the shrew carried in his satchel—or scrip, as he called it—they formed an excellent start to the day and both Ysabelle and Vesper tucked into the meal with much enthusiasm.

“No, no,” Giraldus refused, when Ysabelle offered him some, “if you would excuse me, I think I shall break my fast over yonder.” And with that, the mole wandered several summer worms away and sat down with his back to the rest of them.

Vesper chewed a mushroom, absently wondering why the mole had declined to join them.

“’Tis a penance, you see,” Tysle explained, “for his doubt afore—bad news ever takes him like that and he’s always sorry for it. Lack of faith, he says, so he takes it upon himself to do this penance.”

“And what form does it take?” Ysabelle inquired.

The shrew put down the lump of cheese he had been nibbling and lowered his voice in case his master overheard. “’Tis his food,” he whispered. “You might have noticed the fine girth my Lord has about his middle—well, he didn’t get that not liking his victuals—mighty good appetite he has, that’s why he does it.”

“But what does he do?”

“Caterpillars!” Tysle hissed. “When he feels he’s doubted he forces himself to eat caterpillars.”

“Yuk!” said Vesper pulling a face.

“Just as you says,” the shrew agreed, “terrible bitter them furry wigglers are and how he despises them—but that’s the penance he feels he has to do for being found wanting, so to speak.”

“But why must he eat them over there?” asked Ysabelle still puzzled.

“Done that to spare your stomachs, I reckon,” the shrew said. “’Tain’t no pretty sight seeing them caterpillars go down, and watching his screwed up face ain’t no better. Poor Master, he ain’t had a real juicy worm for weeks now—the road’s been a mighty tough one thus far.”

After that, neither the squirrel nor the bat felt very hungry but they finished the mushrooms Tysle offered them so as not to hurt his feelings.

When Giraldus came back, he was wiping his cracked lips and airing his stinging tongue. The after-taste was most unpleasant, but he told himself that it would serve as a reminder not to lose faith so readily in the future.

For the rest of the morning Tysle was put on a three winter worm string and they made excellent time along the paths.

At first Ysabelle had been shocked at Giraldus’s treatment of the little shrew, at times thinking that he was a bully and a tyrant, but now her opinion had changed. It was true that the mole depended on Tysle for practically everything, but the same was also true of Tysle. Both were reliant on each other and, as the sun rose to its highest point, the squirrel maiden and Vesper learned how the two pilgrims came to meet.

Nearly four years ago, Tysle and the rest of his family had been living in a peaceful riverside hamlet. By the banks of this sleepy backwater, they led a contented and happy life, then word began to spread about the growth of the Hobb cult. It was said that the Hobbers were rampaging through the woodlands in search of new recruits to be initiated into their infernal brotherhood.

But, in their idyllic world, beneath the shade of the willow leaves, no one had paid much attention to the hushed whispers. When they should have been securing their homes and furnishing themselves with weapons, the shrews and their neighbours continued to engage in the relaxing pastimes the river afforded them. Then, one dark night, their peace was shattered forever. Without warning, a raiding party of Hobbers attacked the hamlet, dragging out its inhabitants and forcing them to join their foul legions. Many refused, yet a great number accepted through sheer fright and were never seen again.

As he recounted the tale, Tysle’s face clouded with anger and his normally cheerful self sank beneath his hatred for the children of the Raith Sidhe. “When it came to my turn to be hauled from my home,” he said in a wavering voice, “I saw what them villains had already done to most of our folk. Those who wouldn’t follow them had been strung up as an example to the rest. “’Twas an evil sight and I shan’t never forget it.” He paused for a moment as his heart became filled with the horror of that night once more.

Ambling behind him, Giraldus gave the string a gentle tug—just to remind his friend that he was there—and Tysle drew strength from this gesture but fell silent, as though to continue would be too much for him to bear.

“It was the next morning when I chanced upon the river bank,” the mole told the others, “and I thanked the Green then, and I do so now, that mine eyes were too weak to see the full and terrible nature of the violence which had been visited upon those goodly folk. “’Twas a chilling discovery none the less and I set about doing what services I could.”

“You tended to the wounded?” asked Vesper.

Giraldus glowered and his usually thunderous voice was soft and murmuring. “Wounded?” he said. “Weren’t no wounded there, young batling. No, the only services I in my small way could perform were the rites of burial. None were left alive, you see, and many were the graves I had to dig. I might add that in those times my affliction was not so advanced and my paws were still of use.”

At this Tysle stirred from his brooding and interrupted. “Don’t you believe it, my sweet Lady,” he put in, giving Ysabelle a nudge. “Master’d do it all over, even today.”

The mole flicked the back of his servant’s head and resumed his tale. “There I was,” he told them, “with the morning gone and still a sorrowful quantity of the deceased to inhume, when I hear a small voice gasping beneath the mound of mortal remains—and what do you think I did find in the midst of that ghoulish heap?”

“It was me!” Tysle cried.

“I know that!” the other declared. “I was just coming to it—you hasty, long-nosed river-dweller!”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” the shrew uttered meekly.

Giraldus sniffed authoritatively and continued, ignoring any further interruptions. “Then did I find this self-same shrew,” he told Ysabelle and Vesper, “Tysle Symkyn, but the poor little fellow was in a dreadful way. The Hobbers had left him for dead, you see, having delivered unto him grievous injuries.”

“Worst of it were my leg, though,” added the shrew forlornly.

“I am no leech-master,” admitted Giraldus, “but did what I could to heal my find and together we saw to it that my original task was finished there.”

“And you have travelled with each other ever since?” marvelled Ysabelle.

“That we have, Mistress,” said Tysle, “and a most high honour it is for me to be in my Master’s service. Why, there aren’t many as pious and venerable as he! Grateful I was at first and followed him round like a real daft head, until one day I sees how I might be of real use to him. ‘Why, you could be that great personage’s guide, Tysle Symkyn!’ declared the thought which just popped clean into my head—and a true and respectable vocation it is to be sure.”

Ysabelle smiled, and thought that it was strange how something good had actually come out of one of the Hobb cult’s raids.

Walking beside her, Vesper was lost in his own thoughts—the attack of the Hobbers sounded very much like the way his race had destroyed Greenreach. Was the squirrel maiden right—were the Knights of the Moon no better than rats? He blinked in the strong spring sunshine and contributed very little to the subsequent conversations.

As the afternoon wore on, the talk ranged from many things and all learned something about each of their travelling companions. Giraldus, at Tysle’s invitation, gladly showed everyone his collection of items brought from the shrines he had visited. There were bottles of holy water from the sacred wells and springs, bunches of dried leaves which hailed from blessed groves and in one special purse he reverently carried a relic of the Green himself—being a preserved grain of wheat said to have fallen from the spirit’s woven crown.

It was a most pleasant time and Ysabelle nearly forgot the nightmarish few days that had gone before. With the warm sunlight shining upon her, it was difficult to believe that anything as evil as the followers of the Raith Sidhe could exist. Yet she knew that as soon as night fell, the forest would be full of fear once more.

Eventually the sun began to sink in the heavens and the clear daylight was tinged with the sombre colours of the encroaching evening.

“We ought to find shelter,” Ysabelle said nervously, as the shadows deepened about her.

“Fear not,” Giraldus rumbled, “for we are very close to the next shrine which we must visit—are we not, Tysle?”

The shrew nodded, slipping a rolled up map from a pocket in the satchel. “Before the night closes round us,” he said jovially, “I reckon we’ll be there. Be careful of this hollow—two summer worms ahead!”

“The Orchard of Duir,” Giraldus muttered to himself, “where the seven trees were planted by the Green in the time before the winter came to kill the year. Much would I give for mine eyes to see that blessed sight.”

Tysle chuckled and gave Ysabelle a secret wink. “Master says that every time,” he whispered.

Presently, the trees which they passed grew very close together and Tysle was kept busy shouting his directions to Giraldus, warning him to avoid fallen branches and treacherous roots.

From then on, the party’s progress slowed considerably as the obstacles in the pilgrims’ way steadily increased. Once the mole stumbled and fell to the ground. In a trice, Tysle had bounded over to him to see if he was injured, but his master pushed him away and hauled himself up with the aid of his staff, mouthing a rainbow of oaths which he instantly regretted.

“That means caterpillars for his supper,” the shrew mumbled to himself.

“It’s getting very dark,” Ysabelle said at length. “Should we not be sighting your next shrine?”

“I can’t see any orchard,” commented Vesper.

“We shall not miss it,” stated Giraldus, “a beauteous arboreal collection marked out by its divinity.”

But as the darkness deepened about them, no sign of this orchard could they see. Tysle was put on a twenty autumn wormer to scout the way ahead and as the moon began to shine over the uppermost branches, his excited voice called to them.

“Master!” he cried. “The marker—I’ve found the marker!”

Giraldus pounded his staff in delight. “The marker of Duir!” he boomed. “The entrance to the hallowed orchard—what an occasion for rejoicing.”

With Tysle shouting eager directions, the mole bowled over the ground—leaving Ysabelle and Vesper to hurry along behind.

When they found Tysle, the little shrew was sitting upon a square, grey rock—swinging his legs in time to a tune he hummed to himself. The marker was surrounded by weeds and a low wall made up of smaller stones curved away on either side, forming an immense circle in the forest.

But the wall was overgrown with ivy and the ever-advancing roots of the surrounding trees had ploughed beneath it, breaching and scattering the stones over the earth for creepers to smother.

Giraldus tapped the staff before him until it struck the marker stone, then reached out with his fingers and stroked the weathered surface with a rapturous expression upon his face.

“To think,” he breathed enchantedly, “that once He placed this very boundary here—girdling His orchard in a last attempt to keep the ice and snow of the winter at bay. What a wondrous sight it must be for you lucky youngsters—does the blessed place not fill you with awe?”

Vesper stared beyond the tumbledown wall and grimaced at Ysabelle.

It was a sad, shabby place. Within the ruined circle, a chaotic tangle of wildness met his eyes. Of the seven fruit trees mentioned in the old legends, and which had been planted when the world was young, only three remained and they were so ancient that Vesper was amazed they were still standing. Both the pear and the cherry tree were beyond bearing anything except ragged leaves, not managing a spray of blossom between them. The apple which had once grown in the exact centre of the orchard, and whose fruit had inspired bards to compose the first songs, had withered and died long ago—being now fenced inside a mesh of knotted beech and spindle-trees.

Everywhere, the lesser trees of the forest had sprung up, usurping their position and strangling any scions which the original inhabitants of the orchard had attempted to put out. Now the area inside the broken wall was more overcrowded than anywhere else in the forest—as if the rich soil that had once nourished the divine fruit now fed more than was natural.

The soft moonlight filtered through the matted branches and Ysabelle looked sorrowfully at Giraldus, knowing how disappointed he must feel.

But the mole could not see the overcrowded mesh of bough and twig—to his dim-sighted eyes the place was perfect.

“Tysle,” he murmured, “is it just as we thought?”

The shrew glanced quickly at the squirrel and Vesper and gave a broad grin. “Why, ’tis a comely vision, Master,” he blithely lied. “Never did I see such a lovely orchard. There’s plum trees, apples, cherries, pear, chestnut, rowan and hazel—magnificent all of them.”

Giraldus clapped his paws together in delight and sniffed expectantly. “I cannot smell the blossom!” he said uncertainly.

“Ah well,” Tysle quickly put in, “none of the trees are in flower as yet, but there’s a goodly array of buds just a waiting to burst.”

“Oh yes,” the mole conceded, “in the heart of the forest winter does tend to linger—though I should have dearly liked to inhale the heady mingling of scents. Perhaps on our return journey, Tysle. Once we are cured of our ills we shall abide here a while.”

The shrew gazed at the near impenetrable thickets within the circle and raised his eyebrows. “Nothing sweeter,” he replied.

Ysabelle and Vesper stared at the shrew—how could he deceive Giraldus so unashamedly? Tysle returned their stares unabashed and jumped from the marker stone. “’Tis better this way,” he mouthed as he took hold of his master’s paw.

“Lead me in,” Giraldus instructed. “Let me touch each of the hallowed trees so that I might offer up a prayer to Him.”

The shrew twitched his whiskers and gave a doubtful cough. “That be a good idea,” he said, “but what about finding a place to put our heads down for the night? These young folks must fancy a bite to eat—been a long march since we munched last.”

Giraldus nodded. “Forgive me,” he said, turning to where he thought Ysabelle and Vesper stood. “In my excitement I did forget myself. Tysle—fourteen spring worms, seek out a suitable bower for us to spend the night. I must confess that yea, by the Green’s whiskers I am weary of the road myself.”

Before limping away, the shrew gave the others a look that warned them not to tell his master the truth, then hurried around the circle obediently.

Giraldus leaned his staff against the stone and carefully felt the roughly shapen sides with his fingertips. “Here they are,” his deep voice said eagerly, “the inscriptions that Duir carved into the rock—can you read them, child?”

Ysabelle realised that he was talking to her and she stared at the marker stone intently. Just visible were a series of grooves and swirls carved into the rock. But the long years of neglect had filled the ancient symbols with grime and mould and centuries of hard winters had worn them smooth in places. The squirrel maiden glanced from this to the mole’s expectant face, but she could not lie to him as Tysle had done.

“No,” she said slowly, “I cannot; the writing is too weathered.”

Giraldus looked disappointed, but he groped for his staff and smiled. “A pity,” he sighed, “I should have liked to know what words Duir put into the stone—the histories do not tell us that.”

Vesper frowned at Ysabelle, he saw no harm in humouring the mole, she might have made something up. “Never mind,” he said brightly, “at least you are here and a wonderous sight it is.”

The squirrel maiden turned away—exasperated, but Giraldus grinned and was happy.

When Tysle returned, the mole had shuffled forward a few paces and was squinting at the orchard with his head on one side—as if forming a picture of its beauty in his mind.

“Well, Master,” the shrew declared, “at twelve spring worms there’s a fine old oak tree whose low branches would make as fair a place to spend the night as is possible to think of.”

“An oak?” cried Giraldus. “Surely that must be the self same tree that the Green finally took shelter in when the ice overcame His defences!”

“I reckon so,” said Tysle indulgently. “Why, it does seem awful ancient to mine eyes.”

“And in those I trust,” the mole answered solemnly, “lead me there my faithful servant.”

Ysabelle took a deep breath and reproachfully shook her head at Tysle as he guided his master over the broken wall.

“It is not right,” she told Vesper, “the shrew is not being fair to him.”

“I have found that there is little fairness in this world,” the bat replied as he followed them.

When Ysabelle caught up with them they were already settling down for the rest of the night.

The oak tree Tysle had found was indeed ancient and the squirrel could almost believe that it was the one in the legend. It was a squat, gnarled creation whose roots radiated from it in fat, twisting spokes. The bole of the oak was swollen and horrid bulges sagged beneath the crumbling, moss-covered bark. The weirdly shaped branches wove a jagged web overhead, yet no new leaves adorned them—only the dried-up relics of ages past which had never fallen.

Not too far from the ground, two of these unshapely branches forked from the trunk and it was upon these that Vesper and the others were sitting.

The many unsightly lumps and ulcerous growths which ruptured and blistered about the oak tree made climbing extremely easy and Ysabelle was soon sitting on a branch, not too far from Tysle and his master.

The shrew foraged inside his scrip and shared the remaining bread and cheese whilst Giraldus contemplated another meal of caterpillars. In the end the mole decided to do without altogether and begged pardon for any growls that his stomach might make.

With his eyes reflecting the silver moonlight, Vesper scanned the surrounding woodland and clicked his tongue. Nothing. They were alone in that part of the forest—no other creature stirred and for that he was grateful. Perhaps this night he could sleep soundly, knowing that the disciples of the Hobb cult were nowhere near. He thought it might still be prudent to keep a watch but when he suggested this Giraldus vehemently shook his head.

“What for should we fear?” he cried. “Within this place we are protected by the Green, He shall not let any harm befall us. No, my winged friend, lay thy head down and rest—for tomorrow’s march shall be long also. Tysle and I hope to find the last of the shrines upon our journey before we reach the holy land.”

“We shall, Master,” assured the shrew in a drowsy voice, “we shall.”

“Goodnight then,” Vesper said to them, “and may you get more sleep than you did yesterday, princess,” he told Ysabelle.

But the squirrel was already fast asleep and Vesper shrugged, then leant against the tree trunk where he fell into a deep and much-needed slumber.

“In the arms of the Green,” Giraldus muttered to himself, “once more we consign our spirits into Thy care for you to guard this night—bless our humble company Lord and see us safe till the morning.” The mole closed his blind eyes and joined his paws over his stout and solid stomach, then he began to snore.

The moon-filled night closed over them and the long-dead leaves of the oak tree rustled in the whispering airs above.

Empty hours rolled by, not even the voice of an owl disturbed the deep hollowness of the dark and all the forest was still.

A warmth beat upon Ysabelle’s cheek. Groaning in her sleep, the squirrel turned over, burying her face deeper into her tail to escape the dawn.

“Child,” a voice spoke in her ear.

Ysabelle squirmed lazily, surely it wasn’t time to get up yet? She tried to sink back into the delicious realm of her sleep but the voice spoke again—only this time it seemed to be right inside her head.

“Awaken, child,” it said gently.

Gradually the maiden surfaced from her dreams and rubbed her bleary eyes.

Suddenly Ysabelle sat bolt upright and stared wildly round.

A glorious light, like nothing she had ever seen before, now blazed all about her. Gold and green it burned, edging her fur with glittering stars and dancing in her astonished eyes. Yet that was not all, the oak tree was different—it was young again.

No longer was it a misshapen ogre; its bark was smooth, having a lustrous, silken sheen that threw back the sumptuous gold of the light. New leaves were opening and they too were fringed with the delicious flame. The acorns which budded and swelled in their cups were of pure gold and they shone like tiny lamps. It was a bewitching vision and she could only gape as it unfolded before her.

Heavenly fragrances filled the warm air—perfumes so exquisite that the squirrel almost wept from sheer joy. For now the whole orchard had changed. Gone were the unruly tangles of the lesser trees—now only the original seven grew there and all were magically in bloom. The heart of each blossom brimmed with a glimmering dew and the petals fluttered in a pink and white snowfall to the verdant grass below. The boughs of the trees were laden with burgeoning fruit, yet the blossoms continued to bud and burst open.

Ysabelle closed her eyes and swayed unsteadily—giddy from the spectacular celebration of life and growth which overwhelmed her senses.

“Giraldus!” she called. “Tysle, Vespertilio!”

“Your friends cannot hear you!” the voice said in her mind.

Ysabelle whirled round. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Who is it?”

“Do you not know—child of the Hazel Realm?”

The squirrel felt herself tremble as she finally guessed and she humbly lowered her eyes.

“Forgive me,” she implored, “I... I...”

Kindly laughter shook the brilliant foliage that surrounded her. “Naught is there to forgive,” came the tender reply. “Raise thy head. Handmaiden of Orion—thou hast borne thyself well thus far. Look on me now and take heart.”

Ysabelle lifted her gaze and let out a cry of fear. There, amid the shining leaves of the flourishing oak tree—two great green eyes stared at her.

Within their emerald depths, the fires of spring flashed and sparked—kindling all things into vibrant life.

“Have no fear,” the voice told her, “for in thee lies the hope of all—only thou can deliver the land from darkness.”

“How can I?” she asked. “I am just one against so many.”

The eyes gleamed behind the dappling leaves. “Yet the smallest acorn may become the tallest oak,” came the answer. “Despair no more, child, for help is near to thee. Know now that thine army is safe and but a little distance away.”

“Then the Hobbers didn’t destroy them!”

“They did not—and now thy forces are continuing their march to the land thou knowest as Greenreach.”

“I must find them!” she cried. “How far away are they?”

“Not far, if thou adhere to the straight paths and are swift, all will be well. Yet if thou falter and go astray then all shall be lost. My power will protect thee for as long as it may—but shouldst thou wander away from my streams and the places where my will still flows through the forest, then thou art beyond my help.”

Ysabelle promised that she would not let anything stop or mislead her. Then her gaze fell upon the sleeping form of Vesper and she touched the silver acorn about her neck.

“What of the Moonriders?” she asked. “Are we to destroy them all?”

“The Knights of the Moon are not wholly at fault,” the voice told her.

“But they murdered everyone in the holy land!” she said. “Then they attacked my home!”

“Not all perished in the first onslaught,” came the swift reply, “and the bats were but tools of the true enemies of light and reason. Thy friend’s people were misguided and I do forgive them—thou must learn to do the same or thou shalt never ascend to the Oaken Throne.”

Ysabelle thought of all the misery and terror that the forces of Hrethel had caused her subjects. “I... I do not know if I can,” she said honestly.

“Time will heal,” the voice assured, “your hatred shall melt—already thou hast forgiven this Moonrider.”

“He spared my life when he could easily have killed me,” she hastily explained.

“Then be not overquick to judge the rest of his kind—for other forces are at work and strive to confound thee with anger.”

The squirrel maiden looked doubtful, then she asked about Tysle and Giraldus. “What of these stout-hearted pilgrims? Is it possible for them to be cured?”

“When thou bringest the silver to the Starglass, all things will be possible, child.”

Then the light of the eyes dimmed and the voice was filled with warning. “Yet have a care—for my heart forewarns that one of thy companions shall betray thee. Beware thy trust of them, for assuredly one of their number will stop at naught to bring all our designs unto ruin.”

Ysabelle stared at the sleeping figures nearby—a shocked and stricken expression frozen on her face. “Which one?” she asked. “Which is it to be—who will betray me?”

But around her the light was growing dim and the eyes were fading from sight. “My time with you is at an end,” said the ever-diminishing voice. “Remember—trust only in thine own self and judgement and fare thee well.”

“Wait!” Ysabelle cried. “I must know!”

Only a chill breeze answered her and the world was dark once more. The bleak silhouettes of the overgrown orchard crowded round and the cold moonlight shone starkly upon Ysabelle’s face.

“Which one?” she asked herself, gazing at her fellow travellers. “Who among them is thinking of betraying me—and to whom?”

Even as she tried to concentrate on this disturbing thought an overpowering drowsiness crept over her. Perhaps it was a lingering gift of the Almighty Green—bestowing a deep, restful sleep upon the squirrel maiden to refresh her for the times ahead. Within moments, Ysabelle was sleeping soundly.

So it was that she failed to hear the sound which disturbed the eerie peace of the orchard. From the fathomless, molten reaches beneath the earth, there came a tremendous bellowing. In the Pit something was stirring and making its terrible way upwards—up to where the squirrel slept, her paws clasped about the blood-stained amulet which had summoned it back to the waking world.

8 - The Time of the Rowan

A dull, insistent clanging jolted Vesper from his sleep and he unfurled his wings—momentarily panic-stricken. The young bat’s dreams had been haunted by images of the dreaded high priest and the bloody-bones costume had flitted before him, repeating the curse and revelling in Vesper’s approaching doom.

The bell continued to ring, yet to his relief, the bat discovered that it was only Giraldus taking up his staff and shaking it at Tysle.

It was a pleasant, warm morning. Ysabelle was already awake and occupied in braiding her hair. The dazzling memory of her visions the previous night made her paws shake and her mind reeled at the recollection. She had actually spoken with the Almighty Green and wanted to shout the fact out loud. But the warning she had been given weighed heavily upon her and the squirrel said nothing to the others about it.

Tysle had some trouble preventing his master exploring the orchard but Vesper came to the shrew’s aid and insisted that they could not dawdle and ought to set off immediately.

“That’s right!” Tysle broke in. “And Greenreach be a mighty long way still. Why, this day we must put a goodly distance ’tween us and this place if we’re to make the last shrine before the night—and that be in the most deadly heart of the wild forest.”

“Remember,” Vesper added, “that thus far we have been extremely fortunate, having seen no sign of the Hobbers. Our luck may not last for much longer.”

Reluctantly Giraldus consented to be led away—but he made Tysle promise him that they would return to this beautiful place when they had both been cured of their ills.

So the four travellers left the Orchard of Duir behind them and pressed deeper into the forest. Bright sunlight sparkled through the naked branches overhead and shone upon the ground in ripples of bright gold.

Giraldus was in a fine mood; it was good to feel the sun on his diseased skin and a benign smile split his face.

“By this evening we should reach the last holy place on the road to Grinuvicia,” he said. “It is a holy well and tomorrow you youngsters ought to be able to espy the hallowed hill itself in the distance.”

Vesper laughed, “There’s glad tidings,” he said. “Why, I shall be able to return home—you’ll be happy to see the back of me won’t you, princess?”

“I shall not be happy until the acorn is brought to the Starglass,” she said curtly, “and your kind is driven from Greenreach.”

Vesper chuckled and gave several quick hops to catch up with Tysle.

The morning passed slowly and the group penetrated deeper into the forest’s heart. Knowing that he would soon be able to see the familiar towers of his home, Vesper’s spirits were high and he regaled them with amusing stories of his life and those that he knew. His wing was less painful today than it had been, and though it was still not strong enough for flight, the encouraging signs that it was on the mend kept his toothy smile forever on his lips.

Through dense stretches of tall ferns they pushed. Once, in a damp clearing, they came upon a slimy gathering of snails. Hundreds upon hundreds of curly shells and glistening bodies had to be carefully stepped over and, as Tysle diligently guided him, Giraldus brought the shrew sharply to a standstill. After a few moments searching with his fingers, the leprous mole popped dozens of snails into his food bag, muttering that his supply of furry wigglers would not last for much longer.

Once the clearing was left behind, the travellers were compelled to journey in a gathering gloom. No ivy crept over the ground and no weeds clogged the track—for now the trees grew so closely together that only pale shadows covered the forest floor. In their perpetual competition for light and space, the trees seemed to jostle one another and through the matted ceiling of branches which they had created, nothing could penetrate.

It was a dreary wilderness, bereft of colour, and the melancholy of their surroundings soon entered the spirits of the four companions and they all yearned to walk in the warm sunlight once more.

Then the cold began.

Vesper was the first to notice it—the sensitive membrane of his wings caught the chill airs and he let out a startled gasp.

“What is the matter with the batling?” Giraldus called.

“Uuggh!” the bat replied with a shiver. “’Twas as if icy breath did blow upon me.”

The mole quested the air with his snout. “I can detect naught amiss,” he said.

As if in answer, another icy blast blew upon them—colder and with more force than before.

Everyone shuddered and Ysabelle rubbed her arms where goosepimples had suddenly appeared.

“As I feared,” Giraldus commented, “in the forest’s heart the winter lingers—no doubt we shall become increasingly aware of its ghastly presence.”

The mole was right and, by midday, it was as if the alder month had not yet arrived and the world was still locked within the time of the rowan.

Frosty cobwebs gleamed white and sparkled like strands of spun diamonds over the trees and branches. The leaves which the pilgrims walked upon were laced with ice and the muddy pools they came across were covered by an intricate lattice of cold.

The air they breathed steamed from their mouths in great clouds and Giraldus pulled his pointed hood down over his face to keep out the chill draughts.

As she trod on the brittle leaves—keeping her tail close about her, a disturbing thought occurred to Ysabelle. In this wintry place the power of the Green was dormant and she urged the others to hurry.

Long, thin icicles dripped from sagging boughs in huge glittering curtains that tinkled ever so faintly before the glacial airs, and the still, blanketing quiet that oppressed the frozen forest echoed to these bleak and tuneless chimes.

A hoary rime now covered everything and the ground was almost too cold to walk over. Threads of icy white mist clung to the trees—throttling them with the numbing death of winter.

Vesper flapped his wings several times in an effort to keep warm and his wispy beard had become clotted with a frosty dew.

Tysle’s teeth chattered uncontrollably and his directions to his master were halting and broken as he tried to control his shivering speech.

No one could believe the ice-bound world which bit and pinched at them and Giraldus uttered psalm after psalm to keep himself going. Leading the way, some distance in front, Tysle gave a shout and they all stopped in their tracks.

The shrew held up a paw that trembled with more than mere cold and Ysabelle and Vesper stared at what he had found.

“Bless us!” the young bat whispered.

Ysabelle clutched her amulet but the silver was frozen and she had to tear her paws away in shock.

“What is it? Giraldus boomed, peering from beneath his hood. “Tysle, what have you discovered?”

The shrew leaned heavily upon his crutch and turned towards his master. “Hobb posts,” he breathed.

Impaled upon sharpened twigs, were the bodies of five sparrows and next to them, the picked-clean skulls of three weasels grinned and gaped.

“So,” Giraldus murmured once Tysle had explained, “the cult of the Raith Sidhe is strong hereabouts. This no doubt is a warning to travellers such as we.”

Tysle looked down from the macabre totems and spat on the freezing ground. “If’n I sees one o’them foul villains, they’ll be sorry!” he promised.

“Ssshhh!” hissed Vesper suddenly.

Swiftly, he pulled Tysle from the path and herded Ysabelle and Giraldus behind the bole of a tree.

“Listen,” he told them.

Everyone held their breath and then they heard—something was approaching.

Crunching footsteps were coming towards them along the path and Ysabelle looked at Vesper in horror.

“Who is it?” Giraldus murmured, muffling the bell on his staff with his paw.

“Can’t tell yet,” said Tysle, whipping out his tiny knife and jabbing it in readiness.

As the footsteps drew closer, Ysabelle took hold of her own blade and the bitter steel that had once belonged to the bloody-bones shone grimly.

“How many are there?” she asked.

“More than one,” Vesper answered, “though I can’t quite...”

From behind the screen of silvery twigs and the ragged shreds of icy mist, two figures emerged.

Tysle lowered his knife in disappointment, Vesper laughed and Ysabelle put her paw to her brow—sighing in relief.

“What is it?” asked Giraldus.

“Nothing to worry about,” Vesper chortled, “only a couple of mice collecting firewood.

Standing on the path, two strangers squinted at the tree which seemed to be speaking with many voices. Both mice were plump creatures, with knitted scarves wound about their mouths and necks and swaddled inside long woollen tunics which came down to their knees. Bundles of twigs were stacked precariously upon their backs and they looked at each other nervously.

One of them pulled the scarf away from his mouth and asked cautiously, “Did ee hear that, Mahtild?”

The second mouse nodded. “That I did, Pountfrey,” she returned, adjusting the teetering pile of fuel she bore.

“Tha doesn’t think it’s..?”

“Nay, ’tis too early for they to be out yet.”

The first mouse mulled this over and agreed with her. “Right,” he said sternly, “then whoever it is skulking yonder had best show their faces!”

Vesper and Ysabelle stepped from behind the tree—followed by Tysle. The two mice squeaked in surprise then their mouths fell open and their eyes bulged as Giraldus came ambling after.

“’Tis a leper!” the one called Pountfrey yelled.

“Stay back!” squawked the other. “Fancy a-coming across a band of roguish disease carriers virtually on our doorstep!”

Giraldus roared for silence and told the mice that he would not harm them. They looked at him and the others doubtfully for a moment and their whiskers twitched furiously, then they relaxed and gruffly introduced themselves.

“Name’s Pountfrey and this be my good lady Mahtild. “Scuse the nerves but you done give us a bit of a start you did. Don’t meet many folk on the road these days.”

“Not like it was, is it?” his wife sadly reflected. “Oh the comings and goings then when I was a teeny wee lass.”

Pountfrey waited until she finished then continued. “Got to know who is what if’n you live in these parts,” he explained, “you gets a smell for it you might say—there’s been fairer than ee traipsing these woods that I would’na trust.”

“Ooh, a frighty bad set of vagabonds and cut-purses the lot,” Mahtild put in.

“Hobbers?” asked Tysle excitedly.

The mice looked uncomfortable and fidgeted with their bundles of firewood. “Aye,” Pountfrey finally admitted, “them do have a hold here, yet we have nowt to do with the likes of they. Keep usselves to usselves and bolt the door when the evening comes.”

“We not ones for upping sticks like all else!” his wife blurted.

“Tush dear!” he told her. “Not now.”

“Been here all these years!” she ranted. “Why, my brass was given to me ’neath yon beech tree—and they ’spect me to go off all calm like? Shan’t do it, I says!”

“And we won’t!”

“Don’t ee get any notions, Pountfrey Gromyn—I still says what I said then!”

“I knowed that!”

“Good an’ well—no one’s to uproot us! Adhere we will!”

Giraldus jiggled his staff and the bell clanged the bickering mice into silence.

“Forgive me,” he begged, “yet my fellows and me are bewildered—what do you mean? Who wanted you to leave—was it the Hobb cult?”

“Pooh!” said Mahtild scornfully, “’Tweren’t they—no, ’twas them other woodlanders all deciding to band together.”

“We weren’t for joining them!”

“Not quitting our snug wee home.”

“Let them go and fight if they can—we didn’t want aught to do with it!”

“Still don’t!”

“We’re not saying as we likes having foul brigands as neighbours, though. We hates ’em as much as the others but if’n we keep the door locked us doesn’t see the purpose in grouping together and playing at soldiers.”

Ysabelle’s head spun trying to keep up with what the mice were saying. “Do you mean some of you actually formed an army to fight against the Hobbers?”

“Not us!” Mahtild smartly replied. “’Twere others—they upped and went, abandoned thems homes and started waving swords and knives and the like—I ask you.”

“Should have known better, the lot of them.”

“I told them didn’t I?”

“That you did.”

“Plain crazy notion I said. Them’ll all be sorry for it, mark you.”

“If they’re still alive.”

“Well that’d be a lesson to them to go off and not adhering.”

Taking advantage of a rare pause, Vesper interrupted. “Where exactly did they go?” he asked. “Was it far away?”

The mice sniffed and pursed their lips truculently. “Don’t know, don’t care,” Pountfrey declared. “Good riddance—we doesn’t need their company does we, Missus?”

“Certainly not,” she tartly replied, “only accidents ever come of playing with sharp blades, I told ’em.”

“That you did.”

“I knowed I did. Anyways, we’re still here and happy.”

“Though cold; ’tas been awful nippy like this fer too long to my thinking.”

“Well let’s not stand here any longer catching our deaths,” she scolded him. “A nice crackling fire we can have now and there’s a bit of broth to put on it—soon be toasty and warm.”

“Pleasant talking with you folks,” Pountfrey waved as they turned to leave.

“Wait,” Giraldus cried, “there is much you do not know—there is much we have to tell.”

Mahtild wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head. “Not today,” she said, “no time for chatter, lots to do, haven’t we, my chuck?”

“Plenty,” he replied.

“But the land of Greenreach!” the mole called out. “That blessed place has been destroyed and it is our beholden duty to restore a Starwife to the throne! Rejoice that you too can play a part in this most honourable quest—this is a time of destiny, when great deeds must be done!”

“Which broth will that be then?” Pountfrey inquired mildly.

“The chestnut and maple.”

“Not the rose-hip?”

“Away with you. Mister Gromyn! We haven’t set eyes on a rose-hip for nigh on six month!”

Giraldus thumped his staff angrily. “Cast aside thy wordly goods!” he shouted. “Let fall those burdens which trammel thy journey to the blessed Green!”

“Master,” Tysle chirped, “’tain’t no use—they’ve gone.”

“Join us upon our noble quest!”

“Didn’t even invite us back to have some of that broth,” Tysle grumbled.

Giraldus let out a weary sigh. “Ah well,” he said at length, “the way of the pilgrim is not for all.”

“I wish those mice had told us where those woodlanders had gone to,” said Vesper. “If they really have formed some kind of fighting force against the Hobbers, we might need their help if we haven’t come across your shrine by tonight.”

“Have faith,” the mole told him.

“Oh I have faith all right,” commented the bat. “Faith in those who skewered them poor birds and weasels—I believe in them absolutely.”

As they set off along the path once more, Ysabelle glanced behind, and the grinning skulls seemed to watch them depart.

For the rest of the afternoon, they tramped through the frozen forest and at every turn of the track there was some new sign to remind them in whose country they walked.

The severed heads of those who would not join the infernal congregations became a common sight and Ysabelle was astonished and appalled at herself that she could grow accustomed to such horrific and grisly objects. Alongside the mutilated remains, which the gore crows had picked and pecked at, vicious and crude drawings were daubed on the tree trunks—depictions of the Raith Sidhe, scenes of murder and evil-looking symbols whose meaning they were all relieved not to be able to interpret.

They met only one other creature and that was a gaunt rabbit—out foraging for food. When Giraldus asked him to lay down his possessions and follow them to Greenreach, the rabbit swore and rudely clicked his fingers at the mole.

“Clear the way,” the buck-toothed stranger said crossly, “the evening comes and I’ve a mind to get away from this place before then.”

Giraldus spread his arms wide and tried to prevent the creature passing—determined this time to finish his sermon.

The rabbit bounced in front of him for several moments, glaring at each of the company until he stopped and stared at Ysabelle.

“What’s this? What’s this?” the rabbit cried skittishly. “A maiden? What are you doing, dear Lady? Leave these benighted woods—escape while you may! Art thou ignorant of the horror which haunts the forest? A tithe of flesh does that pagan crew pay to their evil master!” He tugged at the squirrel’s arm and glowered at the others for leading her into such peril.

Ysabelle pulled away. “My road lies this way!” she told him. “I cannot turn back now—though my death might be around the next corner I am bound to press on.”

“Then seek shelter!” the rabbit told her. “Go to the woodlanders who resist the hellish brethren. Find them and be safe! For mercy’s sake!”

“Do you know where they are?” Vesper asked. “We should be very grate...”

The young bat faltered, for a dramatic change had come over the rabbit. The creature’s long ears pricked up suddenly and his mouth fell open as a look of sheer terror spread over his face.

“Too late!” the rabbit shrieked. “Too late! No more time! They are coming—out of my way, Scabface!”

With a terrific leap, he jumped over Giraldus and scooted away. “Fools!” his fading voice cried as he vanished into the distance. “You’ll never leave these woods alive!”

Vesper stroked his frosty beard, deep in troubled thought. “I wonder what he heard?” he muttered after listening to the sounds of the wintry forest and finding nothing unusual.

“Probably just the poor thing’s nerves,” said Ysabelle. “It’s growing dark and he was frightened, that is all.”

“Well, I have no wish to be abroad in this terrible place after nightfall either,” said Vesper. “Let us resume the march.”

They set off once more and after a short time, Ysabelle shook her head. “I wish that fellow had told us where we might find the woodlanders,” she said regretfully.

Vesper looked at her and his brow creased into many furrows. The gathering gloom was making him nervous also and he snapped at Ysabelle before he knew what he was doing. “If it wasn’t for your kind,” he told her, “I would be able to find them myself.”

“How?” she asked, taken aback.

“Insight,” he said promptly. “That is the birthright of the Moonriders.”

“Well why put the blame on us?”

“It was the old Starwife who denied it to my people!” he told her. “It was she who started the holy war!”

Ysabelle threw back her head and laughed. “Nonsense!” she hooted, but the sound of her own voice startled her and it was then she realised that she and the bat had been hissing at one another in whispers.

“I don’t like this,” Vesper murmured. “I may not have insight—but I can feel that all is not well. The rabbit was right, something is out there.”

The squirrel maiden looked around them, the dismal light of the wintry day was already beginning to fail, yet there was something else—something that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle and stand on end.

Even Giraldus noticed the growing atmosphere of unease and he tugged at Tysle’s string to hurry the shrew along.

Presently they were all walking hastily over the path, their pace quickening as the shadows grew longer.

It was as if the forest was aware of them—listening to everything they said and following their movements with hostile interest.

“Is it just my imaginings,” Ysabelle asked Vesper, “or are we being watched?”

The bat gazed about the stark, frost-covered trees. “If that is so, then whoever it is—their sight is better than mine,” he answered. “I see nothing!”

As their disquiet increased, only Tysle seemed unafraid. With his knife in his paw, the shrew was ready for anything and greatly looked forward to encountering any Hobbers. “If they want a fight,” he said with an expectant grin lighting up his face, “then let them come—I’ll give ’em a bashing they never bargained for. I’ll teach the filth not to tackle the Symkins twice!”

“Now, now,” Giraldus scolded, cuffing the shrew’s head, “you know how I deplore violence of any kind.”

Vesper had gone pale, “If it comes to a fight,” he said, remembering the hellish throng around the standing stones, “we shan’t last very long.”

“Please!” Ysabelle begged. “We’re only frightening each other. “’Tis all the fault of that long-toothed rabbit, he started this—why, here we are walking as fast as we can for no reason at all. None have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary—’tis only our fancy...”

Suddenly a high, mocking sound rang through the trees.

“YIP-YIP-YIP!”

“What was that?” Ysabelle cried, whirling around.

Giraldus twisted his head to listen. “Some kind of bird, no doubt,” he suggested, but his strides had widened and he almost trod on Tysle’s bandaged heel.

“That was no bird I know of,” muttered Vesper, “that was a call of some kind.”

“Hobbers,” Ysabelle gasped fretfully. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

Tysle jumped up and down. “Why don’t they show themselves?” he chirped. “Why do they hide?”

“They’re watching us,” Vesper replied, “probably waiting for the right moment.”

“What shall we do?” asked the squirrel. “Should we run?”

“No,” he said quickly, “without a doubt that is what they want—send us dashing off, scared and witless, and right into their midst.”

“We must continue along the path,” Giraldus agreed. “Do not let them afright us.”

So they continued on their way, but from deep within the shadows of the trees which surrounded and pressed in on every side, they began to hear strange voices and rustlings.

“They are moving with us,” Vesper whispered.

Ysabelle bit her lip to stop from crying out. The tension was unbearable. “They don’t care that we can hear them now,” she wept. “They no longer try to disguise their presence.”

“I wonder when they will show themselves,” said Giraldus and he too sounded afraid.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ysabelle thought she saw something dart between the trees, but when she looked there was nothing.

“I... I could have sworn I saw a movement,” she stammered.

The sounds were louder now, twigs were breaking beneath eager feet and tree trunks slapped impatiently. An excited babble of wicked voices murmured to one another—from some dark place two sticks were struck together, beating out a horrible rhythm that gave a pulse to the seething woodland.

Ysabelle could not stand much more; she felt like screaming and tearing off down the path. Her breath came in short gasps and her eyes flicked from side to side, dreading the moment when she would catch a glimpse of the unseen enemies.

It was Vesper who saw them first.

“Look!” the bat cried. “Up there in the treetops.”

Ysabelle and Tysle stared upwards. In the high branches of an elm tree a large black carrion crow sat hunched and ready. With red-rimmed eyes, it returned the anxious looks of the travellers and gave a croaking cackle.

“’Tis only a bird,” Tysle murmured. “Master did say the first call were a bird.”

“No,” Vesper told him, “by Hrethel’s name, that creature is a servant of Hobb. See how it regards us!”

“I pray that is all it does!” said Ysabelle.

Giraldus tutted and told them not to fear. “For the shrine cannot be far—the holy well is almost within our reach!”

“It had better be,” said Vesper, “for there are two crows up there now.”

Sure enough, another of the ugly carrion birds had joined the first and it too let out a chilling, ghastly caw.

Ysabelle shivered and turned away, but her eyes saw a furry shape leap through the darkness and she took hold of Vesper’s wing in fear.

“They’re going to jump out at us!” she cried. “Any moment now we shall be overwhelmed and cut to pieces!”

Vesper said nothing, for his own eyes had seen a figure skulking in the shadows. It was a monstrous rat with a glittering sword in its claw and for an instant it bared its fangs before stepping back into the gloom.

“Cast your eyes upwards,” said Tysle slowly.

Above them, dozens more crows had alighted. With greedy eyes they watched those passing beneath and a number sharpened their beaks upon the frozen bark. The trees were smothered with them now—it was as though a vile black foliage had burst into life upon the previously bare branches.

Hundreds of eyes were shining within the dense forest. Cruel, narrow slits which burned with savagery and hunger.

Then a chant began; soft at first, it gradually spread until the whole world seemed filled by the raucous and discordant sound.

Ysabelle no longer dared to look around her, now she kept her eyes fixed on the path at her feet, yet the evil words that the children of the Raith Sidhe endlessly recited made her feel sick and faint.

Four fine morsels, see how they run,
Rip out their hearts until their lives done.
Peck out their eyes and do a good job.
Peel off their skins and give them to Hobb.

“Hobb,” they all hissed. “Hobb! Hobb! Hobb!”

Vesper saw the strain on Ysabelle’s face as the squirrel gritted her teeth and tried not to break into a run. “Don’t,” he told her, “try not to listen—think of something else.”

Behind him Giraldus uttered Green psalms to try and block out the hideous chorus but his voice wavered as the foul mouths of the Hobbers shouted all the more loudly.

On corpse flesh shall we dine,
Hot blood shall be our wine.

Ysabelle tried to do as Vesper said. She tried to remember the vision she had seen the night before and fill her mind with those emerald eyes—but that seemed so long ago now and her strength began to fail her.

From out of the ranks of the trees a hunch-backed rat poked its snout and tittered at her. The squirrel took hold of the silver acorn and repeated over and over to herself. “I am not afraid, I am not afraid!”

A disgusting gurgle issued from the shadows and Vesper pulled Ysabelle back as a large missile was hurled onto the path.

Ysabelle stared at it fearfully and the terrible voices of the Hobb cult grew silent.

At the squirrel’s feet, was a round bundle—it seemed to have been knitted from wool and for a moment neither Vesper, Ysabelle or Tysle recognised it.

The shrew blinked at the thing then ventured forward—there appeared to be something inside.

Using the end of his crutch, Tysle gave the large, lumpy ball a nudge and a part of the knitting fell away.

Blood oozed over the icy ground, staining the frost pink in an ever-widening circle.

A ghastly laugh was sent up throughout the forest and Vesper squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the grisly sight.

“Pountfrey,” he breathed.

“Filthy Hobbers!” Tysle shrieked.

Terror and panic finally overcame Ysabelle. Screaming, she tore down the path.

“No!” Vesper called after her. “We mustn’t separate, that’s what they want.” He turned quickly to the others and told them to follow and run as best they could.

As the bat set off, Tysle yanked on the string and Giraldus scurried over the ground behind him.

But the game was over now—the children of Hobb had had their sport.

A wild howl screeched above the din of the sniggering laughter and, in the trees, the carrion crows flapped their great wings and swooped downwards, like some terrible dark swirl of autumn leaves.

“Tysle!” Giraldus cried. “What is happening? Tysle?” The mole hurried along as best he could but the noises disorientated him. He fumbled at his belt where the lead string should have been looped but the hook had fallen and for the first time in many years he was alone and without guidance. “Tysle!” he bellowed as the shrieking cries grew closer.

“Forward, forward!” the shrew called. “Mind the root at two summer worms, forward, forward—left now!”

Tysle skidded to a halt, something was wrong—no answering tug yanked on the string and he spun round desperately. The string was slack and his master was not attached to the end of it.

“Aaaaiiyeee!” he squealed, limping back the way he had come. “Master! Master!”

There was Giraldus thrashing his staff over his head as a sea of carrion crows plucked and tormented him.

“Leave me!” he howled in a high, frightened voice. “Leave me!”

The crows mocked him and pecked at the sores on his face, scratching his mottled velvet with their claws.

“Warm red blood to drip from our beaks!” they croaked eagerly. “Rich ruby honey to slake our thirsts!”

Giraldus was floundering; the staff whirled less intensely now and his pitiful cries were drowned by the furious beating of the ebony wings.

Down he dropped, onto his knees, and the carrion birds tore at him.

Suddenly, into the frenzied mass of feather and claw, a bitter little blade flashed and stabbed.

“Master!” roared Tysle in a voice larger than himself. “Don’t worry—I’m here! I’ll rip out their quills and stuff them up their parsons noses!”

Brandishing his tiny knife, the shrew lunged at those who pecked at Giraldus and so furious was his temper that the birds fell back dismayed.

“Get you up!” Tysle said to the mole. “Take the end of my string and fear no more—we’ll be no crow bait!”

A cloud of bloody feathers flew about the shrew as he rampaged around his master, seeing off any who dared approach. Then he gave a tug on the string and the pair of them hastened down the path. But the maddened crows came after them and, with wings outstretched, they screeched for their deaths.

Ysabelle was too afraid to stop. She could hear Vesper calling to her but the fiendish cries of the Hobbers filled her with despair and she raced beneath the crowded trees as fast as she could.

The rats and other evil worshippers of the unholy triad were chasing her—leaving the crows to finish off the leper and his guide.

With cudgels in their grasp, they beat the trees as they pursued her, reaching out with their twisted claws, saliva dribbling from their open jaws.

“Fly!” their deadly voices coldly rang. “Run to your doom! Speed to your death! A necklace shall we make of your entrails and down our gullets shall your torn flesh slip.”

The squirrel maiden ran blindly on, the trampling feet of her enemies gaining on her with every anxious stride.

From the darkness ahead an enormous badger loomed, rearing up—directly in front of her.

In the creature’s wide and vicious mouth, the tail of a mouse dangled and, sucking it in, it then licked the blood from the knife it clutched in its claws.

Ysabelle covered her face and swerved to one side, bounding wildly through the forest away from the path.

An outstretched wing wrapped itself around her waist and she screamed in terror.

“It’s me!” cried Vesper as he fended off her fists. “Stop it, you stupid squirrel!”

Ysabelle wept but Vesper grabbed her wrist and dragged her further into the trees. “This way!” he shouted.

As they ran, black-feathered arrows sang past their heads and a dagger spiralled through the air—just missing the bat’s right ear.

“We shan’t make it!” Ysabelle sobbed. “Those devils will hound us till we drop!”

“Stop squawking and run!” Vesper yelled. “I’ll be no meal for the likes of them!”

Plunging further from the path, they came to where a thick hedge covered the ground and barred the way in all directions.

“Trapped!” Ysabelle cried.

“Not yet!” Vesper said, bundling her through a narrow gap and leaping after.

But Ysabelle had stopped just beyond the opening and the bat crashed into her and fell on his face.

“What are you doing?” he cried. “Are you mad? Hurry!”

Ysabelle could only gaze at the sight which lay before them.

“Vespertilio!” she whispered. “We are here!”

Brushing flakes of ice from his wings, Vesper looked up in surprise. “The holy well!” he uttered in astonishment. Then he, like Ysabelle could only stand and gape.

Behind them there came a frantic series of cries and howls as the others found them.

“Here we come!” squealed Tysle dashing through the hedge. “Forward, forward—squeeze in!”

Giraldus came lumbering after, his large girth barely managing the narrow way.

“Bum in the eternal fires of damnation—scavengers of the underworld!” he trumpeted, brandishing his staff once more. “Tysle—where are they? Are the corbies regrouping for another assault?”

The shrew peered into the sky but it was clear. He pattered back to the gap in the hedge and stared at the way they had come—not a sign of the carrion crows could he see, neither were the rats following them and suddenly the forest was quiet.

“They’ve plum vanished!” he cried in amazement. “Why do you think they left us like that? I did think we was done for, good and proper!”

“Who can fathom the wiles of the heathen hordes?” Giraldus muttered. “Let us be grateful for the present—yet I fear the respite will be all too brief.”

Tysle opened his mouth to answer, then he saw where they were.

“The last shrine!” he squeaked. “Master—we reached it!”

The mole let out a joyous yell and clapped his paws together. “Then the Green has protected us!” he bellowed. “That is why the vermin of the skies could no longer hound us and the loathsome wights of the woods have abandoned their chase.”

Tysle swallowed doubtfully and wandered over to Ysabelle and Vesper who stood speechless and aghast.

“Tysle?” Giraldus called. “Lead me to the holy water.”

The shrew gazed up at Ysabelle and the squirrel shook her head at him. “You cannot lie this time,” she said.

Tysle knew she was right and he stared at the vile scene one last time before returning to his master to explain.

In a small clearing, fringed by twelve elder trees and the rambling hedge, the Well of Ruis had remained for centuries. It was square in shape—its sides being cut by the cunning craft of those who had lived long ago. In this place it was said the entire forest was first born and many were the streams which owed their sources to this enchanted, crystal water.

The virtues of the well were legendary: heroes had gained great strength after drinking there, wishes had been granted and many wounds had been magically healed after bathing in it. At one time a warden had tended the site but like so many other of the sacred shrines it had been deserted for untold years.

Ysabelle looked at the sorrowful sight and a tear streaked down her cheek.

The holy well had become a hideous place—for the children of the Raith Sidhe had come and left their infernal marks there.

Locked in the grip of the pervading winter, the divine power of the holy well was weak and the spirit of the Green had not been able to defend it. Now the place was a repellent parody of its former glory. Black ice sealed the well-head, yet the trapped water within was dark and foul. The Hobbers had defiled it with their filth, and the once pure water was polluted beyond redemption.

Nothing had escaped the evil vigilance of the hellish brethren. Once the well had been poisoned, they had turned their dastardly attentions to the surrounding area. Many of the elder trees had been cruelly hacked at, some still bore the scorch marks where wicked fires had burned them, others were no more than a miserable collection of pathetic stumps, but everywhere was covered by obscene scrawls.

The nightmare images that the travellers had seen earlier by the wayside were nothing compared to this devilish work. On all sides, depraved scratches had been gouged into the wounded trees, indecent charcoal scribbles and base messages defaced the broken stone which had once covered the well and the most disgusting drawings filled any spare space.

Beside the blackened, frozen well a great heap of charred branches and lopped boughs had been assembled and Vesper guessed that here was another meeting place for the unholy worshippers of Hobb.

Giraldus gripped his staff tightly when Tysle described the scene to him. “Is there to be no haven?” he asked hoarsely. “Are the powers of the dark to conquer all?”

Vesper lifted his face to the darkening sky and scowled. “I do not understand,” he said. “The power of the Green no longer defends this place, so why did the Hobbers abandon their attack?”

“Maybe they still think of it as a place of dread to be avoided,” suggested Ysabelle.

The bat dismissed that idea. “No,” he said, “look at that pile of branches—it’s just like the fire in the dell where we were their prisoners. The Hobb cult have been congregating here for a long time by the looks of things.”

He took several hesitant steps towards the burned wood, then he quickly turned away and buried his face in his wings.

“What is it?” Ysabelle asked fearfully.

The young bat parted his wings and the look in his eyes shocked her into silence.

It was Tysle who went to discover what Vesper had found. Unravelling plenty of string, the shrew hobbled over to where Vesper was standing and stared behind the blackened heap.

The shrew staggered backwards and it was some time before he could speak. “’Tis... ’tis the worst mine eyes ever beheld,” he said at last. “No, don’t you come over here, sweet Mistress. You’ll never sleep peaceably again.”

Ysabelle glanced at Vesper and the bat shuddered. “It’s the remains of a stag,” he told her in a wavering voice, “just the head, of course, the Hobbers seem to have a special liking for them—first Pountfrey and now this.”

Tysle felt faint. “How could they?” he whimpered. “The poor beast’s antlers all sawn off... and... and...”

Giraldus pulled on the string and the shrew quickly came back to him.

“What are we to do?” Ysabelle asked.

“We cannot remain here!” Vesper told her. “It has become an evil, accursed place. I can think of nowhere less dangerous.”

Giraldus had been listening to all this with a grave look upon his face. Now he raised his immense paw and said softly, “Hush—we are not alone.”

Everyone stared at him; then, from somewhere behind the mutilated elders, they heard a voice—and it was sobbing.

“Oh woe,” it blubbered, “what a sorry pickle you have landed thyself in—why, oh why could he who doled out brains not have bestowed any upon thee, unhappy dolt?”

Ysabelle caught her breath—she knew that voice!

“It cannot... it cannot be,” she stuttered, “and yet...”

Without a word to the others she hurried in the direction of the self-pitying voice and let out a delighted cry.

There, in the dreary shade of the broken trees, sitting upon his cart and with his head in his paws—was Wendel Maculatum.

9 - By the Mournful Willows

At the sound of the squirrel’s voice, the jester leapt to his feet and backed away in terror.

“Oh!” he yowled. “A phantom! A phantom is come to haunt me! Avaunt, dreaded spectre—begone!”

Ysabelle smiled. “Wendel!” she cried. “I am no ghost—’tis I, Ysabelle, the daughter of Ninnia.”

The stoat wrung his paws before him. “Alas, wretched shade,” he said nodding gloomily, “only too well do I know thine countenance—and how it was taken from this world.”

“I am not dead,” Ysabelle insisted. “The Hobbers carried me off to one of their dungeons, but I am most certainly alive.” To prove this, she stepped up to the jester and took his paw in hers.

At first, Wendel flinched and tried to wriggle away, then his eyes grew round as he realised she was indeed flesh and blood. “Mistress!” he cried falling to his knees. “Then ’tis true—oh I did fear all was lost when those figures attacked the camp.”

“So did we all,” she said, “but it is so wonderful to find you—how did you come to be here?”

The jester put his fingers to his lips and spoke in a hushed tone, as if the mention of those events would bring some terrible calamity upon them. “’Twas all confusion,” he told her. “There was I, ready for the snoozing, when out those villains sprang and madness was everywhere. I recall that thy nibbler screamed that they had taken you and everyone lamented. But in the chaos that followed—when thy guards did give chase to the midnight hordes—I and my cart were left behind and poor Wendel has not seen them since.”

“But how did you get here?”

“For days have I wandered, lost in the wilds. In terror have I spent my nights—listening to the shrill sounds of those who prowl in the dark. I had all but given up hope when I came upon this dismal place and then those hideous noises began again. I thought they were finally coming to get me and thus you found me a-quaking and sobbing. Oh, how mine heart does rejoice now!”

He kissed the squirrel’s paw and laughed rather hysterically.

Standing a little way behind, Vesper peered at the stoat and frowned. “It does appear to me,” he said, “that you have been extremely fortunate so far.”

For the first time, Wendel seemed to notice him. “Why, ’tis the Moonrider!” he declared. “Yet where are his bonds? Why is he not trussed and bound?” Before anyone could answer, he then saw Giraldus and Tysle.

“Don’t worry,” Ysabelle said hastily when she saw the look of horror steal over the jester’s face, “these are all my friends and the bat has saved my life more than once since last I saw you.”

“Is that so?” the stoat mumbled, staring aghast at the leprous mole and his lame guide. “I’ll own that your roads have been darker than mine, if this company seems fair to thee. What have we here? A runty shrew with a game leg and the most ill-favoured knave I have ever bruised mine eyes to look on—no ornaments are they.”

“Here!” growled Tysle. “Who is this bad-mannered rogue? I’ll not have him looking down his nose at us!”

Wendel looked startled at the shrew’s retaliation, then made a comical bow. “Forgive me, goodly sirs,” he apologised. “In the sudden shock of finding this jewel of the Hazel Realm alive, I did forget myself, but am now recovered. Take not the slightest notice of aught I prattle—I am what the Green made me, a simpleton who knows no better. Wendel Maculatum, forever stupid, a dotard before his time.”

“Ah well,” Tysle grunted, “can’t say fairer than that—just so long as you don’t go calling us names again.”

“May the Green wash out my mouth if I do,” he replied humbly.

Giraldus sniffed while Tysle introduced himself and his master. He was not sure if he approved of the stoat’s irreverent tone and the mole assumed a stiff-necked piety which none of Wendel’s jokes could thaw.

“I should dearly like to know why the Hobbers stopped chasing us,” said Vesper glancing back at the defiled well, “they could have killed us easily.”

The jester raised a paw to silence him. “Be glad that they did not,” he said. “Why question such a happy occurrence?”

“Because it doesn’t make any sense,” the bat replied.

“To those odious malefactors it does!” Wendel exclaimed. “It seems to me that they revel in teasing and taunting their victims. Have I not heard them night after night calling to me and making my flesh creep? To toy with our fears is their delight.”

Vesper was still doubtful; why did he have the feeling that they had been purposely driven to this place? He tried to put his thoughts into words, but the simple stoat was so ecstatic at finding Ysabelle that he was now capering madly around her. The three bells upon the jester’s head-dress tinkled sweetly and Vesper recalled the curse laid on him and said nothing. Now there were two sources to constantly remind him of his doom.

In spite of herself, Ysabelle could not stop laughing. It was as though all the emotions she had been forced to keep under control would not be bottled up any longer and burst to the surface—released in one insane fit of giggles.

Then the tears flowed and she gasped for breath between the mingling of sobs and mirth.

During this time, Wendel pranced around, somersaulting and juggling three acorns which he snatched from his cart. Tysle gazed at him admiringly—the life of a pilgrim allowed for no frivolity such as this and he marvelled at the jester’s antics.

Giraldus listened to all this and was most unimpressed—the stoat seemed to have infected them with inane silliness. He gave a slight tug on the string but Tysle was so busy chortling that he failed to notice.

Vesper was not pleased by the effect the jester had on Ysabelle—had she forgotten that a few minutes ago they had barely escaped with their lives? The darkness was complete now and he feared what the dead of night would bring.

“We ought to be moving on,” the bat said brusquely. “We dare not stay here.”

Ysabelle and Tysle broke off from their merriment and stared at him for a second, then they collapsed into more giggles.

“Your face,” the squirrel cried, “it’s so serious!”

Wendel put his paws to the side of his head, pretending they were Vesper’s ears and a morose expression dragged his mouth into a make-believe frown.

“We Knights of the Moon have no time for laughter,” the jester said dolefully. “There is no honour in a titter.”

Vesper ignored him and stomped back to the well area. “You may do as you wish,” he said flatly, “but I’m going to leave now.”

Giraldus turned his head towards him and agreed absolutely. “The batling speaks wisely,” he rumbled, “let us not linger here—we must put the ice and cold behind us this night.” He gave the string another tug, only a little more sharply this time and Tysle was nearly yanked off balance.

Wendel put the coloured acorns into one of his prop chests and wheeled the cart into the clearing.

“I too have no desire to remain in this grim spot,” he said. “Whither are you bound?”

“Greenreach,” Ysabelle told him. “That plan has not changed.”

“But without thine army?” the jester asked. “Surely that is not the course that one with so full a brain pan would contemplate. Is it not still swarming with thy winged friend’s forces?”

Ysabelle looked uncomfortably at Vesper; she had not told them that she knew her army would be there when she arrived. “Master Jester, she answered with a smile, “let us not think so far ahead—tonight is the present problem. What are we to do? Find the path again and risk another chase?”

“I know of no other way to Greenreach,” said Vesper curtly.

The stoat gave a theatrical shiver and the bells of his head-dress jangled loudly. “In the dark wilds!” he exclaimed. “I do fear it already.”

“No one relishes the idea,” Vesper told him, “but no other choice is open to us.”

Tysle stuck out his bottom lip. “A sore shame it is that we never found them woodlanders.”

“They were probably just so much rumour,” the bat said.

Wendel pricked up his ears and his paws fluttered in agitated excitement. “Woodlanders!” he cried. “Why, I too have heard of those valiant warriors. On one of my travels the village was rife with the news. Oh, if only we could seek them out, then would we be safe for sure.”

“Did you learn where they live?” asked Ysabelle quickly.

The stoat closed his eyes and slapped his forehead trying to remember. “A long time ago it now seems,” he groaned, “before the celebrations of Yule—oh what was it I heard? Wendel Maculatum, thy mind is like unto a pickled onion! Aha! This much I recall—by the shore of a lake the place was!”

Giraldus blinked and snorted huffily. “How does that help us?”

“Why, if we could discover the whereabouts of this great pool, then surely their sentries would find us and take us to their hideaway!”

Vesper shook his head. “That’s nonsense!” he said. “How are we to reach this lake? It might be anywhere—I would rather keep to the path, the danger would be exactly the same and we do know where it leads.”

“Be not so hasty, my damaged Moonrider,” Wendel tutted. “This very afternoon I did come across a stream—if we followed it then most certainly it would guide us there.”

“But it could lead either to or from the lake!” Vesper protested. “That’s if it has anything to do with it at all—which I sincerely doubt!”

Ysabelle folded her arms and glared at the young bat. “What ails you?” she asked. “I think the plan has merit—we can see which of the courses we take seems the likely one. Perhaps when we find the woodland folk we can persuade them to accompany us to Greenreach.”

“I don’t think they’ll have a litter for you to sit on!” Vesper snapped back.

The squirrel turned to the others.

Giraldus stroked his chin and gave the matter long deliberation. “A stream might lend us protection,” he finally consented, “providing it is not frozen.”

Tysle readily agreed with his master. He liked the stoat already, and the brief glimpse he had had of the prop chest’s contents tantalised him, and he longed to peek inside the others.

So, against Vesper’s better judgement, it was decided to hurry to the stream and follow it to the lake. Taking the handles of his cart, Wendel led them further away from where the path cut through the forest and, reluctantly, Vesper trailed behind.

On a three autumn worm string, Tysle trotted alongside the jester and drank in all that he said, chuckling at the funny or downright ridiculous comments he made.

Ysabelle was overjoyed to have found him again. The stoat was a reminder of her home and the happy time before she was burdened with the silver acorn. For a brief moment she felt as she had done when she was an alder maid—free from care with nothing to trouble her.

Walking beside Vesper, Giraldus stumbled often, for Tysle had become so engrossed in the jester’s humorous tales that he forgot to direct the mole properly and so roots and stones were kicked and tripped over by the poor leper.

The way to the stream was longer than Wendel remembered and for over an hour they had to traipse through the chill darkness.

“Beware of a dip in the ground just here,” said Vesper clicking his tongue and guiding the mole in Tysle’s stead.

“Thank you,” Giraldus replied. “’Twould seem my erstwhile companion has found a more absorbing vocation.”

When they eventually found the stream, it was frozen and choked with weeds.

“So the power of the Green is dead here also,” the mole muttered.

But Ysabelle was determined to continue and so they began following the stream to its source.

Under the oppressive blanket of night they journeyed, and Vesper soon tired of hearing the stoat’s light-hearted and cheery voice. With the bell on Giraldus’ staff clanging sombrely and those on the jester’s ludicrous head-gear tinkling away, the bat felt surrounded by the incessant sound and a shadow crept over his soul.

The forest was trackless here and they were forced to pick their way over difficult terrain. The mole suffered the most, and at one point fell headlong into some thorns. Tysle quickly came to the rescue and, after that, stayed with his master—feeling terribly ashamed to have neglected him for the sake of this newcomer. Giraldus patted the shrew on the head and said no more about it. The thorns had speared one of the leper’s diseased fingers and torn it from his paw, yet he clenched his teeth and told no one, wrapping his bandages tightly about his fist so they could not see.

Eventually the trees began to thin out and patches of sky appeared through the thick canopy above. The frozen stream grew wider, the ground dipped in a gentle slope and then they saw it—the lake.

It was a cheerless, dreary place. Dark water stretched before them in all directions, and though a slight breeze ruffled through their fur, the surface of the lake was still and unbroken. No rippling waves lapped against the shore—there was only a bleak meeting of turgid water and liver-coloured mud, marred only by occasional webs of ice that spiked away from the land.

Great sad willows wept over the dismal drink and their drooping branches were untidily cluttered by the unfallen leaves of many summers.

Clouds of gnats hovered about the shore and a stagnant reek poured out from the centre of the silent lake. Ysabelle coughed into her paw and Tysle pinched his long nose.

“’Tis a foul, stinking place that you have brought us to,” Vesper told the jester. “Why, ’tis more a putrid mere than a lake. I’ll warrant nothing lives in it.”

“Verily this drabness is not what I expected,” a dejected Wendel admitted.

Ysabelle batted away the insects that buzzed about her face. “I cannot imagine anything wanting to live near this forbidding water,” she said. “It is a hateful spot. This is worse than the holy well—at least that was beautiful once, but this has never been anything but ugly.”

“It do give me the creeps too,” put in Tysle, “and what a whiff wafts over the horrid water—smells like something too long dead and not yet buried.”

“I said we should have returned to the path,” Vesper told them.

The jester rested his cart in the frozen mud and tried to salvage the situation. “A noxious malodour to be sure,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, “but no doubt we shall soon accustom our hooters to the staleness.”

Giraldus could not believe his ears. “What did the juggins say?” he cried. “Tysle, tell me he does not intend for us to remain in this Green-forsaken spot.”

“What else can we do?” Wendel answered. “I, for one, am too weary to march back the way we came, and I can tell that my Lady is also in much need of sleep.”

The mole cast the pointed hood from his head and grumbled under his breath. “I have no desire to tarry here—all mine senses tell me nay. Some devilment is brewing; this lonely mere holds nothing wholesome I’ll be bound.”

Wendel sat on his cart and shrugged. “Be that as it may,” he said, “it is still our only hope of finding shelter. If those gallant foes of the enemy do dwell hereabouts, then for the Gracious Lady’s sake should we not do our utmost to discover them?”

“And how do we do that?” Giraldus inquired. “Shout at the top of our voices, I suppose, and bring the forces of the Hobb cult down on our heads for our labours.”

“Simpler than that, blueskin,” said the stoat, rummaging inside one of his chests and bringing out a tinder box. “We light a fire.”

“You must be crazed!” cried Vesper. “That will certainly bring the Hobbers running. Why do we not just go looking for them—or drown ourselves in this foul lake? ’Twill have the same outcome!”

Wendel gave the bat an indulgent look, then sighed. “I do not think the followers of Hobb are our main worry once the fire is burning,” he said gravely. “No, ’tis the hunting parties of thy folk we ought to beware. On my midnight wanderings since I was left behind, I have seen many Moonriders coursing through the heavens, searching for my Lady. We must pray that the woodland folk espy our campfire before they do.”

He turned to Ysabelle and the squirrel gave him permission to build the fire.

It was a matter of minutes for them to collect enough sticks and branches and, presently, tongues of yellow flame crackled into life.

The fire did much to lift their spirits, for it dispelled the all-pervading gloom and they toasted their palms gladly before the flames, waiting in hope for the band of woodlanders to show themselves.

Only Vesper sat apart from the group. Preferring not to sit around the hearty blaze, the bat crouched in the darkness near the water’s edge and mulled things over in his mind.

After a short while, Wendel pattered away and began searching beneath the willows. There, he discovered a chunk of wood which he brought back to the campfire and began carving with a sharp little knife.

Tysle sat beside him and he watched entranced while a rough shape slowly emerged from the whittled wood.

“What is it you do?” he asked at length. “Is it to be a figure of the Green or a statue of a blessed martyr?”

The jester laughed. “I sincerely hope not!” he chuckled. “What would I want with anything so dull and yawnsome?”

Giraldus shifted on the ground nearby and solemnly pressed his paws together.

“Then what can it be?” the shrew breathed.

“A puppet, of course!” Wendel replied, waggling the unfinished head at him. “Something to bring a smile to the lips of the miserable and raise a cackle to the dullards of this world.” He gave Tysle a nudge and pointed the knife at his master. “Mind you,” he added with a snigger, “’t’would have to be one of extreme comicality to put even the shadow of a smirk upon that pompous face. How do you bear the ill-countenanced fellow?”

Tysle glanced hastily back at Giraldus who was staring intently into the flames. He had never thought of the mole as being dull before and his kind nature berated him for thinking it now. Compared with the colourful jester, however, the shrew saw that it was true. Tysle blinked sheepishly and wondered if Giraldus had heard what had been said, but the other made no sign that he had and the shrew soon relaxed and resumed watching Wendel at work.

“What shall the puppet be of?” he asked.

The stoat winked at him. “Perhaps I’ll fashion it into the likeness of a shrew,” he said.

Tysle beamed from ear to ear. “Wouldst thou really?” he whispered eagerly.

Wendel laughed again. “Or perhaps a squirrel maiden,” he teased. “What of that, Mistress? How should you like it if I carved this in thine image?”

Startled, Ysabelle looked round. She had not been listening; her attention was taken by the dark silent lake and she had been gazing at it for some time. “Pardon?” she said. “Oh yes—do as you wish, Master Jester.”

Rising, the squirrel stretched and added, “I think I shall take a walk before I close my eyes—do not fear, I shan’t go far, just along the shore a little way.”

The stoat bowed his head. “You need only call if you require assistance,” he told her. “Meanwhiles I shall resume my work.” And in a blur, his quick and clever paws moved over the wood.

Tysle was disappointed, but perhaps the jester could make another puppet—of him next time. The little shrew was beguiled by Wendel’s talents, already the head was taking shape and he watched fascinated as a squirrel’s nose appeared through the shavings. Then his gaze wandered over to the stoat’s cart.

His sparkling brown eyes traced the patterns of the garish paintwork and lingered over the intriguing prop chests.

“You know, Master Jester,” he sighed, “I reckon you must be the cleverest and most interesting fellow I ever did meet.”

Wendel laughed and began relating a long and funny tale which tickled the shrew so much that he giggled and kicked his legs in the air.

Sitting on his own, Giraldus no longer felt the heat from the fire—all was cold and though his eyes were dry, inwardly he wept.

The gloomy shore stretched dismally before her and with only the rustle of the mournful willows to break the unnatural quiet, the lake was an eerie place. As Ysabelle slowly walked over the cold mud, she found the strangest thoughts creeping into her head. It was as if every bitter tear that the world had shed had found its way to this secluded spot, making it a distillation of melancholy and despondence that was estranged from the living world.

“Vespertilio was right,” she murmured. “I fear nothing dwells nigh to this forlorn lake. Surely someone would have seen our fire by now. We ought to have stayed to the path—then would the journey be nearer to its end.”

She thought about what that meant for her. Even if she managed to reach the holy land, there was still much to be done and many dangers to face. The noble forces of Coll Regalis may have arrived at Greenreach already, yet her mother had told her that only the combined might of all the squirrel houses could drive the bats from the blessed hill and purge it of them forever. How it was to be achieved, Ysabelle had no idea and wished more than ever that the silver acorn had not come into her possession.

She stared across the mysterious black water—here too the bat had spoken correctly: it was a putrid mere. The dark night made it impossible for her to see the far shore, and in her fancy, she felt as if she was standing on the edge of the earth. It was as though, at this desolate place, everything ended and only a cold void now stretched before her.

“I wish the skies were clear,” she breathed, “then at least would the stars be reflected in the lake and make it less forlorn.”

The squirrel strolled on, beside the dark, icy water—staring at times at her own distorted reflection. The acorn about her neck gleamed in the stagnant mirror and she touched it reverently. The rust-coloured stains of Gwydion’s blood still tarnished the amulet and, as she turned it over in her fingers, she wondered if it would ever be cleansed.

Suddenly she gasped, and sharply pulled her paw away—the amulet had burned her fingers.

Ysabelle stared at it in fear. The dark blood stains seemed to swirl over the surface of the silver and veins of glowing crimson glittered faintly from its depths.

The squirrel almost tore the thing from her neck in terror—then she heard...

From many leagues beneath the earth, a dreadful roar thundered, making the shore tremble and quake. The willow trees nearby shook, and their agitated rustling disturbed the water in which their branches trailed. Great ripples fanned out towards the centre of the enormous pool, churning the scum which covered the surface and the nauseous smell grew stronger.

Ysabelle stood transfixed as she listened to the frightful shrieks that echoed deep below the ground. Some tremendous creature was bellowing and the squirrel swallowed nervously as she felt the curse the high priest had damned her with descend upon her.

“Hobb!” she gasped. “It’s him! He’s coming for me.”

The rumbling voice raged fiercely, but it was still a great distance away. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the roaring ceased and all was quiet once more. The tremulous ripples that marred the perfect calm, vanished from the lake and it was as if nothing had happened.

For several moments, Ysabelle could do nothing as the full horror of this sank in. Everything she had striven for would come to nothing—if Hobb were indeed to appear, then all her hopes would be in vain.

Shivering with fear, Ysabelle turned and fled.

“Hey!” cried Vesper as she ran blindly into him. “Watch out!” He caught hold of her then saw the terror graven in her face. “What is it? Are there Hobbers? Have they found us?”

The squirrel glared at him. “Did you not hear?” she asked. “You cannot have done otherwise—the mighty roar, the frightful voice...”

The bat looked puzzled and it was obvious that he had heard nothing. “I did but follow you to talk,” he told her mystified. “What was it frightened you?”

“Never mind,” Ysabelle said, pushing past him impatiently. “It would matter nought to you anyway.” She glanced back to where she had heard the awful sound then stared down at her amulet.

The silver acorn was now dull and cold—and the blood stains immovable as before.

“I... I must have been mistaken,” she said, although her tone fooled no one. “Fatigue can play strange tricks on the mind. An illusion conjured up by my weary brain—nothing more.”

Vesper decided that it would be wiser not to continue, so he quickly changed the subject.

“When I told you about the birthright of my race,” he began, “I said that the Starwife had withheld it from we Moonriders, yet you laughed. What was the reason?”

“Exactly the one I gave,” Ysabelle replied, “it was just so much nonsense. Why should a Handmaiden of Orion trouble to do such a thing? I doubt if she had even given thy kind much thought until you started attacking the outposts and laying waste the smaller colonies!”

“But my Lord Hrethel has told us the blame lies with her!” Vesper insisted. “To regain our gifts of prophecy and insight we would do battle till the end of all things. That is what started the holy wars.”

Ysabelle shook her head. “Then they have been waged for nothing,” she told him, “for I am certain we had no part in withholding those things from you.”

Vesper stroked his beard, confused.

A mild breeze stirred the willows which fringed the shore and the young bat gazed at them with a faraway look on his face. “The osier is beloved of the Lady Moon,” he murmured, “it is said that she owns it and at whiles would come down to walk beneath the graceful boughs.” He gave a regretful sigh and added, “There were no withy trees near my home, and when I was a-weaning I would dream of finding one and spending the delicious hours of night there—hoping to catch a glimpse of her.”

“I do not think your Lady would visit this dreary place,” Ysabelle said. “Is it not strange? My folk call the willow, or saille, the tree of enchantment. Only witches know its virtues, I was told.”

She looked at the bat and managed a smile. “But then, I was told many things,” she said. “I have learned a great deal since first we met—Griselda used to tell me your kind were brutal and savage. She had many tales of squirrel children taken and devoured by bats, and would repeat them time and again with much relish. I used to think you and the Hobbers were all in league with one another.”

Vesper nodded. “My mother used to relate the exact tale of you!” he exclaimed. “Only your folk would make sacrifices to the trees you worshipped and feed their roots with blood.”

The squirrel smiled, then nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “How we have altered in this short time,” she said. “Oh, I pray Griselda is safe, I have not dared to think what has become of her.”

“Wendel seemed to think she was alive when he was parted from your army.”

“I have been a fool,” Ysabelle confided. “If it was not for me we would not be here. Why did I listen to Wendel? His heart is full of good intentions, yet he is the first to agree that his brain is the weakest point about him. Coming here was a stupid mistake, yet I was too hard-headed to realise. I ought to have listened to you.”

“A princess of the royal house taking advice from a bat?” Vesper teased her.

“If I had we should be well on our way still,” she replied, “not forced to endure this foul place. Do you think we shall ever see sight or sign of those mythical woodland folk?”

“Not unless the jester carves them himself!”

They laughed, but it was a strained sound and they could not sustain it.

Ysabelle gazed at the bat’s furry face and lowered her eyes. “You do realise that when this journey is complete, we shall be enemies again. When I take up the silver, it is laid upon me to rid the holy land of your kind.”

“You are mistaken,” Vesper said firmly. “There will be no more Starwives—their time is ended forever. You have not seen the full strength of our legions; if you had then you would not be so confident. I tell you, if Rhogar wants that amulet you bear, it will eventually come to him. Would it not be best to give up this hopeless task that you are chasing? The only possible outcome will be your death—I promise you that.”

He held back from saying any more and wondered why he had been so harsh. The words had fallen from his tongue before he could check them and had sounded threatening. Now he regretted what he had said, but Ysabelle had heard enough.

The squirrel moved away from him. “We shall see who will die,” she said sadly. “It would appear that neither of us has changed after all. Now I shall return to the others—goodnight to you, Vespertilio.”

Quickly she retraced her steps and left the bat gazing wistfully into the night.

The campfire was still burning when she arrived there, but only Wendel had remained awake. Giraldus was lying on his side, snoring loudly, and at his feet a guilt-ridden Tysle had crawled and curled into a snug ball.

The jester pressed a finger to his lips when he saw her and Ysabelle came to sit next to him.

“How does the puppet progress?” she asked.

Wendel shaved off some irregular bumps before showing it to her. “Soon I shall paint it,” he said with a strange smile on his face, “then make the body from some cloth.”

“I hope it will amuse those who see it,” she said absently, “but for myself I am too tired.”

She yawned and spread dry leaves and grasses over the ground where she would sleep.

Wendel watched her all the while until he finally put his work down.

“May those sprites who grant peaceful slumber visit you,” he said, “and bear thee to a fairer place than this in thy dreams.”

Ysabelle sat on the prepared ground and made herself as comfortable as she could.

“Tell me,” Wendel began in a quiet voice, “now there are none to overhear us, may I speak openly with you, Mistress?”

The squirrel frowned, “Of course,” she said. “What is it that troubles you?”

The stoat pointed at Giraldus and looked most disapproving. “I did ask you before,” he said, “but now I ask again. Do you think it is fitting for one of thy rank and station to travel with such as he?”

“Why should I not?” Ysabelle answered in surprise. “The mole and his servant have shown me naught but kindness.”

Wendel threw a stick into the fire and stared at the flurry of sparks which flew out. “Nevertheless,” he intoned, “the daughter of Ninnia, at such close quarters to a leper? His company is not to be borne—what would Gelenos say?”

“Godfrey is dead!” the squirrel replied. “And I’m sure he would be glad I was not alone. These pilgrims are my friends now.”

“Are they?” the jester asked mildly. “In truth, how much dost thou really know of their intents and purposes? I do not wish to be a sower of such dark and doubting seeds, Mistress, yet is it prudent to trust them so readily?”

“Perhaps not,” she replied. “’Tis true that all they have told us might be a pack of falsehoods—and yet they are so sincere.”

Wendel drew patterns in the thawed mud with a twig. “Maybe I am wrong,” he muttered, “yet I was most dismayed to find you freely conversing with that detestable Moonrider—have you forgotten how your parents died?”

Ysabelle glared at him, but there was truth in his words. She remembered the warning given to her by the Green, and instead of rebuking Wendel, thanked him for keeping her alert to the dangers.

“What else should I do?” came his simple answer. “Thou art the last one of a noble line—most high in the world. I would not see you betrayed and that majestic light snuffed out forever.”

Ysabelle settled down for the night and wrapped her tail about her. Wendel looked at her with a smile on his lips, wandered over to his cart and took a reed pipe from one of the chests. Then, sitting just beyond the circle of firelight so that the dancing glow illuminated only the tip of his nose, he put it to his lips.

A slow, drowsy tune floated from the instrument. It was a lulling melody that dragged Ysabelle’s eyelids down and poured sleep into her ears.

Nearby, Giraldus snorted in his slumber and a happy smile stole over Tysle’s face as the lilting music permeated their dreams.

The jester’s skilful fingers played languidly over the pipe and the delicious refrain flowed out over the dark waters of the mere.

Suddenly Ysabelle awoke.

“What was that?” she cried.

The stoat took the pipe from his mouth. “A lullaby, taught me by my grandmother,” he answered.

Ysabelle stared at him, “Not that!” she said. “I did hear a cry!”

Wendel raised his eyebrows and looked at her oddly. “I did not hear anything,” he said.

The squirrel gazed about her, then she heard it again. A high voice, shouting in panic and fear. She jumped to her feet and whirled round.

“That is Vespertilio!” she declared. “He is in danger!”

Taking up her long knife, she dashed forward but, before she could run along the shore, Wendel raced over to her.

“Stay, Mistress!” he told her sternly. “Thou must not imperil thyself—think of thy mission. Thou art too precious to waste and he is only a bat when all is said.”

Ysabelle scowled at him then tore away.

Since the squirrel had left him there, Vesper had been sitting thoughtfully upon the shore. His heart was troubled, but when the strains of Wendel’s melodious music reached him, he had forgotten his sorrows and it had been a struggle to remain awake.

As his head nodded for the third time, the bat sat up with a jolt, rubbed his eyes and realised that he was not alone.

Something was moving within the lake, slow, turgid ripples broke against the frozen mud and Vesper cautiously clicked his tongue to try and see what had caused them.

“Bless me!” the bat uttered. ”What in Hrethel’s name..?”

In the middle of the loathsome mere, vile shapes writhed and twisted, out of the stinking water they rose—dripping filth and slime as they reared. Up into the reeking airs the horrors floated, then they began to move swiftly towards the shore.

Over the surface of the lake, the spectres of long-drowned creatures silently skimmed.

Vesper fell back in fear as they glided closer. He had never seen anything so hideous in all his young life.

The spectres were revolting masses of bones, sticks and clinging pond weed. Bound together by the malevolent spirits which animated them, they were ghastly imitations of life, a confused and gangling mess of tattered shreds. On one of them a rotting fish tail slapped the water and the bundle of twigs which served as legs galloped quickly up the muddy shore.

“Aaaaaarrrgghhh!” Vesper screamed as the apparition bore down.

The nightmare clattered after him and long fingers of yellowing bone came snapping for the bat’s throat.

Vesper turned, but another of the abominations was rising from the water’s edge. Amongst the foul fronds of its shaggy mane, it had the putrefying head of a fish, and from the open mouth a hollow shriek issued.

This second spectre lunged forward with crablike movements, scuttling over the mud and leaving a trail of stinking black slime behind it.

Vesper tried to run, but the vile phantoms were too quick. Fast as lightning they snaked after and a mangled claw flashed out—grabbing him by the neck.

“Help!” Vesper cried. “Help me!”

The decaying head stared down—the empty sockets where its eyes should have been, burning into him.

Vesper nearly swooned before the overpowering stench of death and corruption which flowed out from it and he howled when cold fingers squeezed around his body.

Now the rattling bundles of bone and scale swept their twigs over Vesper’s squirming form covetously. The spirits of those unwary creatures that had drowned in the haunted mere resented anything that had life—life that they too had once owned, life that they had lost in that freezing darkness below the water.

Their malignant souls screeched for the warm blood that flowed through their victim’s veins—they hated it with all their accursed strength. But most of all, they despised the breath that filled Vesper’s lungs.

Long ago these unclean spirits had been dragged down into the mire. Then they had been even as he, living breathing animals who strayed too close to the forbidding waters and were lost. Deep under that lake their chests had burst and bubbles trapped their screams. The struggle for breath was the last they remembered and now they were intent on bestowing that agony upon Vesper.

“Deliver the hated life unto the deep,” their empty voices shrieked. “Drown it in the consuming dark.”

Down to the water’s edge they dragged the kicking and wailing bat. Into the sinister lake, the two grisly apparitions hauled him—pulling the Moonrider into their freezing and unholy grave.

Vesper was powerless to stop them. The bones which gripped his throat and tore at his wings were as strong as death itself and though he flailed and struggled, it was all in vain.

The shroud rags of cadaverous flesh and rank weed clung to the bat’s face, smothering and suffocating his gasping mouth as the spectres dragged him down.

“Join us in the deep,” their icy voices rang. “Walk no more under the sun. Come rot, let your flesh dissolve and take on other guises.”

Vesper’s wings beat against them in a last futile attempt, as many other creatures had done before him. But the blighted, mouldering bones and twigs tightened and he felt the last breath throttled from his body.

Stinking water filled the bat’s mouth as they started to pull him under, and the unnatural claws tugged his head below the surface.

A numb darkness engulfed Vesper—and the shades of the cackling dead prepared to accept another life essence into their rotting number. The body of the bat went limp in their strangling grasp and they began to drift away from the shore, their unholy work done. Yet their macabre appetite would never be quenched.

“Another soul,” they chanted horribly. “Another wraith to hate the living. We must find more—there can never be enough—let us find another.”

“Vespertilio!” Ysabelle yelled. “Come back!”

As she ran along the shore, following the bat’s urgent screams, the squirrel maiden had seen the ghoulish apparitions drag him into the mire.

Without pausing to think, Ysabelle leaped from the edge and plunged into the lake. The touch of the foul water made her balk, but she splashed towards the sinking horrors, keeping an anxious eye on the motionless winged body tangled in their midst.

“Let go of him!” she bawled, holding the knife out before her. The water was up to her waist now and she pushed through the waving weed-filled mere, desperate to save Vesper.

The knife thrashed in the water as she hacked blindly. Through putrid fish skin and brittle bones it tore, cutting a path through to the stricken Moonrider.

The lake seethed as the spectres turned their fury upon the squirrel, but Ysabelle’s desperation had made her fearless. Against the tendrils and twigs which rose against her she lashed and thrust, valiantly parrying their outraged assaults.

Slime-covered finger bones snapped and fish spines buckled before her ferocious blade. Finally the tenacious claws which clutched at Vesper released him and came reaching for her.

Ysabelle darted beneath the outstretched claws and grabbed at the bat, calling his name over and over.

But the ghostly fingers closed round her, tearing at the squirrel’s tail and plucking at her hair.

“Cast your life aside,” the ghosts wailed. “Slip beneath the waves and be free.”

With a tremendous shout, Ysabelle spun round and brought the knife crashing down. Splinters of wood and fragments of diseased scale exploded about her as the hellish claw flew apart.

Swiftly, Ysabelle seized the moment and rushed towards the shore, trawling Vesper after her.

When she stood upon the muddy bank, the squirrel quickly threw the bat to the ground and pushed her paws against his chest.

At once Vesper choked and a fount of black water spouted from his mouth. For several minutes he retched and turning on his side, spat out the poisonous filth of the mere.

“They wanted... wanted to drown me,” he spluttered. “When they took me to the water I knew what they wanted. I was to be like them... a stinking ghost delighting in murder!”

Ysabelle stared out to where the dark shapes of the spectres regarded her from the lake, but the ordeal was not over yet.

“Vespertilio,” she whispered. “Can you stand?”

“I... I think so,” he coughed.

“Then do it,” she hissed. “Those creatures are coming back!”

Gagging, Vesper raised his head. The tattered shapes were rising from the water once more and heading straight for them.

Ysabelle took hold of his wing and heaved him to his feet, but even as they headed back to the camp, they heard Tysle’s voice squealing and the resounding tones of Giraldus raised in panic.

“There are more of the foul creatures!” Ysabelle cried. “They’re attacking the others!”

The squirrel and bat sped along the shore, while behind them the spectres came clattering over the mud.

“Embrace the dark,” they called. “Let us take you. Come to us. Join us.”

Around the camp fire, three other phantoms had found their victims.

“Put me down!” Tysle squeaked. “Put me down!”

Two of the ghastly, spirit-enslaved jumbles had snatched the shrew and were now bearing him towards the lake.

“Master!” Tysle called. “Master!”

The string which joined them was taut and, though Giraldus had not yet been caught by the third bundle of putrescence, he was nevertheless being hauled to his doom.

“What is happening?” the blind mole howled. “What madness is this?”

“Eeeeek!” squawked Tysle as the twigs and water-logged bones plucked him from the ground and carried him into the water.

Giraldus waved his staff in fear as the string drew him over the shore. He could not see that the third spectre was stalking up behind him.

Cold laughter issued from dark gashes in the animated weed as it entered the lake once more.

“Master!” Tysle shrieked. “I’ll be drownded!”

Giraldus drove the staff into the icy mud with all his might and clung to it desperately.

The string creaked and the progress of the spectres was halted.

Hissing, they heaved on their prize and at the other end of the lead, the mole gritted his teeth.

It was like some ghastly parody of a tug-of-war, but it did not last for long.

“A life!” came the echoing voice behind Giraldus as the third phantom claimed him.

The mole roared in fear, as clammy, scaly claws wrapped about his neck and plucked his paws from around the anchoring staff.

“And the Green did bring light to the darkness!” he wailed. “The Green is my salvation—in Him am I redeemed!”

Into this horrible scene Ysabelle and Vesper came tearing.

“Get Tysle!” the bat called to her and they both hurried to where the small shrew floundered, half submerged in the water.

Ysabelle stabbed the gristle and knotted twigs which clutched him and Vesper tore the smothering black weed from Tysle’s face.

As soon as the shrew’s arms were freed, he struck at the spectres with his fists.

“You keep your filthy claws off me!” he stormed.

But they were not about to let him go so easily and frantically wrapped more slimy strands about his body. Then the hideously decayed arms of some cruelly-murdered animal whipped out and knocked the knife from Ysabelle’s grasp.

“Into the dark,” the spirits cackled, “we will take your life. Follow us down—moulder with us.”

Ysabelle raked at the shrew’s bonds with her bare paws but it was no use. Without the knife it was impossible to free him nor could she find the blade in the stale, muddy water.

“Tysle,” she cried. “I’m sorry!”

The eyes of the poor shrew were wide with terror as the water covered his nose and filled his ears. Ysabelle tried to pull him back, but the malevolent will of the dead was too strong for her.

“Vespertilio,” she pleaded. “Help me, Tysle will drown!”

But Vesper was not there. She looked round wildly, fearing that he had been pulled into the lake—then she saw him.

With a burning branch plucked from the campfire in his grasp—the Moonrider charged back to the lakeside.

“Keep back!” he howled, thrusting the flames into the heart of the tangled bundles of death.

“Noooooooooo!” the hollow voices shrieked. “Not the burning fires! Noooooooooo!”

They fell back before the flames, their claws and tendrils snaking away from Tysle and leaving the shrew free to clamber back to shore.

Vesper waved the torch at them threateningly and the phantoms cowered further into the water, gibbering with woeful moans.

Tysle shook his fist at them, then he remembered his master and glanced round quickly.

Giraldus was surrounded; the wraiths that had first captured Vesper had joined forces with the remaining spectre and all clawed at the mole—herding him to the water’s edge.

Tysle gave a yell and hobbled for the fire, but the string was not long enough and he sped round in a wide circle before charging headfirst into one of the grisly apparitions and beginning to beat it with his crutch.

Then Vesper came to his aid, and Ysabelle followed, also carrying a burning torch. The ghosts slunk away, wailing and groaning.

Giraldus was left on the ground and Tysle came hurrying up to see if he was harmed. The mole breathlessly told him that he was not hurt and was about to thank the Green when Tysle sprang away, running after the retreating spectres.

Giraldus felt the string go taut as the shrew strained to reach them but he pulled the little fellow back and then staggered to his feet.

Vesper and Ysabelle strode about the water’s edge, making sure the unholy spirits sank below the surface. Then the grim lake was still and silent once more, but they were certain that hostile eyes still watched them.

“Do you think they will stay away?” Ysabelle asked.

“Not for long,” Vesper told her. “Their hatred for us and the lives we own will soon conquer their fear of the fire. We must leave this terrible place at once!”

Ysabelle was only too glad to agree—then she remembered Wendel.

“Where is he?” she cried. “Oh no, were we too late? Had those vile things already dragged him under before we returned? Wendel—Wendel!”

She ran up and down the shore to see if there was any sign, and by Giraldus’s side, Tysle was dismayed to hear her.

“Please no,” he whispered, “don’t let the jolly jester have perished.”

Vesper ran after the distraught Ysabelle and spun her round. “We haven’t time to find him!” he told her. “If he’s dead then there’s naught you can do!”

“But if he is not,” she implored, “he might be unconscious somewhere and if those things return...”

From out of the trees where the forest began, a tall figure bashfully stepped.

Tysle saw him first and his face cracked into an enormous grin. “Wendel!” he shouted.

The stoat wrung his paws and padded down the shore muttering wretchedly to himself. “How can you forgive me?” he blubbered. “What must you be thinking? Oh, a craven stoat am I! When the first of those slimy horrors rose from the dank water I did squeal and hare into the trees, leaving my friends to their callous mercy. Oh please! I know ’twas a cowardly and unspeakable action—no, don’t tell me, I know it too well! A thousand curses would not repay me for such a yellow deed.”

The others merely stared at him, not knowing what to say. The cowardly jester had left them to die and nobody, not even Tysle, could find any words to say to him.

Vesper avoided the stoat’s gaze and told Giraldus and the shrew to pack up their belongings so they could leave immediately.

“Dear friends!” Wendel whimpered. “Forgive me, I beseech thee! I know not what came over me, but I know I would have been of little use combating those frightful monsters.”

He ran up to Ysabelle and trotted beside her, pleading for her understanding. “Mistress,” he burbled, “think not too lowly of this, thy humble servant—was it my fault my nerves are as weak as mine brain?”

“I don’t understand,” the squirrel said. “You were not so craven when you saved me from the bats.”

“Alas!” Wendel bemoaned. “That was before I had spent long nights alone in the forest; if I had not learned swiftly to conceal myself when danger came near I should not be here now.”

“You had best collect your cart,” Ysabelle told him, “we are not staying here.”

The jester scurried to his painted wagon and thrust his scattered knife and half-finished puppet into a chest.

“What of thee, little shrew?” he asked Tysle. “Art thou angry at this follysome idiot? I could not bear it if all were to scorn me.”

Before Tysle could answer, Giraldus tugged the string and he was compelled to begin leading the mole up the shore. But he gave the stoat a disappointed and mournful scowl.

“Pray don’t bother to waste your breath,” Vesper said when the jester caught his eye. “Just wheel your cart and keep quiet from now on.”

Wendel whined miserably to himself. “Oh my,” he bleated, “was there ever one so reviled? I could punish myself—truly I could.”

Vesper shook his head in disgust, then hurried to catch up with Ysabelle.

“Thank you,” he told her, “you did save my life in that stinksome mere. You acted most bravely and I am in thy debt.”

“Call it a debt repaid,” she said with a smile.

“Very well,” he answered, “but let us march swiftly and find somewhere safe to rest for what remains of this night—I feel as though I could sleep for an entire week.”

And so the five travellers passed once more into the forest and the haunted mere was left far behind.

10 - From the Shade of the Beeches

It was fatigue which finally forced them to halt. The urgent and anxious steps that had carried them swiftly from the shore soon dwindled into faltering stumbles. Then, very softly, it began to rain.

At first it was no more than a gentle, refreshing drizzle which they all welcomed, and lifted their faces so the fine, sprinkling drops might cleanse them of the mere’s festering stink. But it was not long before it became a steady downpour which splashed over the frozen forest floor and turned the dead leaves into a slippery mulch, treacherous to the weary travellers.

Skidding and sliding through the now pelting storm, the five soaked figures sought shelter. The deluge fell in thick grey sheets which battered against their cheeks, stinging them with cold, and made it almost impossible to see where they were going. Then, finally, from out of the driving, drenching rain, reared the dark silhouette of a dead and hollow tree.

Through a hole in the trunk they scurried and cast themselves on the soft moss within. Soon the aches and fears of the past hours vanished as sleep gradually garnered them to its bosom.

The rest of the night belonged to the storm and the unceasing rain drummed on the bark of the hollow tree, like the din of ten thousand tiny hammers chiming on an anvil. High above, the gushing water trickled along the branches and came sluicing in swollen rivulets down the withered trunk. Over the sopping ground the surging rain flooded; old stream beds overflowed and new pools filled the dips and dells. Then, when it seemed the torrent would never be stilled, the clouds scattered and the last hour before sunrise was silent. The uncovered stars glittered over the newly-washed forest, glinting in the brimming ponds and sparkling over the dripping branches.

A bleary dawn edged into the heavens and, within the hollow tree, as the sun climbed higher, the travellers slept on.

Vesper nuzzled his face into his wing, lost in a deep slumber. That night he had been too exhausted to dream and no images of the high priest came to haunt him.

He rolled over, but from the hole in the trunk a bright beam of sunlight came slanting in and he unwittingly brought his face directly into it.

The dazzling rays beat upon his eyelids and the bat groaned—opening them a chink.

Grudgingly, he sat up and gazed sleepily at the outside world. Then Vesper’s ears twitched and he caught his breath—someone was out there.

“How much longer can this plaguey hunt continue?” complained a voice.

“Till the enemy is found and captured,” said another.

“Then I crave that shall be soon. I tell thee, Leofa, if I have to cross this forsaken forest many more times, then I shall be driven crazed.”

“For myself, I am at a loss to fathom how the wretched creature hath managed to evade us thus far. Have we not despatched our brethren far and wide and still no sign have they seen. Each day the captains return with naught to report—it maketh me think we chase after ghosts.”

“I did believe the ashes of that fire by the side of that drearsome lake did hold a clue—a sore pity the rain washed all traces and footmarks away.”

“Perfect fools, that is what our enemy has made of us!”

Vesper allowed a grin to cross his face, pleased that they had caused the Hobb cult so much trouble. Yet he hoped that neither of those unseen speakers decided to peer inside this hollow tree and was relieved that he had made Wendel cover his cart with fallen branches and twigs before retiring the previous night. Then the smile faded from his lips as he realised that the voices had not been speaking in the common tongue.

“Bah,” the one called Leofa spat, “we ought not to be compelled to suffer this—Rohgar hath made a pretty mess of things.”

“’Tis rumoured that Hrethel hath withdrawn into his underground chamber and suffers no other to enter.”

“Ah, he will not fail us.”

Vesper uttered a startled cry—it was a couple of bats he had been sleepily listening to.

“What was that?” one of the bats hissed in Vesper’s own language. “Didst thou mark that sound?”

The other paused to listen. “Nay,” he replied, “’tis thine ears a-playing games with thee.”

“Canst thou expect aught else under the garish scrutiny of the Daystar? How can other creatures bear it? ’Tis all I can do to keep from falling from this bough, mine senses are so bewildered.”

“Another flaw in Rohgar’s reckoning. How can he expect us to spy that hated tree worshipper in this dazzle?”

As their conversation continued, Vesper’s mind reeled and whirled in a confusing clash of thoughts.

The first thing he wanted to do was rush out of the tree and declare his presence—overjoyed to see folk of his own kind.

“You get out there, Vespertilio!” he urged himself. “How shocked them Knights of the Moon will be to see thee—and just think of the honour that will be thine. The enemy they seek is here, you can deliver her to them and receive great praise and renown.”

He ventured closer to the opening in the trunk, but stopped himself just in time.

“Ha!” shrieked the bat above. “Was that not a fine night, when we were victorious over that stinking colony? How those tree rats fled before the fire-eggs. Didst thou see that circle of hazel trees ablaze?”

“Mine gauntlets fair bathed in the vile blood of those heathens.”

“Mine also, yet what puny sentries guarded the borders. A good thing it was that our enemies were only squirrels, otherwise I would have balked at killing children and womenfolk.”

“’Twas no wonder the sport did not last long.”

Vesper felt sick, and he looked guiltily across to where Ysabelle soundly slept.

The squirrel maiden was lying peacefully on a bed of dry leaves and spongy green moss—innocent of the exchange uttered above. Her large brown eyes were closed and her raven dark hair fell silkily over her shoulders, entwining with the tip of her bushy tail. Ysabelle’s breaths were soft as a butterfly’s and, as the sun’s rays stole further inside the hollow tree, her fur glinted and shimmered.

The young bat gazed at her lovely face and, knowing what would happen if his kind caught her, turned cold and looked away. He could never betray her—not now.

“I would dearly like to find that wicked creature,” came the voice of Leofa. “Did you hear those reports of the great burning? ’Twould appear she set light to an entire village—scorched bodies everywhere! A sordid black heart that tree rat must have.”

“But what of those poor unfortunates impaled hereabouts?” returned the other. “What manner of monster spears birds and the like of those we found upon sharpened twigs? No ordinary foe is she—not a shred of remorse must she have, no trace of right and wrong can beat in her barbaric breast.”

“’Tis just as the old tales tell, those savages are the most loathsome vermin ever to sully the world. Didst thou hear that our brothers found a mouse’s head wrapped in a scarf?”

“She did that?”

“Aye! And no doubt ’twas she who poisoned that lake and caused the rain to wash away her trail—dreadful powers of enchantment are hers to command, they say. Pacts with demons has she signed—for no soul does she possess now and all pure things shun her.”

“Much would I give to run my talons through her throat.”

“Or see her guts spill onto the ground,” Leofa sighed wistfully, “then would all our troubles be over and the birthright returned to us.”

“Even now she keeps the mighty spell strong to deny the gift of the Lady—I could kill her over and over!”

Vesper shook his head; nothing the bats believed was true and more than ever he knew that the holy war had been a terrible waste of life.

The bats continued to grumble to one another until they finally decided it was time to resume the search. With a beat of their leathery wings the Moonriders rose from the branches of the dead tree and disappeared over the forest roof.

When all was quiet and he was sure they were gone, Vesper’s eyes grew moist and a solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

A short while later, once he had composed himself, the young bat crawled from the hollow tree and stepped outside.

The morning was already growing late, but it was a heavenly day. It was as if the entire world had been cleansed and reborn. The air was sharp and clear, the glistening trees dripped diamonds and the forest floor was free of frost.

Vesper breathed deeply and stretched—he felt completely refreshed. Lazily, he flapped his wings and, to his astonishment and joy, he began to rise from the ground.

“My wing!” he cried. “It is healed!”

Cautiously, the bat beat his wings faster until he soared into the air. There was still a dull ache in his shoulder, but apart from that all seemed well and he spent several happy minutes flitting about the trees, spiralling around them and swooping down in great, graceful arcs.

It was a glorious feeling, to be master of the breeze and tear through the shafts of golden sunlight. Breathlessly, he lighted upon a high branch and let out a rejoicing shout.

“I CAN FLY!”

He was so happy that he did not know what to do. “I could leave now,” he told himself, “fly back to my home. Wouldn’t Mother be surprised to see me after all these days! I need not say anything of the squirrel maiden’s whereabouts—I could feign ignorance and none would be the wiser.”

He was giddy with the possibilities—no more skulking about the forest, having to march with the others, no more running from the terrifying Hobbers, no more nightmares to hound him. In the air Vesper was free, and the dangerous paths he had been forced to tread were already forgotten.

Up he soared, up through the highest branches and out above the treetops where the forest became a soft blur of rolling colours.

Up he sped, over the horse-chestnuts and beeches below—his eyes squinting under the blinding sun. Yet what did he care? Soon he would be safe at home, safe in the ruined tower, where no peril could reach him, where nothing ever happened and no squirrels ever ventured.

Vesper’s laughter died in his throat and his fiercely beating wings slowed to the merest flick to remain airborne. The young bat stared down. There was the withered tree and, as a feeling he had never thought possible kindled in his heart, he knew that he could never leave.

A terrible sadness overwhelmed him and all thoughts of home melted silently away as his winged form sank back to earth.

It was not until midday that the others stirred. First out of the hollow tree came Tysle who blinked like an owl and yawned in the middle of guiding his master through the opening.

Giraldus emerged sniffing the air and clutching his staff. “A wholesome day,” he announced, then feeling the warm sun on his face tutted at the lateness of the hour. “Noon already,” he said. “Perfidious shrew, why did you let me sleep so long?”

“Good morning!” Vesper greeted them.

The pair turned and there was the bat, sitting on a low bough where he had been keeping a look-out.

“And to thee, batling,” Giraldus hailed him. “Is it not a day of the Green’s own making? All the fearful shadows of the night have fled and we are left to bask in the bright sunlight.”

With a sudden jingling of bells, the jester poked his head from the tree and gave a nervous grin.

“A merry morning, my friends,” he said.

Only Tysle bothered to return the greeting, for the others had not forgotten the stoat’s cowardly actions.

“How do,” the shrew piped up.

Wendel gave him a grateful smile then stepped out and padded over to his camouflaged cart.

Giraldus closed his ears to the jester’s pathetic attempts at mirth and addressed himself to Vesper.

“If we are not misled this day,” he rumbled with an obvious and scathing allusion to the previous night’s diversion to the lake, “come evening, the blessed hill of Grinuvicia should be in view.”

Vesper was only half listening to him, for at that moment Ysabelle left the hollow tree and the young bat’s face lit up with a wide and special smile.

As there was nothing to eat for breakfast, the company set off as soon as they were ready. With their stomachs growling they found their bearings and followed the now gurgling stream back to the holy well and from there returned to the path.

The day continued fine and warm and it was heartening to see that spring seemed to have arrived in that part of the forest at last. Gone were the cascading icicles and the ground was soft underfoot.

As they marched, Wendel fussed and made such a nuisance of himself, profusely begging their forgiveness for leaving them to the spectres of the mere, that in the end they forgave him—if only to shut him up.

During this time Vesper said nothing about his mended wing and contented himself with walking alongside them as before. He did not want to mention it—not just yet—and his twinkling eyes looked increasingly in Ysabelle’s direction.

The scenery around them gradually changed; the densely growing trees began to thin and, here and there, spring flowers were sprinkled beside the path. Wood anemones cheered them with their purplish-white petals, a clump of marsh marigolds toasted them with their golden cups raised to the sky and blue periwinkles pricked through the grass like tiny stars in a heaven of green.

The woods they now traversed seemed friendlier than before and had a sleepy air about them. Many oaks grew stout and stately with enough room to spread and flourish.

Ysabelle felt less uneasy than she had done for many days and, once Wendel had been forgiven, listened gladly to his rambling, idiotic talk.

Tysle listened too and his infectious chuckling filtered through the pleasant woods, much to Giraldus’s irritation, and the pious mole was shocked and scandalised to hear Vesper’s voice joining the laughter.

As the sunny afternoon beamed about him, the leper reflected sadly that his companions seemed to have forgotten the gravity of their situation. It was almost as if they were simply strolling through the woods at their leisure, having no fears to dampen their spirits. He walked on with his head lowered and wondering if they ought not to sample a caterpillar or two to bring them back to their senses.

Eventually, the path led them to a beautifully sunny glade and Ysabelle clapped her paws in delight.

Growing there were hundreds of daffodils and their golden trumpets mirrored the sunshine, casting buttery lights that danced about the clearing as the flowers gently nodded and swayed.

The squirrel maiden capered into their midst and the glimmering reflections shone upon her twirling figure, transforming her ebony body into a moving statue of the richest gold—an idol that had sprung into jubilant life.

“Is it not a marvellous sight?” she cried. “What beauty the forest contains. May we rest here a while?”

The others agreed and they trailed into the daffodil glade like merry children. Even Giraldus could sense the wonder of the blooms and his nose thrilled with the delicate scents.

Where the ground rose slightly, they sat on the sweet grass and drank in the shimmering sea of yellow and gold around them.

Whistling a jaunty little ditty, Wendel took the carving from one of his prop chests and resumed his work on it.

Tysle beamed, intoxicated by the glamour of the flowers and the jester’s skill. The wooden head was nearly finished—all it needed was careful painting.

“Then shall I make the body,” said Wendel, still anxious to please everyone and atone for last night. “And once that is done, shall I make one of us all? Wouldst thou like a puppet of thyself, Master Moonrider? I already have one of a bat which could easily be remodelled to resemble thee.”

Before Vesper could answer, Tysle blurted out that he would dearly love to see himself carved in wood. “Whittle a likeness of me,” he beseeched. “Oh, please do!”

“Tysle!” the mole’s voice cut in abruptly. “These things are but vanities! Thy head should not be filled with the lust for them!”

The shrew meekly murmured an apology, but his eyes stole to where the brilliantly painted cart seemed to glow in the sunlight and he longed to ask Wendel to perform some tricks.

Basking in the golden glory of the flowers, Ysabelle chatted with Vesper, encouraging him to speak of his life and the ways of the Moonriders.

“All our folk look to the five counsellors for guidance,” he began shyly. “Each are venerable creatures with white beards and much wisdom. The first has the title of ‘Lord of the Twilight’, the second is ‘Keeper of the Hidden Ways’, then there is ‘The Consort of the Lady’.”

“What of the other two?” she asked.

“Fourth comes ‘The Guardian of Battle’,” he answered, “whose office is to ensure the legions are always ready for war.”

Ysabelle looked away. “And the fifth?” she inquired.

“The final counsellor is the Lord Hrethel, ‘Warden of the Great Book’,” he said. “He is the most learned of the five, for from the Book of Mystery he has gained much wisdom. All Knights of the Moon respect him and obey his every command.”

“Did you not say that ’twas he who blamed the loss of your birthright upon the last Starwife?”

“Yes,” answered Vesper, “never has he been known to err before and I marvel that he should make such a grievous blunder.”

“‘Marvel’ is hardly the word I would choose,” said Ysabelle.

“No,” the bat replied and they fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Around the golden glade, amid the pale shade of the tall oaks and beeches, a pair of curious eyes stared at the unsuspecting travellers. Then others appeared as many shadowy figures crept around the outskirts of the clearing. Stealthily they surrounded the beautiful daffodils, and waited.

Giraldus cocked his head to one side and a frown wrinkled his mottled brow. “’Tis time we set off,” he said quickly. “Too long have we idled here already—come Tysle!”

Just as the shrew rose to his feet, an arrow flew through the air and embedded itself in the ground where he had been sitting.

“Eeek!” he yelped. “Hobbers!”

Before anyone could move, there came an angry shout and from all sides leapt a ferocious host of armed creatures.

“Hold!” commanded their attackers. “Move and you die!”

Bows were strung and swords slid from their sheaths as they hurried to where the travellers sat amazed and afraid.

Tysle groped for his knife, but a leaf-shaped blade was pressed against his throat and he pretended that he had only wanted to scratch his bandaged leg.

Two dozen fully-armed and stem-looking animals formed a tight circle about them. There were mice and hedgehogs, rabbits and weasels and all were robed in cloaks of dark green.

“Oh woe!” wailed Wendel, his lip quivering in fright. “Don’t let them hurt us!” He waggled the carved head at them in a pitifully feeble attempt to amuse, but one of the hedgehogs growled and knocked it from his grasp. “Oh make it a swift ending!” the jester bleated. “No lingering agony, I beg thee!”

Vesper and Ysabelle moved closely together and the bat spread one of his wings about the squirrel maiden’s shoulders, baring his teeth at any who came too close.

“What have we hear?” one of the mice snarled, leering at Giraldus. “A scab-riddled mole tied to a shrew! The children of the Raith Sidhe must be desperate indeed if they are recruiting from the infirm and diseased!”

Giraldus stiffened and stomped his staff on the ground. “How dare thee!” his booming voice blared. “No worshipper of that hellish triad am I, nor is mine servant!”

“Hobbers the lot!” spat the hedgehog. “Only them and us walk the woods—I say kill ’em now!”

Vesper folded his wings and he eyed the strangers keenly. “Then are you not in the service of Hobb?” he asked.

“Are we Hobbers!” another mouse exclaimed.

“Don’t let them squirm out of it!” the hedgehog insisted. “You know how tricky they can be!”

Tysle’s ears were purple with rage and he suddenly exploded. “Three generations of my family them devils murdered!” he roared. “My old grandam, my parents and four sweet sisters were hauled out of our home and put to the peeler! So don’t you ever call me a worshipper of that horned rat god or I’ll knock your blocks off—every one!”

His impassioned outburst amazed everyone, except Giraldus who drew on the string and put his paw on the shrew’s head. “Peace,” he whispered. “Think not of that dark time. I am here, be still.”

Tysle sniffed but he continued to stare angrily at those around them.

Ysabelle looked from one member of the cloaked gang to another. “If you are not in that evil brotherhood, then who are you?” she asked.

They stared back at her; Tysle’s protests had taken them all by surprise and they mumbled to one another in bemusement.

“Now you looks at them,” a short mouse admitted, “they doesn’t look like Hobbers—none that I seen, anyhows.”

“What’ll us be doing with them then?” piped up the rabbit.

“’Taint up to me!”

Then their talk ceased, for at the rear of the attacking party, a hedgehog hissed, “Fenny approaches.”

“That’ll sort it,” they all murmured.

Whilst Giraldus comforted Tysle and Wendel’s knees knocked together, Ysabelle and Vesper waited for the one called Fenny to arrive.

From the surrounding trees strode the tallest mouse either of them had ever seen. Like the others, he wore a cloak of green, but, fastened about the neck, a silver badge in the shape of a leaping hare gleamed in the sunlight. The mouse was a dark brown colour and his face was grim and determined. A finely proportioned nose sat between two deep-set eyes that were steady and resolute and which, by the merest glance, could either inspire or instil fear. In a leather band tied about his head, three small woodpecker feathers denoted his leadership, and he came forward with the easy motion of one who possesses natural authority. When he passed the others they stood aside and put their paws to their breasts in salutation.

“Captain!” the hedgehog declared. “See what trespassers we have captured!”

The mouse looked at each of them in turn. Not a flicker in those deep eyes, nor a twitch at the corners of his mouth, betrayed his impressions.

Giraldus, Tysle and Wendel he seemed to take little interest in, but when he saw Vesper and Ysabelle the fixed expression changed and they heard him speak for the first time.

“Now here is a strange spectacle,” he declared. “A bat and a squirrel travelling together! There are tales to tell here or I am no judge. Tell me, from whence do you come? What are you doing here?”

Ysabelle folded her arms and gazed back at him haughtily. “I am the daughter of Ninnia!” she proclaimed. “Last of the royal house of the Hazel, and these are my companions. We mean you no harm, but are all foes of the Hobb cult and if you wish to do them injury then let us be about our business.”

“Oho!” Fenny roared and the rest of his host followed his lead, guffawing at the squirrel’s impudence. “It is for me to decide whether you be enemy or no,” he gruffly told her, “and remember this, none may pass our borders without our leave.”

A slow smile spread over Vesper’s face. “Are you the woodlanders we have heard rumour of?” he asked.

The mouse regarded him strangely for a moment then nodded. “A small portion of their number are we,” he curtly replied, “and we have all taken solemn oaths to rid the forest of the Hobb cult.”

He swept his outstretched paws to encompass the woods around them and said, “Our forces are the gleanings of each tiny hamlet and small village that the black tide of Hobbers has ruthlessly swept aside. A motley collection maybe, yet our quest is an honourable one and though we hail from different quarters we abide peaceably enough together.”

Ysabelle abandoned her imperious tone and began entreating the captain to help them. “Please,” she said, “our quest also is a noble one and if we succeed then the Raith Sidhe will be only a memory again and the followers of that fiendish high priest will be vanquished for ever.” She would have said more but Fenny hushed her into silence and looked warily about them.

“You know of the high priest?” he asked.

“The one who dresses like a bloody-bones? Yes, I have seen him, he...”

“This is not the place for such talk,” the mouse said quickly. “I have decided! The strangers are to come back with us!”

“Back?” the other woodlanders cried. “What, after so brief an exchange?”

“I have seen enough to be satisfied of this squirrel’s worth,” Fenny said sternly. “Bring her and the bat—the other three may remain here under a guard of four.”

“No!” said Ysabelle. “Our friends must accompany us—we have been through too much to be separated now!”

“I cannot agree to that,” Fenny told her. “I do not like the looks of your fellow travellers, and the location of our stronghold is a secret which we guard above many things. Very dearly would the Hobbers like to learn where it lies and that is a risk I am not prepared to take.”

“Then I am going nowhere with you,” she said flatly.

“All or none,” added Vesper.

The mouse looked at them threateningly, then he glanced at his warriors and saw that they were watching him—waiting for him to decide. “All then!” he declared. “Now, let us waste no more time!”

He gave a signal to the woodlanders and, raising their weapons, they flanked the five travellers on either side.

Wedged between three mice and a rabbit, Wendel picked up his fallen puppet and took up the handles of his cart. Tysle was put on a short one-spring-wormer and Giraldus muttered to himself. Then they set off and the enchanting glade of daffodils was soon far behind.

On through the forest they were marched, and Vesper noted with dismay that they had left the path and were going in the wrong direction for Greenreach.

When he pointed this out to Ysabelle, the squirrel did not seem to mind—the detour was worth taking if it meant she could persuade these folk to assist her in her mission. Their strength would swell the forces of her own army and that was a prospect she could ill afford to miss.

The route they were compelled to tread was a meandering zig-zag and Vesper guessed that this was to confound them if they ever tried to find their way back to this secret destination.

Eventually the ground began to rise, and up a steep incline they all trudged—up to where a bare, grassy mound reared amid the encircling woods.

The entire time they had been marching, none of the woodlanders—not even their captain—had uttered a word. Now Fenny, who was at the front, turned and called for them to halt.

“Here is where the folk of the wood reside,” he said. “From this secret place, our troupes depart and raid the Hobbers, assaulting them when we may. Never have they discovered from whence their enemies come.”

Ysabelle gazed about them and looked at the mouse questioningly. “But where do you live?” she asked.

Fenny tapped his nose and led them around the side of the great green mound to where a patch of dandelions grew.

“Open up!” the mouse called. “’Tis I, Fenny, returned!”

The dandelions shook and their stems parted to reveal a recess in the hillside, which ended at a stout wooden door peppered with studs of iron.

A small brown face peeped out from between the plants and the sentry quickly saluted the captain.

“Pass inside,” he said, stealing a look at the unusual party the mouse had brought back with him.

Fenny returned the salute and led his warrior and the five travellers up to the door which he banged on with his fist.

Immediately a small grilled window flew open and a bright, suspicious eye pressed against it.

“Who be that?” the voice squeaked behind the door.

“’Tis I, Fenny.”

“What is the flower which blooms in the summer?” demanded the voice.

“The Meadow Sage,” the mouse replied, using the appropriate password for the time of day.

The eye vanished from the grille and the window snapped shut. There came the sound of many bolts being drawn and the now muffled voice grumbled at the rusted state of them.

“’Tis an amazement that I do not tear out mine arms dragging this stubborn—oof! There, ’tis done.”

The door swung open and the owner of both the voice and the eye bowed and waved them inside.

Ysabelle and Vesper followed their guards and, once inside the mound, they lifted their heads and stared in disbelief.

It was a staggering spectacle; they had expected the doorway to lead only into a roughly hewn passage and had never dreamt or suspected the truth.

Beyond the entrance an enormous hall opened out, upheld by many strong beams and supporting pillars. Cut into the curving earthen walls, countless tunnels radiated in all directions, worming deeper into the great hill, and above each archway a small lantern or candle gently burned.

Arrayed on one wall was a deadly collection of weapons; spears, swords, longbows, clubs, daggers, maces and pikes all gleamed in neat rows and several mousewives were busily making certain that everything in the armoury was accounted for on the long tally sticks which they carried.

In the centre of the capacious hall, about thirty warriors of differing races were practising their skills on one another in tests of strength and agility. Amongst them, veterans of old campaigns observed and bawled their comments at appropriate intervals, at times grabbing the sword or knife from a bumbling youngster and demonstrating how it should be done.

At the far end, behind all the commotion and activity, was a small forge and there a stout hedgehog hammered metal and tempered steel as a small vole heaved on a pair of bellows, keeping the fire glowing.

Both Vesper and Ysabelle breathed in wonder at the skill and toil which had gone into creating this fortress beneath the ground and looked at Fenny speechlessly.

“At all times are we ready to defend our stronghold,” said the mouse proudly, “for we can never lie easy, not while those pagans sweep through the world.”

Just then Giraldus stepped over the threshold and the mole lifted his head, snuffling the dry, musty air with glee whilst straining to hear the echoes that rang from the tunnels.

“Oh,” he murmured with undisguised admiration, “what a blissful place—never have I been in such a charming underground, such a delicious sense of space, and can I not detect a vast network of extensive and labyrinthine passageways below us? A most splendid accomplishment is this.”

Tysle chortled to see his master so pleased and he looked back to where Wendel stood. The jester’s eyes were roving about the vaulted hall and shone with intense fascination. Unlike Giraldus, he was quite unable to find anything to say which would adequately express his wonder and stood gawping idiotically at the impressive scene before him.

“Entrancing,” muttered Giraldus. “So many ravishing air currents—oh yes, this is indeed a delving beyond any compare.” He turned to one of the guards and asked politely, “Badgers, was it? The original excavators I mean. I feel their vigorous, yet poetic approach to subterranean architecture. Of course, it has been much altered and improved on since.”

He quested the air again and added critically, “Alas, one can never truly rid a place of fox scent but that merely adds to the history and grandeur of this unsurpassed monument to tunnelling endeavour. Do you know—I believe there is evidence of mole hereabouts also—dearly would I like to exchange my views with their better-acquainted knowledge.”

“You’re not exchanging anything with anybody!” Fenny said sharply. “This is the way you’re bound.”

Briskly, he led them across the great hall and the dummy fights and mock battles were halted as all eyes turned to the newcomers, and many woodlanders stepped fearfully aside as the leper went by.

“A most rare opportunity for me to entertain,” Wendel told himself. “What a grand audience!”

But the five travellers were marched into one of the smaller passageways and, as the hall was lost from sight, the sounds of training and combat sprang up once more. The tunnel was low and Giraldus had to stoop to walk down it. Many doorways lined the route, but when they came to a small chamber that was heavily barred, their progress was brought to a standstill.

“Inside,” said Fenny. “Hurry now.”

Vesper gazed in puzzlement at the cramped, straw-strewn room and looked curiously at the mouse captain whose face was set and stern.

“Get in,” he repeated.

Reluctantly they obeyed, first Wendel, pushing his cart before him, then Tysle, Giraldus and Vesper.

Only Ysabelle hung back. She stared, bewildered at Fenny and asked, “I do not understand. Why are you consigning us here? Have I not made it clear just how important is my mission?”

“Oh aye!” the mouse replied archly. “The daughter of Ninnia, was it not?”

The squirrel nodded but the captain was tired of playing games and shoved her roughly inside.

“What manner of simpleton do you reckon me?” he cried. “Cease this foolish pretence! Why would any of that noble house be abroad with so peculiar a retinue? Addled, you Hobbers are!” And with a heave of his paws he slammed the door shut and locked them inside.

The prisoners were dumbfounded—they had been tricked into this place; the woodlanders had not believed a word they had said.

Vesper gripped the bars and pushed his nose through them as far as he could. “Are you witless?” he yelled. “Release us at once!”

“Pipe down!” Fenny shouted, hitting the bars with a stick. “The reason I did bring you all here was for one purpose and that alone.”

“And what would that be?” rumbled Giraldus.

“I shall wring from you all knowledge of that infernal brood and their plans,” came the answer. “But most of all, you will tell me of that accursed high priest!”

Ysabelle shook her head. “We know nothing,” she insisted. “The fiend tried to kill Vesper and me and has laid a curse upon us both but we know naught else.”

The mouse glared at her, his temper boiling, and he hit the bars a second time. “Then your time here shall be a long one,” he snarled. “For from this locked room none of you shall ever leave. In here shall you be imprisoned for the rest of your days!”

“No!” Ysabelle shrieked. “You must let me go!”

Fenny threw back his head and laughed. “Listen to her,” he told the guards, “listen to the Hobber squeak!”

“You show her respect!” demanded Vesper hotly. “This lady is worth all you and your peasanty brigands combined!”

The woodlanders sniggered and with a last look of contempt, their captain led them from the gaol.

As their departing footsteps faded from earshot, Ysabelle looked desperately at Vesper and in the corner of the chamber, Wendel snivelled into his paws.

“Trapped,” the stoat wept, “for the rest of our days...”

11 - The Furze Cat

Giraldus sat down morosely. “A lamentable predicament,” he observed.

Tysle nestled beside him in the clean straw and tried to sound more cheerful. “Aw,” he said, “them won’t keep us here for long—not when they realise how downright daft they’ve been.”

“Let us hope you are correct,” Ysabelle commented. “If only they would trust me, if they could but see how I might help them.”

Vesper kicked the bars of their prison then leaned against them. “That Fenny won’t ever listen to reason,” he said, “his sort never do. I’ve seen the generals of my folk behave like him—too ready to suspect the worst and not willing to pause and actually look beyond their own noses. That is how enmity breeds and wars begin.”

For nearly an hour, they remained locked within that small cell, too despondent to talk and with only the unhappy sniffs of Wendel to break the oppressive silence.

Then Giraldus looked up. “Someone approaches,” he whispered and in a moment they all heard the sound of footsteps tramping down the tunnel towards them.

“A dismal quiet is this,” said the voice of Captain Fenny as the mouse looked in at the bars. “Where are your protestations now—daughter of Ninnia?”

Ysabelle regarded him with disdain. “I shall not waste any more words on you,” she said coldly. “Your mind is too closed to hear them. Show to me instead a higher authority to whom I might prove mine lineage.”

“Tut, tut,” Fenny scolded. “Still the play-actor, aren’t we? Well, my patience will not be everlasting, you will give me the intelligence I requested, whoever you pretend to be.” He brought his grim face close to the bars and added with a hiss, “As for someone higher than myself—there is no one. The folk of the wood have no use for tyrants or princes.”

“Yet they have a captain,” put in Vesper.

Fenny eyed him crossly. “That they have,” he answered, “and more beside, but only to keep the Hobbers out and purge the forest of them. Once that is achieved then I shall return to my old life and have no more dealings with sword and spear.”

At this Giraldus was spurred to disagree and gravely muttered, “You can take the plough from the paw but never can you remove the sword—so it is written. A warrior and leader shalt thou always be—and if there is a peaceful future beyond this dark time then you will have no part in it.”

The mouse scowled at him. “Very well,” he spat, “if you persist in concealing your true intentions and denying your dealings with the black brotherhood, then no food shall be sent unto you until I decree otherwise.”

He whirled around and was about to storm back along the passage when a small vole came rushing up to him—breathless and panting.

“Captain,” the gasping creature wheezed, “I must speak with you.”

“What is so urgent?” Fenny asked, his paw straying to the hilt of his sword.

The vole was quick to reassure him. “Oh,” he cried, “there is no alarm, nothing of that kind. No, ’tis from the lower depths I have come.”

The effect this statement had upon the mouse was remarkable. At once his eyes widened and his tail thrashed wildly. “The lower depths,” he breathed, stealing a glance at the prisoners and pulling the vole out of their hearing, “then you must wait until we are removed from this unholy crew before you begin to relate your message.”

Taking a great gulp of air, the vole violently shook his head. “I cannot!” he said. “For the message I am entrusted with concerns them.”

Fenny glared at him. “How so?” he demanded.

The small creature trembled before his angry voice, but he remembered the urgency of his errand and closed his eyes to recall the precise wording of the message. “Of those you have recently captured and now hold prisoners,” he began, “know now that two of their number must be sent down at once.”

“Sent down?” Fenny muttered and now his voice was filled with doubt and, it seemed to Giraldus, plainly tinged with fear. “Why?” the mouse asked.

The vole replied in a whisper. “The Ancient orders it,” he said.

Fenny drew a sharp breath and his fingers played anxiously about the neck of his cloak. “The Ancient?” he echoed in a reverent murmur. “Is this true?”

One look at the vole told him that it was.

“Then which of the prisoners are to be sent?” he asked nervously. “Which pair does he wish?”

The vole peeped in through the bars. “The Moonrider and the squirrel maiden,” he said.

Fenny nodded swiftly and brought out a key to unlock the door. “I shall send a company of guards with you,” he said, “in case the prisoners attempt an escape.”

“Oh no,” the vole replied, “did I not make it plain, Captain? You are to accompany them—the Ancient wishes to see you also.”

The mouse dropped the key on the floor in surprise and, with a prim bow, the vole raced back down the passageway. Fenny watched his small figure vanish round a corner, then fumbled with the lock and ushered Vesper and Ysabelle from the chamber.

“Tysle!” Giraldus cried. “What is happening? Where are our friends being taken?”

“Oh dear!” whimpered Wendel wretchedly. “So this is how it shall be. Two by two are we led to our doom. My poor Mistress, will I never see your face again?”

“What do you want of us?” Vesper asked as the door was locked behind them. “Where are we being taken? Who is this Ancient you speak of?”

Fenny turned a drained and awe-stricken face to the young bat. “Him by whose leave we are permitted to abide here,” he said, and seemed about to say more when he decided against it and led them up the tunnel. “You shall see soon enough,” was all he would tell them.

Once again, Vesper and Ysabelle entered the great hall, but now the training had stopped and an elderly weasel was standing before a seated group of very young woodlanders and instructing them in their lessons.

All the youngsters turned their heads as Fenny and the two strangers passed and they nudged each other excitedly.

“Those are Hobbers!” one of them hissed in an audible whisper.

“She’s too pretty!” piped up another.

The weasel tapped the floor impatiently until he had the attention of all of them and then resumed the lesson.

Across the expansive hall, the mouse captain led Vesper and Ysabelle and when they came to a wide archway, he passed beneath and they followed closely behind.

“What do you think is waiting for us?” Vesper murmured to the squirrel.

“I know not,” she answered, “but did you see how pale Fenny went at the mere mention of it? We had better prepare ourselves.”

The passage they were now in began to slope downwards, before it joined another and then a third, till both Vesper and Ysabelle’s heads swam in confusion. The interior of the hill was a maze of walkways and caves and after only a few minutes, they had totally lost all sense of direction. Even if they had tried to escape, neither of them would have known which was the way back to the hall and the entrance. The only course they could take was to follow Fenny—he seemed to know where he was going.

Then, at a crossroads, where four tunnels met, the mouse hesitated and looked uncertain.

“What is wrong?” asked Ysabelle. “Have you forgotten the way?”

The captain pulled his cloak about him. “How can I have forgotten that which I never knew?” came his reply. “For never have my errands or wants taken me down this far.”

He spent a moment tentatively peering into each of the possible tunnels before deciding. “This one,” he declared, “I feel sure it must be—it is the only way that smells old and mouldering enough.”

Vesper raised his eyebrows and glanced at Ysabelle. “What can that mean?” he wondered.

The tunnel that Fenny had chosen sloped downwards more steeply than any they had yet been in and seemed to curve steadily round in an ever-descending spiral. Deep below the mound they journeyed—their way lit by small lanterns which were suspended from the earthen ceiling at long intervals. These lanterns illuminated only a small area of the winding path, and the spaces between their glimmering boundaries were engulfed in pools of sombre darkness.

The smell in that gloomy, twisting tunnel was like the stale, dry must of old hay. No other scents drifted on the still airs—only a centuries old, muted aroma of great age and shabby neglect tingled like pepper in their nostrils. Ysabelle was reminded of her late tutor, Godfrey—whose room in the Hazel Realm was always filled with fusty-smelling scrolls and charts.

As they continued along this seldom-trod path, Vesper and Ysabelle saw that, occasionally, large fragments of stone protruded from the soil walls. The irregular pieces of rubble were covered in what had once been elaborate carvings and the images could still be discerned. Even Fenny took time to slow down and look at them.

There were chiselled pictures of distant lands and strange vessels which crossed the rolling seas with many war-like creatures on board—all fierce-looking and armed to the teeth. At one point a tall, reclining figure formed part of the passage wall and they stepped alongside the sleeping effigy with their gaze trained upon the sculpted features.

Fenny narrowed his eyes as he examined these remnants of another age and nodded his head with understanding. “’Tis said this mound was a place where old kings were entombed,” he muttered. “’Twould seem the tale is borne out.”

As they pressed deeper, large, pointed flints began to litter the passage floor, and in the walls dull gleams were picked out by the lamps—for treasure had been interred with the forgotten dead and the exposed gold threw back the light of the lanterns over the ground.

Eventually, however, they came to a flight of granite steps, carved with many swirls and interlocking circles. Down this stair the mouse led them until they found themselves standing in an arched cave, the end of which was covered by a faded tapestry depicting the sickle moon. Vesper’s eyes opened wide and at the back of his mind some distant memory began to surface.

“This is the place,” Fenny told them and they could tell that he was just as excited and nervous as they were—more so, perhaps.

Striding up to the tapestry, he was about to draw it aside when the material twitched and a velvety snout emerged from behind its folds.

Into the cave a mole—shorter and with less bulk than Giraldus—trotted. He blinked several times, then bowed gravely and said, “The Ancient awaits thee.” And with that he took hold of the tapestry and pulled it aside.

A dimly-lit cavern lay beyond the faded curtain. Inside, tapering fires flickered within two basins of stone and images of the moon, in all her phases, adorned the smooth stone floor.

Yet behind the flames, all was shadow and Ysabelle peered into the void, where small shapes were constantly moving.

“Welcome,” said a voice from the darkness, and at that sound Fenny fell on one knee—humbly lowering his head.

“Welcome to thee, Captain Fenlyn Purfote,” the rich voice hailed. “Rise—there is much worth in thee, most valiant of mice.”

Fenny did as he was bid and, as Ysabelle listened, she thought the voice sounded warm and kind—then she heard her own name called.

“Welcome to thee, Ysabelle,” it said, “daughter of Ninnia and Cyllinus—fairest sapling of Coll Regalis, valiant also art thou.”

Fenny looked up when he heard this—amazed that the squirrel had been speaking the truth—but the voice continued.

“And finally,” it purred, “welcome to thee, Vespertilio—a true Knight of the Moon, despite thy tender years.”

Vesper nibbled his beard and his wings opened as, at last, he guessed.

“I... I know you,” he stammered, “or a least—of you!”

Gentle laughter flowed from the shadows and a look of extreme wonder stole over the bat’s face.

In the gloom, the small shapes moved towards the light and three moles came to stand beside one of the stone basins. Then they took up a lamp and lit it in the flames before retreating to dispel the darkness beyond.

Then Ysabelle and Vesper saw him—the Ancient.

There, sitting in a shallow dip in the floor, brindled with extreme age, and with his eyes closed in meditation, was a great and wizened hare.

Ysabelle uttered a cry of surprise and Fenny fell to his knees once again.

Upon its wrinkled and hoary brow, the creature wore a crown of dried leaves. The passage of time had etched many lines over the hare’s face, and frosty whiskers stubbled its chin. For many ages the Ancient had dwelled there, long before the old kings had chosen to be buried above him. Dispensing his unbounded wisdom to those who would listen, he was the wisest sage that had ever breathed—a figure from the mythology of all cultures.

“The messenger of the Moon Goddess!” Vesper breathed in hushed respect. “He who took on earthly form with raiment of flesh—can it really be true?”

With his eyes still closed, the Ancient smiled faintly and, when he next spoke, it was in a dry whisper. “Verily ’tis I,” he answered; “the purblind one, the dew-hopper, the furze cat, the stag of the stubble, he with the leathery horns, the legs of the four winds—the moon-sent angel.”

Tears came unbidden to Vesper’s eyes. All who venerated the Lady knew that the first creature to walk the earth was the hare—for in that form did her divine messenger descend and speak with the spirit of the Green. But that was many, many thousands of years ago and that creature was thought to have perished from this world and his soul returned to the Goddess.

Now Vesper had come face to face with a power far greater than he had ever imagined and he, like Fenny, sank to his knees then prostrated himself before this awesome creature.

Ysabelle was left standing alone before the Ancient and she nervously put her paw to her mouth.

“What... what do you want of us?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

The Ancient raised his head a little and the crown of leaves rustled faintly. “Come forward—child of the Hazel,” he said. “Mine old eyes would see the countenance of the new Starwife.”

Ysabelle looked uncomfortably at Vesper, but he was weeping into his wings—so she took a step nearer to the great creature.

Then, very slowly, the Ancient’s eyelids opened and the squirrel maiden recoiled—almost crying out in fear. The eyes which the creature turned on her, and which stared so keenly in her direction, were of the brightest, purest silver.

“Be not afraid,” the hare said soothingly, “for there is naught here to harm thee.”

“Your... your eyes,” Ysabelle stuttered.

A smile played about the Ancient’s mouth. “Why dost thou fear them?” he asked, “Dost thou fear the moon when it shines above thee?”

“No.”

“Then be not afraid now, for I look on you with the sight of one who has seen the Lady in the splendour of her youth and in mine eyes that vision is forever mirrored. Step closer once more.”

Ysabelle obeyed, and the silver eyes gazed long at her—fixing at last upon the acorn around her neck.

“A dreadful burden is laid upon thee,” he declared. “In thy paws are the fates of many held. Tell me, what is thine intent once thou arrivest at the place thou knowest as Greenreach?”

The squirrel glanced nervously back to where Vesper lay on the ground. “I must drive the Moonriders from the holy land,” she told him.

“And how is this to be achieved by one lone daughter of the Hazel?”

“I shall not be alone,” she said, “for there my army awaits me.”

At this Vesper stirred and looked at her suspiciously—how could she know that?

The Ancient muttered to himself. His shining eyes seemed to look into Ysabelle’s mind and she knew he was aware of her conversation with the Green that night in the orchard of Duir.

“And if thy forces can rid the land of the bats?” he asked.

“Then shall I take up the starwifeship and rule as my predecessors before me. A wall of defence shall I weave about the blessed hill so no one may assail it ever again.”

The silver eyes stared at her a moment longer then the Ancient called for Vesper to approach.

Ysabelle stepped back as the young bat rose from his knees and awkwardly came forward.

“Vespertilio,” the hare began, “why dost thou journey and keep company with a mortal enemy of thine own race?”

Vesper mumbled incoherently but the Ancient spoke again.

“The war between the Knights of the Moon and the five houses of the squirrels has been waged for many years. What hast made thee turn traitor and betray thy mother’s kindred?”

“I have not done such a black deed!” cried the bat, stung at last out of his fearful reverence. “I was taken captive by Ysabelle’s guards, that is all—I have betrayed no one.”

The Ancient laughed kindly. “That I know,” he whispered, “yours is a true heart, Vespertilio—beware of it, for it is surely too large for thy chest to contain. Now, tell me of thine own legion’s plans.”

“I... I know nothing,” Vesper replied, staring at the ground.

The hare muttered to himself again. “Didst thou learn naught from Leofa?” he mildly asked the young bat.

Vesper looked up quickly—how could he know of that? “Leofa?” he began.

“One of the two Moonriders thou didst hear speaking this morning,” the Ancient reminded him.

This time it was Ysabelle’s turn to stir and she listened keenly to what the bat had to say.

Vesper gazed into the silver eyes and folded his wings behind his back as he answered, while wondering all the time what Ysabelle was thinking.

“The two said that the search was still underway,” he told the hare. “They and the forces of Hrethel are intent on finding Ysabelle and... and killing her.”

“Dost thou know why that is?”

“Because they think she is evil and denies us our birthright.”

“And what dost thou believe, Vespertilio?”

The bat shook his head. “I do not know any longer,” he replied with a mounting anxiety rising in his voice. “Only that nothing Leofa and his companion said with such certainty had any foundation in truth, and... and...”

“Proceed.”

“And I find that I am questioning many things now!” he exclaimed. “I do not know why the holy wars were begun and increasingly they appear not holy at all—but bloody and savage! Ysabelle is not like any of the squirrels in the old tales—she is kind and brave and...”

The Ancient did not press him on this point, but his eyes seemed to burn into the young bat, studying and assessing, yet under their influence Vesper became calm and his anxieties faded.

“Vespertilio,” the wizened hare said, “most proud should thy mother be of her offspring. Of all creatures, thou art the only one who has learned—both sides canst thou see and the truth is but a glimmer away. Now do I pronounce mine judgement—Fenlyn Purfote, rise and approach.”

The mouse captain staggered to his feet and came to stand beside Vesper. “What is your will?” he asked meekly.

“Hear now the wisdom of the moon-sent angel,” the Ancient addressed them all. “Here you stand, three emissaries from differing lands. To each, the fortunes of their own house must come above all others and blindly do they pursue their goals—and unto the ruin of all things would they go.”

Here the hare’s voice became harsh and the flames in the stone basins shot upwards, roaring and boiling to the ceiling.

“Know this,” the Ancient angrily told them, “amid the petty wars of bat, squirrel and woodlander, there will come a foe more terrifying than anything that has been, since first I danced under the new-born moon.”

“You mean the Hobbers?” Ysabelle asked. “But, once I bring the acorn to the Starglass, I can cast an enchantment against them...”

“Against the seething tide which rises against thee now, nothing can stand!” the hare warned. “None in this time know of the terror that was before the rising of the moon and the budding of the first spring, when the triad ruled the unholy night.”

Now the flames dwindled and, except for the lamps which the attendant moles still held, all became dark.

“Those who do think themselves safe from the advancing hordes,” murmured the Ancient, “shall be proved cruelly wrong when they strike. The armour of the Moonriders shall be no protection from the talons of the baseborn birds which are mustering. Carrion crows, jackdaws, rooks and ravens now gather to feed on the battlefield flesh they have been promised. Soon their mighty number shall strike at the very heart of the winged legions and the forces of Hrethel shall fail before them.

“Then shall the paltry strength of the remaining houses be assailed and all squirrels shall perish. The land shall flow with blood and the children of the triad shall carouse in rivers of crimson. Then shall all fortresses be overthrown and the last strongholds be unearthed and conquered—not a life shall be spared that will not worship the horned rat god.”

Ysabelle and Vesper said nothing, for in their minds, the Ancient’s words conjured up ghastly images of a world plunged into chaos and madness. Darkness would smother all and the land would be without order: murder and war would reign and, in this nightmare, Hobb alone would rule.

Fenny lifted his face and despair was ingrained upon it. “Then is there to be no hope?” he asked. “Are we all to fall?”

The silver eyes closed and the Ancient sighed. “It need not be so,” came his answer. “The vision of darkness I have shown unto you can still be averted—but in one circumstance only.”

“Then how?” asked Ysabelle. “What is it we can do?”

“Only if all the enemies of the triad unite and do battle together can this be done. Only then shall the land be cleansed and order restored.”

“All the enemies?” repeated Ysabelle, glancing at Vesper.

“Then it cannot be!” the bat cried. “My folk would never join with the squirrels—their hatred of them is too deep!”

The eyes opened again and their brightness pierced him. “Yet that hatred thou hast turned into a different passion, Vespertilio,” the hare muttered.

Vesper looked shyly at Ysabelle. “But no other Knight of the Moon could be persuaded!” he mumbled.

“Vespertilio,” the Ancient said, softly chanting his name, “hearken to me now and know the destiny which is mapped out for thee.”

The bat flinched, but he could not tear his eyes from those which now blazed fiercely before him with a radiance all their own.

“Unto thee the task is given,” the hare said. “Thy duty it shall be to bring the two opposing forces together—bat and squirrel. If only for a short time they must act as one. And should thou fail, then the world is doomed and condemned to the dark.”

“But... but I cannot!” Vesper spluttered. “Such a thing is impossible! Who would listen? All Knights of the Moon believe the squirrels withhold their birthright—I might ask the sun to cease rising for all the good it would do!”

To everyone’s dismay, the brindled hare let out a horrible growl and the moles scurried around him to placate and soothe.

“A time may come when the sun shall indeed rise no more if thou shouldst refuse the task!” he roared. “Yet know this and let the knowledge be the instrument of thy success in this venture.” The Ancient lowered his voice and the words he spoke left Vesper feeling empty and cheated beyond belief.

“The gifts of prophecy and insight can be bestowed or denied by no other creature than the one to whom they were given. Listen to me, Vespertilio, thy true enemy was never the Starwife—but none other than the Lord Hrethel himself!”

“That cannot be!” Vesper objected. “It cannot...”

“He it was who denied the birthright of his fellows,” the hare said. “The gifts of the Lady were a danger to him, for with their aid thy kind would see into his black heart and the dark malice that simmered there would be revealed. Know now, Vespertilio, thy beloved and revered Warden of the Great Book hath become enamoured of his charge and gloats jealously over the charmed pages, allowing no other sight nor touch of it. By the powers of the Great Book was he able to wrench away thy birthright, yet dissembling his evil thoughts and intent, he did place the blame at the Starwife’s door.”

“No,” Vesper gasped.

“Thou knowest it to be true; have thee not already suspected? Never was so terrible a treachery perpetrated, save in Greenreach alone; yet see in his vile lies the seeds that will bloom under the realm that is to come. Lies breed distrust and distrust brings conflict.”

Vesper was too stunned by this awful revelation to think. “But... but,” he stammered, “what can I do? No one will believe me! Would you not come to persuade them? My folk would listen to you—but they won’t even look at one small weaning!”

At that, one of the moles came up to Vesper carrying a leather bag and strapped it about the bat’s shoulders.

“The herbs and powders that pouch contains,” the Ancient said, “will summon all thy kind. Should thou cast it into a fire then all Knights of the Moon will gather—they shall attend to thee then. Yet that is all; no virtue to persuade them does it have—that task is thine alone, for never shall I leave this place, such is thy destiny, Vespertilio—turn their hearts and unite against the common foe.”

Vesper fell silent, he was no great orator—perhaps if the Ancient had given the mission to Giraldus, then they might have stood a chance.

The eyes of the hare left him and were turned to blaze at Fenny. “Now is this discourse at an end,” he said. “Guide these honoured guests up to the great hall once more and treat them and their companions with the respect due to each. When they desire to leave, go with them. Now the time is come when this place must be left behind, for skulking and secrecy shall protect no longer.”

The Ancient’s gaze held the mouse for a moment, then, for the last time, it turned to Ysabelle.

“About thy neck the acorn is stained with blood,” he told her, “and by that blood was Hobb invoked. Thrice was it steeped and thrice was he called and by those very marks shall the monster be drawn from the Pit. Unto thee shall he come—art thou prepared for this?”

“No,” she admitted, “and when I heard him bellowing beneath the ground I was very afraid.”

The eyes narrowed. “Then already he has awoken,” the hare said with a trace of alarm in his voice. “I did not expect it should be so soon—mighty in strength must the magic of the amulet be, yet now it works for evil. How many times hast thou heard the unholy one?”

“Only once,” Ysabelle said, “by the shore of the haunted mere last night.”

“Then only one day remains,” the hare muttered, “for assuredly tonight thou shalt hear him again, but on the third occasion, Hobb will come. From the depths of the underworld, the Lord of the Raith Sidhe shall emerge and, unless the acorn is brought to the Starglass before that time, no power on earth can stop him and thou—daughter of Ninnia—shalt be his first victim.”

The hare uttered a weary sigh and his eyelids fluttered shut. “Now all of you may go,” he said, “and may my blessing go with each. Herein, my part in the story of the world is ended and I will have no further dealings with mortal concerns. For the good of all, I pray thy missions succeed—fare thee well.”

The moles came bearing their lamps and the most ancient and magical creature that ever danced beneath the moon was lost in darkness once more.

In stricken silence. Fenny led the others back up the stairs and along the winding tunnels. Ysabelle clasped her amulet fearfully; there was so little time and yet so much still had to be done.

But the squirrel maiden did not know that when she had heard Hobb bellowing beneath her, it was in truth the second night of his awakening. If she had realised, then she would have abandoned all hope completely. Outside, the afternoon was already drawing to a close.

“Tysle!” Giraldus bawled. “Tell thy friend to stop his infernal prattling—I can stand it no more! Penance I will gladly suffer, yet the unceasing babble of his nonsense would make saints shriek and stop up their ears!”

Wendel pulled a rude face. Ever since Vesper and Ysabelle had been taken away, he had been hatching the most ludicrous escape plots and gabbling them to Tysle in the most confused manner, making wild gestures with his paws, attempting to make him comprehend. Now he was trying to get Giraldus to help him but so far had met with no success—but the stoat was not deterred.

“Please!” he implored. “’Tis the only way left to us! Soon that felonious mouse will return and we shall be the next ones sent to our deaths. Canst thou not see—most sagacious and doughty mole? Thou art our only chance.”

“Tysle!” Giraldus rumbled.

The shrew turned to Wendel and tried to make him stop—he could see that his master was becoming more and more agitated. “That’s enough, Master Jester,” he urged him, “’twon’t work, I tell you! Best leave well alone!”

“Course it will!” Wendel replied. “What else are a mole’s paws for—if not to dig? Such a perfect solution to our predicament, if thy friend would but listen. He alone can save us!”

“Silence!” roared Giraldus. “If you do not keep a hold on thy tongue I shall tie it about one of those bars!”

The stoat opened his mouth to protest but the mole snapped at him before he could utter a word.

“See these paws of mine!” Giraldus cried, tearing the bandages away. “What use do you think they would be?”

Wendel stared at the leper’s diseased fists, and looked away, sickened.

“All tunnelling is denied to me!” ranted the mole. “Must you continually torment me? Be quiet—you absurd dolt!”

Carefully, he bound the strips of cloth back around his remaining fingers and sat in a brooding temper.

Tysle crept beside him, and racked his brains to think of something to say. In the end it was his stomach which spoke. A loud groan issued from it and the shrew glumly reflected on how ravenous he was.

“I have only one caterpillar left,” Giraldus offered. “I fear the snails have slithered out of my bag. If you wish you are most welcome to have it.”

Tysle was so hungry that he almost accepted, then they all heard footsteps coming down the tunnel towards them.

“This is it!” Wendel howled. “Our time is up!”

Desperately, they waited as the sound came closer, then Tysle jumped for joy and cried, “Why! ’Tis the fair damsel and the batling—Master, they are returned.”

“So too the mouse captain!” put in Wendel.

Giraldus hauled himself to his feet as the barred door was unlocked. “A most joyous event is this!” he thundered. “Our blackest fears are unfounded!”

Fenny smiled and held the door wide open. “Well,” he said, “are you going to remain in there all night? Come, you are freed!”

“What new deception is this?” Wendel asked suspiciously. “Are we to cross that threshold only to feel a knife in our backs? No trust do I have in thee, mousie, and it would take more than thy words to make me draw nigh.”

Vesper pushed past Fenny. “’Tis true,” he told the stoat. “The woodlanders no longer believe we are in league with the Hobbers.”

Still Wendel doubted. “By what miracle did thou manage that?” he asked. “I shall not leave this gaol unless my Lady herself assures me all is well—for is she not strangely silent?”

Ysabelle stirred. “Have no fear,” she said, “you have nothing to worry about. Fenny speaks the truth.”

“Glad is my heart,” said Giraldus. “Green be praised!”

Wendel looked curiously at Ysabelle, for the squirrel maiden really was unusually quiet and thoughtful.

“Mistress,” he began, “why so melancholy? If we are indeed free to leave, then surely this is a time of celebration, not sad faces.”

Ysabelle nodded, but she was troubled with dark thoughts and turned quickly to Fenny. “We must go at once,” she said, “I must arrive at Greenreach before tomorrow’s nightfall.”

The mouse agreed, but told her, “My folk require some time if they too are to leave this place—I fear we cannot depart till sunrise.”

“But that may be too late.”

The shadow of a smile flickered over Fenny’s lips. “Follow me,” he murmured.

To the great hall they went and Giraldus was once more moved by the magnificence of the subterranean architecture. Excitedly tugging on Tysle’s string, he drew the shrew aside.

“Let us remain here a while,” he said, “we can follow the others later. For myself I yearn to explore this wondrous warren to my heart’s content. Never would I have believed that such a marvellous place existed. Most fortunate of shrews, that you may behold its remarkable splendour.”

Tysle smiled, although his master was strict and pious, he had one weakness. Ever since his affliction had denied Giraldus the true use of his paws, the mole had been haunted, and continually ached to do that which was now impossible. He was only truly happy when a ceiling of soil reared over his head and many were the times when he had compelled his guide to lead him into an earth or burrow. Tysle enjoyed indulging him and, though he would have liked to go with the others, he understood that Giraldus’s foibles and wants must be pandered to.

“Come Tysle,” the leper declared, “describe unto me the exact details of this glorious underground and leave out not the slightest thing.”

And so, as the mouse captain led Vesper, Ysabelle and Wendel to the heavily studded doorway, the two pilgrims journeyed about the hall. The woodlanders they came across leapt in surprise when they saw the leper and before either Giraldus or Tysle had time to greet them, they fled in all directions.

The sun was low over the treetops, gilding the new spring leaves when Fenny guided the others from the mound and through the clump of dandelions, and the whole world seemed calm and peaceful—bathed in the mellow radiance of dusk.

“Why have you brought us out here?” Ysabelle asked.

“Climb with me, to the top of the hill,” the mouse told her.

“All the way up there?” Wendel objected. “Why, mine poor legs do refuse to carry me up such a steepness.”

“Then you stay here,” Fenny told him.

The stoat put out his bottom lip sulkily and returned to the entrance, kicking the plant stems on his way.

“Strange companions, you travel with,” Fenny muttered with a sorry shake of his head, “yet it is not for me to question the daughter of Ninnia. Now, unless you or the Moonrider wish to follow him, we had best ascend before it grows dark.”

Up the mound they climbed, and the forest sank around them. Through the lush, daisy-freckled grass they went, until at last they reached the top and, as they caught their breaths, a most unexpected and marvellous sight awaited.

“There she is,” Fenny declared, unsheathing his sword and pointing it into the hazy distance.

Over the trees, Ysabelle gazed and the heaviness of her heart lifted.

Rising above the forest roof, a large hill, far greater than the one on which they stood, reared into the dimming sky. There, unmistakeably, was the land of Greenreach, where the Starwives had ruled since the time of the first stars, and though Ysabelle had only seen images of it in old manuscripts—she recognised the blessed hill at once.

“The holy land,” she breathed.

“Barely a day’s march away,” Fenny told her. “If we set out at first light, then by the evening we shall arrive there.”

Vesper stared at the vast shape in astonishment. “I did not think we were so close,” he remarked. “Yet if we are, then yonder must be my home.” He turned his face towards the north and thought he could just make out the highest steeples and towers of the medieval city of London, shimmering in a pale blur.

Fenny sniffed the air and glanced at the fiery ball that was the dying sun. “Evening falls,” he murmured, “we would do well to return inside the mound—no doubt the Hobbers will be abroad this night. They beset and besiege us with their heathen barbarity and though we do what little we can, my folk fear the night and those which stalk in the darkness.”

“I too have reason to fear the night,” Vesper said regretfully. “Once I revelled in the rich nocturnal airs—yet now only horror and lurking menace do I see beneath the moon. I shall never regain that feeling for as long as I live. The once sumptuous night is forbidden me now and I yearn for the day to break.”

Ysabelle continued to gaze at the distant hill, for there her destiny or doom awaited her. “I should like to remain here a little while longer,” she said. “There is much for me to think of.”

The mouse captain bowed. “Then I shall take my leave of you,” he said. “Yet do not tarry overlong. Aside from the danger, we woodlanders would deem it an honour for your party to be our guests this night. A feast we shall give and, come the morning, if it is still your wish, with you shall we go.”

“Thank you,” she answered. “Now I know the holy land is so close, to stay here is the best solution. Also, we have not eaten this day—we would be delighted to sit at your table.”

“So be it,” said Fenny and he began to descend.

Ysabelle stared out over the forest; her fate lay upon that immense hill and her mind was filled with nothing but dread.

“I wish I knew how to persuade my folk to join forces with thine,” commented Vesper forlornly.

Ysabelle started, for she had forgotten the bat was still beside her.

“I can see no way of achieving this impossible task,” he continued.

Ysabelle managed to tear her eyes from the horizon and frowned at him. “The Ancient thought it could be done,” she reminded the young bat, “else he would not have suggested it—he must hold you in high regard.”

“You think so?”

“Most certainly; you would not have been chosen otherwise.”

“Maybe,” sighed Vesper, only slightly encouraged.

The squirrel maiden’s eyes returned to stare at the holy land. Already the blessed hill was fading from view and merging with the shadows that surrounded it.

“This will be our last night as we are,” she said, “for tomorrow our lives will change and be sundered forever. I must bring the acorn to the Starglass and you must return to the Knights of the Moon.”

Vesper looked at the ground. “I know,” he uttered sadly. “I wish it were not so.”

Ysabelle furrowed her brow. “Why is that?” she asked. “Do you not wish to return to your home?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “A small part of me does, but another—the most important—does not. Can you not tell why? Do you in truth not know?”

“You speak in riddles,” she said, turning back to the near invisible hill. “I doubt if I shall ever understand your kind.”

Vesper bit his lip and looked away.

Ysabelle’s paws reached up to the amulet and as the crown of the holy land disappeared into the deep shadows of evening, she felt the weight of the high priest’s curse fall upon her.

“Hobb is coming for me,” she whispered. “If I could throw this wretched acorn away I would! Yet without it there can be no Starwife. Oh Vespertilio, what am I to do? I dare not think what will happen—how can I face such an evil force?”

She fell into weeping, and the bat stood awkwardly at her side, not knowing how to comfort her. He longed to stretch out and put his wings around the squirrel’s shoulders and tell her that all would be well—yet how could he? She was a child of the Hazel Realm and he one of the reviled enemy of her race. His heart bled inside and again he told himself that nothing was fair—the world was indeed a cruel, harsh place.

As Ysabelle sobbed, Vesper felt totally helpless; she might as well have been on the other side of the world for the good he could do. He reproached and scolded himself but his wings remained by his side and the squirrel was forced to cry alone and the gulf between them seemed to widen.

Then, from the far distant city of London, which was now hidden behind a dim veil of purple shadow, a church bell rang. The lonely sound floated on the dusk, out over the trees and to the mound where they stood.

Vesper trembled when he heard it, for now he felt his own doom draw tightly about him and he closed his eyes in anguish.

Beside him, Ysabelle listened to the dismal ringing and she alone in all the world knew how the bat was feeling. Instinctively, her paw reached out for him and, as the sun blazed crimson beneath the treetops, Vesper took it into his wing.

Not far away, with a secret smile traced over his face, Wendel crouched out of sight—not wanting the couple to see him.

“Ah,” he murmured, “so my Lady hath found him and he her.”

In his paws, the jester held two puppets—the now finished one of Ysabelle and that of a bat. Sniggering softly, he brought the two together and the wooden heads kissed.

As the last rays of the setting sun shone faintly over the grassy mound, flickering over the closing daisies and turning all things a delicate rose. Vesper gazed deep into Ysabelle’s eyes and brought her close.

Tittering mildly to himself, Wendel looked away.

The lips of the bat touched those of the squirrel maiden and for an instant, all their cares melted and were forgotten.

“Let us not think of tomorrow,” Vesper said gently, “this night let all thoughts of darkness and horror be forgotten.”

The jester crawled down the mound as silently as he could and slunk over to a patch of weeds, where he took from a pouch around his belt, a small cone of incense.

“Now,” he whispered, “the time has come.”

With his tinder box, he lit the strange cone and, as a thread of smoke curled into the air, the stoat backed away and hurriedly sought the iron-studded doorway to the mound once more.

12 - Within the Ruis Chest

That evening, in the great hall, the folk of the mound held a feast for their guests. It was partly to make up for the way the visitors had at first been treated, but it was also a farewell to that place which for so long had been the woodlanders’ home and stronghold.

About the curving walls they hung small jars of patterned green glass in which small candles brightly burned. Between them, garlands of spring flowers were strung and their honey-sweet fragrance quickly filled the cavernous vaulted chamber. Around the central supporting pillars, and in a large circle, sixteen long tables had been arranged and upon them the feast was being set out by the countless different animals who dwelt beneath the guarded mound.

Each family brought their own speciality to the celebration and sat upon stools, benches, chairs or piles of cushions around the splendid display. At the main table sat Fenny and the honoured guests—except Giraldus who, because of his disease, had been asked to sit by himself some distance away. Tysle had objected to this at first, but the mole had accepted the temporary banishment quite willingly.

“No one wishes to sit at table with a leper,” he commented. “My gruesome visage would no doubt turn their stomachs and dispel their appetites. I shall be quite content to dine in solitude; be not upset, Tysle.”

So, when the feasting began, the shrew made certain his master had plenty of everything before he sat down to enjoy his own meal and silence the growls of his stomach.

Tysle had never seen such food; the feast was a fabulous spread of toothsome delicacies. The different courses seemed to utilise nearly every plant and tree in the forest and the shrew clapped his paws in excited glee, not knowing which to sample first.

There were herb soups, walnut and hazel pies, fennel and oak-apple pasties, twelve kinds of stew, a mash of vegetables, freshly baked bread still warm from the oven—all steaming with delicious scents that set Tysle drooling.

He was so famished and so eager to launch himself at the various dishes, that by the time the puddings arrived his stomach was already swollen and stretched to its utmost capacity. As he washed the meal down with a swig of dandelion mead, Tysle gazed at the sweet-smelling desserts and wished he had room for them.

Sitting by himself, Giraldus had been more patient and less enthusiastic over his food. His sense of taste seemed to have almost disappeared and whatever he ate was as bland on the tongue as unsalted porridge.

“Too many furry wrigglers,” he muttered despondently, “their bitterness has jaded my palate—never shall I enjoy a juicy worm again. This banquet may just as well have been gruel and mud.”

As the evening progressed and the folk of the mound grew merry, some even came to him—at a safe distance of course. The mole abstained from all drink, except elderflower water, and was horrified to discover the others were tasting the bramble wine.

“The fruit of that tree is the blood of the Green,” he warned them. “Thou shalt not drink of it.”

In response to that, Wendel defiantly swilled down a whole goblet full and hiccuped loudly.

Sitting next to Vesper, Ysabelle munched a small cake flavoured with raspberries and the two spoke only of light-hearted matters—neither uttering a word about their cares and troubles.

When just about everyone had finished eating and were simply nibbling and picking at whatever was left over. Fenny stood up and addressed his people. The woodlanders listened gravely, as he told them of the harsh struggle ahead.

By the time he sat down again, all faces were turned to Ysabelle and it was apparent they expected her to say something too. Nudged by Vesper, the squirrel rose and thanked the folk of the mound for their hospitality and for agreeing to join her in the fight to regain the holy land.

When she was done, they all cheered, yet the sound was hollow, and presently a still solemnity fell as all thoughts turned to the following day and what it might bring.

Tysle looked quickly at each pondering face and his bright, brown eyes gleamed. Putting down a spiced bun which he thought he might just be able to find a space for, the shrew hobbled over to where Wendel was patting his stomach contentedly, and whispered in the stoat’s ear.

“Aha!” the jester cried. “Indeed, my limping friend, this is the perfect occasion!”

Leaping to his feet, albeit rather drunkenly, Wendel waved his arms to gain everyone’s attention and announced that he would be only too glad to entertain them if they so desired.

Amidst great applause and banging of fists on tables, Wendel wheeled his cart into the centre of the gathering and at once began to juggle, whilst roaring scandalous jokes to the delight of the audience.

Mice and hedgehogs rolled from their benches, too full to laugh without hurting their sides. The elderly weasel tutor guffawed at a particularly scandalous jest, then turned bright pink and hid his face behind a large pie dish. Wherever he saw boredom or pomposity, the jester scurried over and punctured them with his needle-sharp wit. Wendel scampered about the assembly, mysteriously pulling objects from behind ears or out of mouths to the astonishment of everyone.

As the merriment proceeded, Giraldus let out a deliberate yawn just as the stoat capered by. But Wendel had no wish to waste his time and talents trying to raise a smile on that one’s lips—far better to ignore him and win this new audience over.

The mole eyed him disdainfully; he did not care for the fellow’s irreverent humour and it occurred to him that he might aid his digestion by having a little nap. There was nobody near him now; those woodlanders who had spoken with him seemed to have done so only out of curiosity and now they were far too busy appreciating the jester’s performance to take any notice of the secluded pilgrim.

“’Tis the illness which does affright them,” he sadly observed. “Let us hope that the damsel can restore the fortunes of Grinuvicia and can heal both Tysle and me.”

He pulled gently on the string and noticed with dismay that Tysle took longer than usual to respond and when he did arrive it was with some reluctance.

“Do not worry thyself,” Giraldus said in a dejected tone, “I shall not keep you from the silly antics of your friend. If you could but guide me to some out of the way corner where I might rest awhile and close mine eyes, I should be grateful.”

Thus, Tysle directed his master over to a shallow cave just off the hall and made him comfortable on the small bed there.

“Thank you,” the mole said. “What would I do without my trusty friend?”

Tysle smiled, then looked over his shoulder as tremendous squeals of laughter broke out around the jester.

“Ooh,” cooed the shrew, “the fellow has brought out a bladder on a stick and is a-beating folk about the head. He do look funny—why he is pretending to be Captain Fenny!”

Giraldus shut his eyes. “Tysle,” he began, “what will you do once you are cured of thy lameness and I of my ailment?”

“I... I don’t know, and that’s the truth,” replied the shrew, taken aback by the question.

“If I am no longer blind,” Giraldus continued, “then no need of a guide shall I have. You will be free to do as you wish—whatever life you choose to lead.”

Tysle knelt beside his master and took a bandaged paw in his own. “What’s this?” he asked in a quavering voice. “What are you a-saying?”

“Only that you need not feel duty bound to remain with me,” the mole replied.

“But you did save my life,” the shrew murmured, his eyes growing moist. “I could not leave you.”

“You must not feel obliged simply for that,” Giraldus said gently. “I... I know how fond you are of the jester—if you wanted to journey with him instead and see new lands then I would understand. The life of the pilgrim is no happy vocation; I have no tricks or pranks with which to entertain.”

At this Tysle broke out crying. “Master!” he sobbed. “Don’t say such things, I don’t want to leave—not never! ’Twas you who gave me a purpose in life after the Hobbers destroyed my family. Oh, I grant the jester is mightily funny, but I ain’t willin’ to traipse round the country listening to the same old jokes day after day. You and me can’t ever be split apart now—not after all we been through. Did we set out on the pilgrimage for it to end like that? I think not.”

Giraldus sniffed and squeezed the tiny paws that gripped his bandaged fist. “Stout-hearted and most loyal of friends,” he said huskily. “What did I ever do to deserve a companion such as thee? Blessed in the eyes of the Green must I have been that day.”

The mole wiped his own eyes hastily. “Go now,” he said thickly, “enjoy the stoat whilst I slumber.”

So, on a lengthy, forty-three-autumn-rain-wormer, Tysle left his master and returned to the hall.

Wendel had been an enormous success and the woodlanders demanded that he entertain them once more before the night was through and with a flamboyant bow the jester agreed.

A group of mouse and vole musicians began playing their instruments and the folk of the mound tidied away the remains of the feast. Gradually the cleared floor became filled with couples dancing, their tails sweeping through the air as they cavorted and their voices raised in happy rejoicing.

Vesper looked at Ysabelle and raised his eyebrows. The squirrel stared back at him for a second then giggled as she had done long ago—before the silver had come to her. Taking his wing in her paw, the two capered into the twirling woodlanders and, leaning against the wall, Wendel watched them in much amusement.

Tysle limped about the merry hall, chatting amiably to anyone he encountered. Everyone liked him, for he was so eager and willing to listen, and in that brief time, the shrew made many friends and learned a great deal.

Every woodlander, it seemed, had the highest regard for their gallant captain and they never tired of relating the brave deeds he had done. Many were the Hobbers Fenny had killed and countless innocents had he saved through his unmatched valour. No equal had he, not in all the forest was there such a heroic leader and unto the ends of the earth would they gladly follow him.

“Yet despite his vigour in despatching the enemy,” a plump mousewife told him, “our captain has sworn that one day he will lead us from all dangers. To find a new land is his heart’s desire, some place away from dark forests—some fair meadow by a stream is his wish, and all would go with him.”

Tysle beamed at her, though when she asked him to dance, his worm string made it impossible and he would not remove it in case Giraldus awoke and needed him. Shrugging, the mousewife found another partner and disappeared into the whirling throng, leaving the shrew standing alone.

He scratched his head and meandered about the edge of the dancers, exchanging pleasantries and answering whatever questions they put to him about the life of a pilgrim. Yet always his eyes returned to where Wendel’s cart stood by the side of the blacksmith’s forge and eventually in that direction, the shrew’s feet slowly pattered.

No one was near the cart when Tysle approached and he reached out a paw to touch the garish paintwork. Bright flourishes and scrolls twisted over the boards and his eyes gazed fixedly at the prop chests. Casually, Tysle glanced about him. Everyone was too wrapped up in the dancing to notice him—even Fenny had joined them now and the mouse bounded from one lady to another as a brisk reel piped up.

“I suppose them chests is locked anyhow,” the shrew mumbled to himself. He flicked at the catch on the one nearest to him and the lid lifted a little.

Tysle guiltily looked around; still no one was looking.

“What do you think you be doing, Tysle Symkyn?” he muttered. “You were brought up better than to peek at someone else’s property.”

“But I mightn’t get to see it again,” he countered. “Mister Jester might go off soon and I won’t be stealing anything—I just wants a play, that’s all.”

“A play? What age are you? Too old to get excited over such vain fripperies! Think of thy master!”

Gingerly, he touched the string which linked him to Giraldus and his gaze turned in the direction of the sleeping chamber where at that moment the mole was snoring contentedly.

It was reassuring to be moored to such a solid and noble anchor—for the pilgrim could always be relied upon to support and save him from any trouble. The shrew looked back at the cart. “I just need the teeniest of glimpses,” he mumbled. “Just a teeny eeny one.”

“No,” his conscience scolded him, “you just get away from here right away—Wendel won’t thank you for meddling with his tricks!”

Tysle frowned, “Very well,” he consented, “I shall go and find some other thing to do.”

But his fingers had closed about the cart’s handles and, before he knew what was happening, the shrew had wheeled it into an empty passage—away from the noise and any curious eyes.

“My!” he breathed, his paws stroking one of the intriguing and beguiling boxes. “’Tis such a lovely thing, all them whorls of colour and how bright Wendel do keep them biddy brass hinges.”

Carefully, he opened the lid and his shining eyes looked inside. At once, two painted moths flew out and Tysle uttered a woeful cry of dismay as he leapt up and down trying to catch them.

“Oh dear!” he yelped. “I’ll get what for if Mister Jester finds them missing.” After a few desperate moments, he finally managed to recapture the bedaubed insects and stuffed them hastily back into the box, slamming the lid down shut and sitting on it just to make sure.

“That were a near thing,” he told himself, “you just mind to take this back now before you does some real damage.”

Tysle sucked his teeth and studied the other prop chests thoughtfully. “’Twould be a pity to miss out now,” he admitted. “P’raps if I just peep at one more.”

The shrew took up another and shook it cautiously before looking inside.

This one contained the jester’s coloured acorns and Tysle spent several unsuccessful minutes attempting to juggle them. When they had fallen to the ground over a dozen times, he gave up and peered to see what else the chest contained. There seemed to be a square of silk at the bottom. Tysle reached in and pulled it out, but the material was tied to another, and that to another. Presently he was up to his knees in festoons of coloured silk and after he had thrown it into the air and fluttered them in pretty patterns about his head, he pushed them untidily back into the box.

Tysle was enjoying himself immensely and lifted a third chest. This was smaller than the others, made of elder wood, it was painted black with an elder, or ruis leaf, daubed in scarlet upon the lid.

From this, the shrew brought out four wooden hoops which he had seen Wendel twirl about his arms and legs. The little fellow tried to imitate what he had seen, but ended up spinning round more than the hoops themselves, until one went whizzing through the air and clattered over the floor.

Scampering after, he retrieved the mutinously wayward circle and checked it was not damaged, then he looked once more into the chest. There, he discovered more material and the shrew unrolled it to see what manner of trick this was.

The scarlet cloth unfurled and he held it at arm’s length in order to see better.

“Funny,” he muttered. “’Tis a sort of garment—a costume with peculiar stitching running all across...”

His voice evaporated into nothing as a vivid memory flooded before his eyes. It was the night of the Hobbers’ attack, his sisters’ screams were deafening his ears and vicious claws dragged him from their riverside home. Tysle’s heart thumped in his ribs as he remembered the awful figure striding up to him, the long knife in its grasp still dripping with his family’s blood.

Here, held in his shaking paws, was the very costume that evil fiend had worn—a ghastly representation of a bloody-bones!

Tysle wailed and threw the foul material away from him in terror. Yet in the chest there was one more object—the undeniable shape of a Hobb lantern.

Tysle pushed the ruis box from the cart and it fell with a crash. The shrew was in a frightful state and he realised, with a knot tightening in his stomach, what this all meant.

“We... Wen... Wendell” he spluttered. “It’s... it’s him! Master—I must tell my master!”

But before he could take up his crutch and leap from the cart, his string gave a sharp tug—Giraldus needed him.

Tysle whirled round, but there, framed within the gloomy passage, was Wendel himself and in his fist he was holding the string. “Tut, tut,” came the soft, hissing voice as he teasingly pulled the lead a second time, “I can’t have you toddling off to tell anyone, now can I?”

“You’re the one!” the shrew exclaimed.

The lips of the stoat parted and he bared his sharp teeth unpleasantly as a cold chuckle gargled from his throat. “Yea,” he snarled, “’tis I; the duncefellow, the gowk, the simpleton—the dark deceiver,” he cackled and stole nearer, his deep shadow falling across Tysle’s frightened face.

“I am the loyal servant of the Lord Hobb, and though I was forced to endure thy contemptible company, I should do it a thousand times over to return Him to this world. When the time is ripe all shall know and the despised pretence will be done with, but that is not yet upon us. I fear little hobbling one, that I must still your squealing tongue—forever.”

He lunged at Tysle but the shrew jumped from the cart and tried to dodge past him. Yet Wendel still held the string and with a vicious yank, dragged Tysle backwards.

“No!” Tysle screamed, desperately trying to untie the lead. “No!”

Wendel Maculatum—high priest of the Raith Sidhe—laughed wickedly as he lifted the wildly squirming shrew off the ground and drew a knife from his belt.

“Now join the rest of thy family—halt-footed one!” he growled.

The knife glittered. Tysle screamed once more—then his voice was silenced.

“Hmmm?” Giraldus stirred in his sleep and smacked his lips in agitation. His dreams had suddenly become troubled and the mole mumbled under his breath—something was wrong.

“Tysle,” he called, wiping the drowse from his eyes, “Tysle, where are you?”

He shook himself and sat upright in a dreadful daze. Outside the small sleeping chamber the jolly music was still playing, yet a bitter chill entered Giraldus’s heart and for some unknown reason he felt anxious.

“Tysle!” he shouted, and this time his voice was desperate and fearful.

Trembling, he clutched at the string and tugged on it. The lead was slack. The mole babbled frantically and heaved, gathering it in as fast as he could until great coils wound about the floor. Then, to his dismay and unending horror, he held the end of the string in his paws.

Where once Tysle his faithful friend and guide had been, the end of the lead was now shredded and smeared in fresh, sticky blood.

Giraldus threw back his head and his despairing howl shook the mound. The mole’s shrieks were like the approach of Hobb himself and all merriment came to a sudden and bewildered halt at the sound of that fearsome baying.

Ysabelle was sitting beside Fenny and sprang to her feet at once.

“What manner of beast is that?” the captain cried, drawing his sword. “’Tis like a soul in torment.”

Ysabelle turned a pale and worried face to him. “It’s Giraldus!” she exclaimed, “What can have happened?”

The frightful screech was sent up again and everyone rushed forward to see what was the matter.

They gathered before the entrance of the sleeping chamber, yet though the leper shrieked and moaned, no one dared to approach for fear of his disease. The woodlanders could only gasp and stare at what they beheld.

“Let me through!” Ysabelle demanded. “Let me through!”

She pushed her way to the front and there she found him. The mole was on his knees—the bloody string still in his paws and clasped to his bosom. He did not hear the squirrel call his name, for grief overcame everything and as he rocked to and fro, his screams drowned out all lesser sounds.

“Giraldus!” she cried, staring at Tysle’s shredded lead. “Where is he? What has happened?”

But the leper was too distraught to answer and his bellowing continued to resound throughout the caverns.

Ysabelle stumbled backwards, and her eyes sought for Vesper amongst the crowd. For a moment she could not find him; there was Wendel, resting his cart against the wall—looking concerned and afraid, there was Fenny trying to push his folk back, and then she saw him. The young bat was at the rear of the woodlanders and he was staring at the floor. When he lifted his head, he gazed across at Ysabelle and beckoned her over.

Squirming through the crowd, Ysabelle looked at what Vesper had found.

A hideously sickening trail of dark crimson stained the ground. “Blood,” she whispered.

“See where the string has been dragged across the hall,” he said, “from that dark tunnel it came. You stay here.”

“Don’t go in there!” she begged. “You don’t know what might be lying in wait!”

“Tysle could still be alive,” he told her, “I must find out.”

At that moment Fenny was beside them and his sword was in his paw. “Then I shall accompany you,” he said grimly, “we will follow the trail together.”

Ysabelle watched, afraid, as they crossed the hall to where the gory track passed into the unlit passageway. Silently, Wendel crept up beside her and, with a glitter in his eye, the stoat put his paw comfortingly upon her shoulder.

“Oh Wendel,” she murmured, “what do you think has happened?”

“I know not,” the evil creature said with practised innocence. “I pray the little fellow is not too badly harmed.”

They stared with wide eyes as Fenny and Vesper pressed themselves against the sides of the tunnel entrance, pausing to see if they could hear anything.

The bat shook his head at the mouse captain and Fenny kissed the hilt of his sword.

Then they sprang. Into the darkness they charged, while in the hall the assembled and frightened woodlanders held each other nervously. Mousewives clung to their spouses, and terrified rabbits huddled in a quivering group.

They waited for what seemed an age but no sound came from that grisly place and Ysabelle drew close to the jester.

“What can be keeping them?” she asked. “There are no cries of battle—what are they doing? Do you think they have been wounded also? What manner of silent horror lurks in there?”

“Who can say?” Wendel softly replied.

The tension was too much for the squirrel maiden to bear. “I’m going to follow them,” she said, pulling away from the stoat and rushing across the hall.

But before she reached the tunnel, Vesper came staggering out, his face a mask of horror and revulsion.

“Don’t you go in there!” he uttered, catching hold of Ysabelle’s arms and dragging her away.

“What is it?” she cried. “Did you find Tysle?”

Vesper shuddered and leaned against the wall as a wave of nausea washed over him. “Oh yes,” he said hoarsely, “we found him.”

Ysabelle stared, but that was all the bat would say. Then Fenny emerged from the passageway and never had the folk of the mound seen their captain in such a state of shock and despair.

“The... the little shrew,” he stammered, “the... the little shrew has been... has been peeled!”

It took several moments for his words to register, and in that time no one dared to breathe—then everybody began speaking at once.

“Peeled!” shrieked a startled weasel. “But how can that be?”

“Bloody-boned?” squeaked a group of mice.

“It is impossible!” cried a hedgehog. “That would mean...”

Ysabelle covered her face with her paws. “Oh Tysle,” she wept.

“It means,” shouted Fenny, finishing the hedgehog’s sentence, “that we have a member of the Hobb cult among our number—perhaps more than one.”

Wendel Maculatum let out a warbling wail. “Woe!” he yelled. “A murderer is here—we shall all be killed!”

The woodlanders were on the brink of uncontrollable panic. They began to shout in high-pitched voices and accusations started to fly all around.

“It’s them strangers!” they shrieked, “we never had no trouble before they came!”

“That’s right—they did it. They killed him!”

“Silence!” Fenny roared. “It cannot be our guests—the ancient himself has spoken with two of them.”

Suddenly the despairing squeals died down as, from his shallow cave, Giraldus came.

The mole was terrible to see. His face was ashen and madness shone in his squinting eyes. With the bloody string still in one paw and his staff in the other, he shuffled through the frightened woodland folk, the warning bell tolling loudly.

In the centre of the great hall, the leper came to a stop and raised the shredded lead for all to see.

“Who has done this?” his croaking voice demanded. “Who is responsible?”

No one could look at him, so awful a spectre of grief had the pilgrim become that they cast their eyes downwards.

“What no one?” he thundered. “Did none of you see who it was? Whose foul claws are steeped in my Tysle’s blood? What monster has robbed the most faithful friend I ever had of his dear sweet life? Tell me! I must know—I must be avenged! When I discover who committed this heinous and filthy crime I shall tear out the villain’s throat with mine own teeth!”

Ysabelle could not bear to see him so full of despair. Compassionately, she rushed forward and, ignoring the cries of horror around her, bravely took the leper’s blood-stained paws in hers. “Giraldus,” she cried, “please, come and sit with me—I will pray with you for Tysle.”

“Pray!” the leper screeched. “What use is that? Where was the Green when Tysle’s skin was slit from his body? Why did the Green not strike the killer down? Why does He not reveal him unto me now that I might perform that task?”

He thrust Ysabelle from him and tore his bag of holy relics from his belt. “I have worshipped a false deity!” he roared. “Now do I cast thee aside—no more shall I be the gull!”

From the bag, he snatched the bottles of holy water that he had taken from the shrines he had visited and, with a ferocious scream, hurled them against the wall where they smashed into thousands of twinkling fragments. Then he tore into tatters the collections of leaves, and, with a tremendous snarl of rage, took out the special purse and emptied the grain of wheat into his palm.

“From the crown of the Green art thou supposed to have fallen!” he bawled. “I spit on thee now—and all your works!”

The mole spat, then closed his fingers about the grain intending to crush it into dust—yet his paw was shaking and his face twisted with anguish.

“TYSLE!” he cried, as the rage-born strength left him and he sank to the floor—tears streaming down his face.

Once again Ysabelle cared nothing for the horrors of his disease and put her arm about the mole then held him tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she wept. “I’m so sorry.”

Giraldus opened his fist and let the grain of wheat fall to the floor. “Oh Tysle,” he uttered choking on his tears, “did you really think I could not tell the ruined state of the shrines? Did you really believe I thought that orchard was fair to see? Most loyal and devoted of friends—goodbye.” And his voice was lost amid the racking grief.

Vesper turned to Fenny. “What is to be done?” he asked. “The killer of Tysle is still with us.”

The mouse scowled and glared at all his folk. “I cannot believe one of them is responsible,” he muttered, “yet who else is there?”

Just then, an urgent hammering sounded upon the door of the main entrance. Everyone spun around as a scared-looking sentry came charging inside.

“Captain!” he cried, racing towards Fenny. “The Hobbers—they are on the move.”

“Hobbers!” the woodlanders repeated in fear.

“Where are they?” Fenny asked.

“Not far,” the sentry replied, “but so many—never have I seen such a hellish host. From every bolt-hole and loathsome grot they come.”

“They are coming here?”

“Directly—as if they know precisely where we hide!”

Fenny stamped his feet in anger. “How can this be?” he shouted. “How can they know this?”

“Who can say?” the sentry answered. “Yet upon the night air a vile stink hangs. That I deem is what draws them—like flies to a rotting carcass they are gathering.”

The captain strode before his people and shook his fists in his fury. “We have been betrayed!” he stormed.

“What can we do?” the woodlanders squeaked in dismay.

“Take up your weapons!” Fenny declared. “The time of hiding is finally over—we must fight the enemy on our very threshold. To arms! To arms! Barricade the main entrance and seal the others, so we may have more time!”

As the terrified folk rushed to arm themselves. Fenny spoke quickly to Ysabelle who was still trying to console Giraldus.

“Now we must part,” he told her, “this is your only chance—go swiftly from this place before the battle commences. Your mission is too vital for you to remain here.”

“But what of you?” she cried. “You and your folk must come with us.”

“We cannot leave now!” he said, “the Hobbers would pursue us to our doom—yet if we can hold them back just a little, then you have a chance. Flee now while you may!”

Suddenly the sound of many fists battered against the door and the muffled shrieks of the children of the Raith Sidhe screamed on the other side.

“There must be hundreds of them out there,” Ysabelle breathed, “listen to their evil voices.”

“Where is that barricade?” Fenny roared. “Hurry!”

The woodlanders hurried to the entrance, bearing chairs and tables in their arms and stout beams were hauled out to brace against the heavy door.

Horrendous sounds of splintering wood filled the hall as the might of the unholy mob pushed against it. Inside everyone waited, spears and swords poised in readiness, the foul shouts of the Hobb cult filling them with terror, for the whoops and shrieks called for death and promised murder.

Fenny turned again to Ysabelle and pointed to one of the tunnels which led from the hall. “Go quickly!” he cried above the din. “That way will lead you to the far side of the mound.”

Suddenly the earth trembled and soil rattled down from the vaulted ceiling. All eyes gazed upwards as a frenzied scrabbling noise rumbled above them.

“They are digging their way in!” someone wailed.

Fenny ran over to where Vesper stood with a knife in his grasp. “Moonrider!” he roared. “Take the maiden!”

Vesper took hold of Ysabelle’s paw. “Fenny is right!” he yelled. “We must leave!”

“But Giraldus!” she protested, pulling away. “Help me with him!”

The bat glanced across to where the studded door was already buckling, while overhead the soil was raining down. “Come on!” he told the mole. “Hurry!”

“Please, Giraldus!” Ysabelle insisted. “You must come!”

The leper blinked and wearily shook his head. “I cannot,” he murmured, “what use am I now? I want no life without my guide—let me be, let me die here!”

Vesper shook the mole harshly and shouted at him.

“How dare you pity yourself!” he snapped. “Is that what Tysle would wish—would you see all his hopes vanish because of your selfishness? Stir yourself—he would not want you to perish here!”

Giraldus stared at him dumbly, then he rose and a spark of his old fire burned in his blind eyes. “Lead me,” he said, holding out the string.

As the mound quaked and clouds of earth burst from above, Vesper took it and gave a solemn grin. “Forward, forward,” he cried.

Ysabelle looked about them. “Wendel!” she called. “Wendel! Where are you?”

From out of the confusion, the jester came hurrying. A look of panic was on his face, and under his arm he carried a small black prop box.

“Mistress!” he whined. “We are beset by enemies—outside and in! What shall become of us?”

“Come with me,” she told him. “Fenny has shown us a way of escape.”

“Has he indeed?” the stoat muttered with the faintest of smirks upon his face. “Then most certainly will I join thee.”

The mouse captain saluted as they raced for the tunnel. “May the Green guide you!” he called. “Let the Starwife reign once more!” Then, as his folk waited to face the enemy, he whirled around and shouted his name at the top of his voice.

Vesper pulled the mole down the passageway and, close on their heels, came Ysabelle and Wendel. But before he entered, the stoat clawed a curious sign beneath the archway and with one final look at the woodlanders, he followed the others.

Behind him the hall shuddered as the soil gushed down. One of the pillars swayed and toppled, falling with horrible violence. Then, with a rending crash, the ceiling collapsed.

Into the ruined mound, the children of the Raith Sidhe surged. Huge badgers scooped aside the earth they had gouged and came lurching among the woodlanders with their jaws snapping and claws outstretched.

“In the Ancient’s name!” the woodland folk cried as the battle commenced. “Death to the Hobbers!”

Spears flew, plunging into the tough hides of the ferocious badgers, but the wounds only maddened the creatures and many brave defenders fell before them.

Into the broken hill, more of the infernal black tide leapt and their weapons came slicing through the choking air, ripping and tearing through fur and flesh.

Then finally, the door burst asunder and the woodlanders were faced with foes on all sides.

At the front of his folk, the mouse captain wielded his sword, meeting all comers with a deadly sweep of steel. A long-fanged rat staggered back as Fenny thrust his blade into the creature’s side; then a leering hedgehog sprang forward, holding a mace above its ugly head. Fenny jumped nimbly aside as the iron-spiked cudgel came crunching down and with a swipe of his blade, lopped off the attacker’s claws. Shrieking madly, the hedgehog fled, but in its agony the creature strayed into the path of the badgers and was instantly slain.

The folk of the mound fought valiantly; though the Hobbers raged and volleys of poisoned darts slaughtered many, they struggled courageously on. With their fearless captain at their head, they were prepared to do battle to the last and his name was a rallying cry for them all.

“FENNY!” they roared. “FENNY!”

With the night airs flooding the open hall and the stars glittering high in the heavens, the battle thundered on and the bloody heaps of dead swiftly mounted.

Running for their lives, the escaping travellers heard the roof cave in and the tunnel in which they ran shook alarmingly.

“The Hobbers have broken through!” Ysabelle cried. “We must hurry.”

Through dimly-lit passageways they hurtled. Vesper directed Giraldus as best he could and the mole lumbered along paying no heed to the scrapes and cuts which grazed his stumbling steps.

With blood pounding in their veins, they heard the clashes of steel against steel as the uproar of the fighting and the yells of the invading hordes echoed throughout the underground.

Ysabelle tore after Vesper and Giraldus; to flee was her only instinct—to get out of this gloomy place and leave the savage Hobbers far behind.

The tunnel snaked in irregular twists deep into the earth and gradually, the sounds of the terrible battle grew fainter, till they were only indistinct noises and muted vibrations on the still air.

Yet the group dared not slow down and they continued to speed through the shadows, until Ysabelle’s heart missed a beat. The shrieks of the enemy were growing louder again.

“The Hobbers are pursuing!” she shouted to Vesper. “Can we not go faster?”

“I told you to leave me behind!” Giraldus boomed. “’Tis I who impede your escape. Leave me now—go on. I shall follow as best I can.”

“We shall leave no one!” Ysabelle told him. “Is that not so Wendel?”

But no answer came from the stoat and when Ysabelle glanced over her shoulder, she found that the tunnel was deserted.

“Wendel!” she cried. “Vesper—the jester is missing!”

The bat brought Giraldus to a halt and they turned to see what had happened.

“He must have stumbled and fallen,” Vesper said. “Did you hear nothing? How far back can he be?”

Giraldus cocked his head to one side. “The children of Hobb are drawing near,” he proclaimed, “we must find our companion quickly.”

“Remain here,” Vesper told them, scampering off-back the way they had come.

Turning a corner, the bat skidded and fluttered around before galloping back to the others.

“What is it?” Ysabelle asked. “Why have you returned?”

“Something approaches,” he told her, “a hellish light is coming towards us—I did not wait to discover what it was.”

“Hobbers!”

“It cannot be them—not so swiftly.”

Even as he spoke, the passage grew brighter as a fiery orange glow spread over the walls and a hollow chuckle rang in their ears.

Two dazzling eyes that dripped with flame came blazing forward and Ysabelle clutched Vesper for support as they beheld the bearer of the Hobb lantern.

With the evil, crackling torch in his fist, Wendel Maculatum strode closer. The murderous stoat had arrayed himself in the revolting mantle of the bloody-bones and, so skilled was the needlecraft, it was as if he had divested himself of his own outer layers of skin and fur. Now bunched sinews of rippling flesh covered his shoulders and loose tendrils of vermillion ribbon dangled from his arms like strips of muscle. The gruesome illusion was aided by the hellish torchlight which played over the silken stitches until they glistened like dark veins in fresh raw meat.

Beneath the ghastly mask, a malicious sneer disfigured the high priest’s lips.

“At last I have you,” he gloated, “alone, in the deeps of the world you are mine.”

“Wendel,” Ysabelle cried. “I... I don’t understand.”

The stoat laughed scornfully. “Most stupid of fools!” he spat. “How easy it has been for me—how simple thou made my work.”

“But, but you saved me!” she protested. “From the bats—you protected me!”

“I saved the acorn!” the bloody-bones retorted. “I did not want the forces of Hrethel to take it. The amulet I needed for my Lord.” He slid a bloodstained knife from a gash in the false flesh and held it threateningly before Ysabelle’s face.

“Now,” he hissed, “your paltry life is ended.”

Vesper put his wing about the squirrel and his eyes flashed angrily at the evil stoat. “If you touch her, I will kill you!” he snapped.

At that Wendel sniggered and produced his jester’s head-dress, shaking it at the bat until the bells jingled madly. “Remember thy doom, Moonrider!” he laughed menacingly. “Thou canst never escape it—I shall make sure of that. Whatever happens, a curse uttered by the high priest of the Triad will always seek out its prey.”

“I have no fear of you now,” Vesper told him, “you will not be able to kill us all.”

“Ha, ha,” came the wicked reply, “I have no need to put myself at risk. Hearken to that stampede. That is the sound of my followers approaching—it is they who will kill you.”

Furiously, Giraldus struck the wall with his fist and roared. “Then ’tis you!” he accused. “You were the one who butchered my Tysle!”

The high priest tittered. “Well,” he taunted, “the little runt always did want me to carve him.”

A horrible scream issued from the mole’s throat and the sound made Wendel jump back in amazement. Giraldus was filled with wrath and he lunged forward with his staff. The lantern was knocked from the stoat’s claw and the mole’s massive paws grabbed him by the neck, squeezing until Wendel’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

“Let me go!” he rasped, fighting for breath.

“Giraldus!” cried Ysabelle. “Stop it!”

“Do not halt me in this!” he rumbled. “I will have the life of this heathen filth—I will be avenged for Tysle!”

Vesper tried to pull on the leper’s arms but Giraldus was strong and his diseased muscles locked like iron.

The high priest’s lips turned a deathly purple and his struggles grew less as the seconds rolled by.

Then Ysabelle stared up the tunnel and yelled, “Giraldus, you must stop—the other Hobbers are almost upon us.”

Harsh cries now blared all about them and in a matter of moments the passage would be swamped by hundreds of Hobbers.

“This vile rogue will die before they arrive!” the mole roared.

But Ysabelle pleaded with him and Giraldus threw the high priest to the ground in disgust.

“Quickly,” she told Vesper, “help me remove the goulish vestments from him.”

“To what purpose?” he cried.

“Just do it! There is but one meagre chance!”

Hastily, they tore at the bloody-bones, dragging the crimson sinews from the stoat’s body. Then, without hesitation, Ysabelle pulled the grisly raiment over her head and snatched up the Hobb lantern.

“What are you doing?” objected Vesper. “You cannot wear that, it is a symbol of horror and evil!”

“We have no choice!” she snapped. “Listen—they are almost here!”

The terrible clamour of the pursuing Hobbers raged furiously, and pulling the hideous mask down over her face, Ysabelle hurried towards the approaching enemy.

At the leper’s feet, Wendel stirred. In a temporary daze, he remained motionless, until the situation became clear to him and he realised what the squirrel was about to do. Grinding his teeth he sprang after her, but Giraldus was ready and grabbed the stoat by the ears, clapping his paws roughly over the villain’s mouth.

“Please,” he whispered, “please do make a sound and try to warn those pagan scum, for then I shall gladly snap thy scrawny neck.”

Wendel’s eyes roved wildly up at the mole and knew that he spoke truly.

Down the passageway the surging mob came. Huge brown rats led them and all carried Hobb lanterns in their claws. With bloodlust consuming each heart they charged, eagerly following the scent that their high priest had put down for them. Then, in a tumbling mass of arms and blaspheming oaths, those at the front came to an abrupt halt.

Standing before them, with its claw raised, was the bloody-bones.

The rats slavered and sniffed. What was the high priest doing?

“Stop!” the macabre figure commanded as the foremost rat took a step closer.

The Hobber obeyed, but his eyes swivelled suspiciously and a long pointed tongue slid from his jaws to lick his snout. “What are thy orders?” it asked with a wheedle. “Why didst thou lead us down here—are there more dainties for our bellies?”

Behind him another ugly rat brandished a sword and demanded the same. “We don’t want to have missed all the fighting above fer nothing!” he snarled. “Show us fresh meat, let us rend out gizzards and gut our foes till their livers squeak!”

The other Hobbers cheered their appreciation of that and gazed curiously at the silent bloody-bones.

Under the mask, beads of perspiration trickled down Ysabelle’s brow as she sought for something to say to these nightmares. Staring out through the narrow slits of that vile mask was a horrendous experience and all her instincts screamed at her to tear the infernal disguise off. Yet if she had done that then the Hobbers would have slaughtered her immediately.

“Go back!” she eventually cried, in as deep a voice as she could manage. “Return to the upper levels!”

The rats stared at her dubiously. “Why did ye lay the trail if’n yer didn’t want us?” one of them squawked.

“Dare you question the servant of the Lord Hobb?” Ysabelle declared. “Only to me are his dark designs revealed.”

That cowed them and the rats fell back, muttering to each other.

“Begone!” she said. “Go I say!”

Grudgingly, the Hobbers turned and began to traipse up the tunnel, yet Ysabelle was not certain she had convinced them.

Taking a cautious step backwards, she waited until the rats were out of sight, then spun round and fled.

“Hurry!” she told Vesper and Giraldus. “I feel sure they will return.”

“What of this?” the mole asked, shaking the stoat in his paws as if he were a doll made of rags.

“He must accompany us,” Vesper said, “we cannot leave him here—he would only run after his followers and bring them back again.”

“He would find that an impossible task if he were dead,” muttered Giraldus.

“Come,” said Ysabelle, “let us be gone.”

So, they set off down the passage, and as she ran, Ysabelle gladly tore the cadaverous disguise from her body. Giraldus bounded blindly along, dragging the high priest with him and it did much to lighten the mole’s spirits to know that the evil creature was in extreme discomfort.

“Quickly,” Vesper urged, hopping around a sharp bend, “it cannot be far now.”

They ran as fast as they could for some minutes, then the tunnel curved again, but when they turned the corner Vesper cried out in dismay.

“It’s blocked!” he howled. “The way is sealed—the roof has caved in here also.”

Sure enough, directly in front of them, one of the tunnel’s wooden support beams had splintered and now lay buried beneath a wall of soil. The rubble completely covered the path and their escape was cut off.

“We are trapped!” uttered Ysabelle.

Wendel laughed at them. “Idiots!” he said with scorn, “your paltry efforts have come to naught, and now mine followers shall hunt you down.”

Giraldus gave the stoat a resounding slap and one of Wendel’s sharp teeth flew from his mouth. “Be silent,” the mole told him, “I need to think and collect my bearings.” Taking up the shreds of Tysle’s lead string, he bound the high priest, and thrust him roughly against the wall.

Behind them, another wooden beam gave an ominous creak and loose soil trickled down from the sagging ceiling.

“Listen,” breathed Vesper, “the entire tunnel is on the verge of collapse.”

“What can we do?” asked Ysabelle fretfully.

Giraldus closed his eyes and stepped up to the wall of earth which barred their way.

“Hmmm,” the leper murmured, his bandaged fingers playing over the immovable surface, “if mine wits are not addled, I would say that this barrier is only one spring-wormer in depth, and beyond it lies the outside world.”

“Are you certain?” asked Vesper.

“Never doubt a mole beneath the ground, young batling!” he advised with a rumble. “Now, I think the time has at last arrived for one final excavation—stand back!”

“What of the roof?” Vesper persisted. “Will it hold, do you think?”

Giraldus ran his paws over the bulging ceiling of earth and tutted. “Not long do we have—the delicate balance of the warrens has been destroyed—I must work swiftly.”

Using his considerable strength, the mole heaved on the buried beam and dragged it from the rubble. Then he wedged it beneath the remaining support and hoped the makeshift pillar would suffice until they were clear.

“Now,” he said, “stand aside.”

Blowing upon his leprous palms, the mole then spread his arms wide. “Forgive this thy servant,” he muttered under his breath, “for he is a rash, loose-tongued old sinner. Yet give unto him one final ounce of strength that he may be the saving of his friends and fellow travellers.”

Gritting his teeth, he dived at the soil.

Breathlessly, Ysabelle and Vesper watched as the mole shovelled heap after heap of earth from the path. For Giraldus it was an agonizing time—as he delved and tore, tremendous pains rifled up his arms and he was compelled to keep his jaws clenched to prevent himself crying out.

Swiftly the tunnel began to clear, and while they watched, no one paid any attention to the trussed and tied Wendel.

With his eyes fixed upon the labouring back of his immense guard, the stoat wriggled in his bonds and feverishly gnawed them with his teeth.

“Uuuurrggghh!” Giraldus cried as one of his fingers was torn from his paw. “A plague on this illness!”

Yet it did not stop him toiling and suddenly a draught of cool night air blew into the passageway as he finally broke through.

But Wendel had also been successful. As soon as the last loop of the string broke in his jaws, he leapt away—yelling at the top of his voice.

“Children of the Raith Sidhe! ’Tis I your high priest! Come—there are enemies here! I need your aid!”

Vesper pelted after the escaping stoat and flung himself upon Wendel’s back. The two went tumbling down the tunnel, punching and kicking wildly—each desperate to restrain the other. The young bat fought as best he could, but he was no match for the high priest. His claws were vicious and sharp and his limbs lithe as any eel.

Pinning the Moonrider to the floor, Wendel reared his head and opened his savage maw to bite out his opponent’s throat. But, just as the high priest came snapping for the exposed flesh, Giraldus lumbered up to them and yanked the stoat backwards—leaving his teeth to clamp shut on empty air.

Vesper coughed and Ysabelle helped him to his feet as deadly, answering shouts came echoing towards them. The Hobbers were already returning.

“Worms!” cackled the stoat. “You shall not leave this place alive!”

Giraldus slammed him against the wall and as the tunnel juddered threateningly, he turned to Ysabelle. “Take the batling and go!” he thundered. “The way is clear now! I shall not be detained long with this vermin.”

The squirrel maiden dragged Vesper to the freshly dug exit and, with a worried glance back at the leper, they quickly crawled through it.

Outside, the night was chill and the frosty stars blazed white and cold overhead.

The clamour of the continuing battle drifted over the broken hill and Ysabelle wondered how Fenny and the other woodlanders were faring. Surely against the evil forces of the Hobb cult they could not hope to succeed.

Quickly, she stared back into the tunnel—what was keeping Giraldus?

“Hurry!” she hissed.

But within the gloom of the passageway, with his arms tight about Wendel’s struggling form, the mole merely bowed. “I shall not follow!” he said. “Not this time—Giraldus the pilgrim has a score to settle.”

“Forget the high priest!” Vesper told him. “You belong with us!”

“Nay!” the mole protested. “I belonged with Tysle and he is no more. Yet who knows? Where the shrew led me I have always followed, perhaps my faithful guide shall direct me one last time.”

As Ysabelle and Vesper stared, he lifted the stoat into the air and cracked his head upon the earthen ceiling. Great fissures split the curving walls and Wendel screamed—his claws raking the leper’s face. But Giraldus felt nothing.

The high priest was flung to the ground and, with a bellow of rage, the mole leaped on top of him, striking the evil creature with his massive fists.

This time it was Wendel who was outmatched for Giraldus was bulky and his muscles were powerful.

Beneath the leper’s leaden weight, the high priest could do nothing and blow after blow rained down upon his bruised and battered face.

Yet the stoat was sly and countered his assailant’s strength with low cunning and agility. With the speed of a venomous serpent, Wendel’s head twisted and turned, dodging most of the punches, then he snapped and bit hard on the leper’s paw until blood flowed and a thumb was wrenched free.

Giraldus roared in agony and the high priest wriggled beneath him, slithering to free himself.

Suddenly he was on his feet again and as the mole searched blindly for him, Wendel lashed out. A brutal kick fell in the mole’s stomach, then another struck him on the side of the head.

Giraldus slumped against the wall and Wendel gave a hideous, shrieking laugh, throwing dirt into his victim’s face. As the leper spluttered, the stoat snatched up a splintered shard of wood and rammed it deep into his shoulder.

“Aaaarrrgghh!” Giraldus wailed, clutching the gushing wound.

Wendel nipped around him, flinging stones at his enemy. Then he caught hold of a length of Tysle’s string and wrapped it swiftly about the floundering pilgrim’s throat.

“Now blueskin!” he hissed malignantly. “Feel thine own breath throttled from thy body.” With a savage grunt, he heaved and twisted on the noose. Gasping, Giraldus tore at his neck where the cord bit deep into his skin.

Outside, Vesper and Ysabelle stared helplessly at the bitter duel.

“I’m going back in there!” the bat cried. “He needs help!”

“It’s too late!” the squirrel wept. “Look!”

In the tunnel, Wendel crowed in triumph as the strangled mole fell limply to the floor.

“Giraldus!” Ysabelle sobbed.

“So does the Lord Hobb punish those who stand in his unholy way!” the high priest chuckled. He stared at the body of the mole for a moment, spat, then raised his face—his eyes glinting at Vesper and Ysabelle.

“My dearest friends,” he sniggered, “where do you think you are going? You shall never escape me!”

And then the tunnel was filled with the uproar of his followers as they came pouring in—knives and spears flashing, all ready for murder.

Casually, Wendel lifted his claw and pointed through the opening. “Get you out there and kill them,” he said softly.

With a terrible scream, the rats dashed forward. Yet even as the stoat flung his head back to laugh, the eyes of Giraldus flickered open.

Feebly, the mole pulled the string from his crushed and bleeding throat and wound it secretly about the makeshift pillar which he had wedged beneath the remaining support beam. With a final look in Ysabelle’s direction, his once resonant voice now croaked for the last time.

“Green be with you!” he called, and summoning all his dwindling strength, he gave a tremendous heave.

Wendel’s joyous laughter died on his lips as the pillar fell and his followers shrieked as they scrabbled for the exit. With a thunderous explosion of earth and stone, the wooden beam gave way and the tunnel roof collapsed on top of them all.

Soil and dirt blasted outwards, drowning the startled screams of the Hobbers and knocking Vesper and Ysabelle off their feet.

When they raised their heads, the side of the mound was a sagging heap of rubble and not a trace of the mole’s entrance could be found.

“Giraldus,” Ysabelle murmured. “Oh Vespertilio, they’re all crushed under there—buried alive.”

Vesper looked about them. “Come on,” he said, “Giraldus did it so we could escape. Already the curious are coming to investigate what has happened.”

The night was filled with angry voices as patrolling Hobbers came scampering from the surrounding trees—their swords shining in the darkness. Ysabelle and Vesper bounded over the grass but there was nowhere to run to.

“It no use!” she cried looking behind them to where fierce rats slid down the ruined mound. “They have us trapped.”

Vesper knew she was right and the enemy closed gleefully round them. “Quick,” he cried, “hold onto me.”

With a beat of his wings, the bat rose into the air and before Ysabelle could gasp her surprise, she had wrapped her arms about him and was lifted from the ground.

Up they flew, leaving the astonished rats to shout oaths and brandish their Hobb lanterns. Some tried to hurl their knives after them but they all fell wide of the mark and the children of the Raith Sidhe tore at their ears and screeched in impotent fury.

Ysabelle and Vesper gave grateful sighs of relief as the bat veered over the forest, leaving the devastation of the mound far beneath them. Out under the glimmering heavens they flew, out to where the land of Greenreach rose steeply in the dim distance.

But the danger was not over, for as they soared above the treetops, Ysabelle could see a dark mass gathering behind them and the night was filled with many desperate cawing calls.

“No,” she breathed. “Vesper, you must hurry.”

“What is it?” he cried, unable to turn around.

“The carrion birds,” she answered.

Above the glare of the Hobb lanterns, hundreds of gore crows, ravens, jackdaws and magpies were circling and shrieking. It was apparent that the rats were telling them what had happened and, with a thrash of their ebony wings, the hellish birds tore through the night sky in wrathful pursuit.

13 - At the King of Trees

Over the starlit forest Vesper and Ysabelle flew. The bat furiously beat his wings but his exertions were almost too much to bear.

“I cannot continue for much longer!” he cried. “My shoulder aches already!”

“You must!” the squirrel told him. “The crows are not far behind—they will tear us to pieces.”

Vesper gazed at the dark shape of Greenreach ahead and knew that he could never reach it.

With her arms about his neck, Ysabelle saw the black clouds of carrion birds chasing them, but with every sweep of his wings she could sense how tired Vesper was becoming.

Gradually, the evil birds were gaining, advancing with every passing second and their blood-curdling cries trumpeted across the starry heavens.

“Strike them down!” they shrieked. “Tear and rend with claw and beak.”

Despite his fear, Vesper’s wings began to beat more slowly.

“Oh, please,” Ysabelle cried, “just a little way more! If we could only reach the holy land!”

“I cannot!” he wailed. “The strain is too great. Forgive me, my princess, forgive me!”

With a sickening lurch, they toppled from the sky and spiralled downwards. Swiftly the forest rushed up to impale them upon bitter twigs and dash their bodies against its mighty boughs. But even as the new leaves brushed against the squirrel’s tail, with a shout, Vesper caught a breeze in his leathery wings and skimmed shakily over the treetops before swooping down between the branches.

Through the shadow-filled woods they unsteadily flitted, until it seemed that the pursuing carrion birds had lost track of them beneath the screening trees.

No harsh, cawing voices could they hear and though they were both relieved, Vesper was exhausted.

“We must alight,” he panted, “I fear my damaged wing was not healed as much as I did think.”

“But we are so near,” Ysabelle urged, “only a few leagues more and we shall be there!”

The bat shook his head. “I wish I could,” he lamented, “but I am no mighty Knight of the Moon, only a weaning. Oh, Ysabelle, to have failed here at the end—I am sorry.”

She hugged him tightly. “Do not despair,” she said, “we can complete the remainder on foot.”

He managed a rueful grin, then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a black shape dived through the leaves of a sycamore and raced straight for them. Before Vesper had a chance to act, the creature bore down on him, a gnarled talon flashed out and struck the bat across the face.

Emitting a frightened yell, Vesper plummeted down—spinning and tumbling out of control.

Ysabelle held on grimly and though he tried to regain his balance and mastery, there was nothing the bat could do.

The ground raced up to them and they crashed with a sickening thud.

Ysabelle rolled helplessly down the sloping lawns but Vesper crumpled into a fearful heap of wing and fur, and lay still as death.

The cold, cackling voice of the crow rang overhead as it fluttered in a wide circle, delighted at the violence it had wrought. Then, with one red-rimmed eye trained upon the corpse-like figure of the bat, it spread its feathers and descended.

“Victuals,” it cawed, “sticky treats for me, the others won’t get none, they didn’t spy the beasts below the trees—only I did that and I shan’t open my beak to tell them, oh no.”

Hovering above Vesper, it reached out with a scaly claw and tentatively turned him over. The bat made no resistance and lolled limply to one side.

“Hoo hoo,” squawked the fiendish bird, “the nasty dizzard is dead. Ooh, delicious corpse flesh! Shall I peck out the eyes first or guzzle the entrails?”

It landed on top of Vesper and its midnight feathers smothered his face. With its cruel talons stretched wide, the crow pinned the motionless form to the ground and stared covetously at its catch, musing on where to begin.

“Entrails,” it decided greedily. “No, no, too hasty, too hasty! Sup first on the heart’s blood—that rich heady mead and carouse awhile in the sweet darkness.”

Plunging its head down, the bird shoved its sharpened beak onto Vesper’s chest and tore out a mouthful of fur which it spat distastefully upon the ground. Then it lunged forward a second time, only now to pierce the plucked skin and suck up the young bat’s blood.

Without warning, a wild creature darted from the shadows and fierce paws gripped the crow’s tail feathers, tearing the quills out by the roots.

“Get away from him—you foul Hobber!” came a fearless voice.

The bird screeched in pain as it whirled round to face its attacker but a fallen branch came swinging towards it and struck the crow across the back.

Flapping its wings in terror, it twisted and swivelled its sleek head, yet the insane nightmare was too quick. Again the brandished branch was singing through the darkness—this time hitting the bird’s beak which gave a horrible crack and broke as easily as an egg shell.

“Aaaaaiiyyeee,” it screamed, feathers flying all around.“Aaaaaiiyyeee!”

Reeling backwards, it staggered from Vesper’s body and, with blood pouring from its wounded face, took to the air in blind fear.

Ysabelle did not wait to watch it soar from sight. Throwing down the branch, she raced to Vesper’s side and cradled his head in her paws.

“Vespertilio,” she called, “Vespertilio.”

The young bat made no answer and with trembling fingers she touched the bald patch upon his chest. “Green be praised,” she whispered, for there she had felt a faint heartbeat.

Tenderly, she brushed the fringe from his brow and examined the bloody rents that the crow’s claws had ripped into his face.

A terrible feeling of despair overwhelmed her. Was this the end? Had they come all this way and through so many dangers for it to finish so bleakly?

For some time Ysabelle knelt at Vesper’s side, holding his head and repeating his name, but only the sounds of the still night filled her ears and an unhappy tear rolled down her cheek.

Now was the time for grief; all the sorrow she had kept hidden flowed from the maiden unchecked. Never had she thought that such a ravening emotion could so utterly consume her. Unrelenting and unquenchable sobs seized her absolutely and they pulsed through the forest, beating out a mournful lament on the night air.

For many days now she had tried to be strong. Since the acorn had come to her, Ysabelle had striven to do her duty with honour and in a manner befitting one of royal blood. At that moment, however, she felt woefully small and unsuited to the vast and mighty office which the amulet had bestowed on her. There, in the dark woods, she was simply a girl and the awful majesty of the life she had accepted seemed a whole world away.

Beneath the unlit and shadow-enshrouded trees, something heard her plaintive weeping. It was cloaked all in black and seemed to be a part of the darkness itself, a part that had been given tangible form and substance and which now moved stealthily towards the unsuspecting squirrel maiden and her unconscious beloved.

A deep hood covered the face of the stranger but within its void two eyes regarded the forlorn Ysabelle as she continued to pour out her grief. Countless tears fell on the ground, glimmering briefly in the cold light of the stars above.

Closer to her, the tall figure was drawn—making no noise as it drifted through the grass. Ripples of darkness curled about the folds of its cloak as it moved and waves of shadow spread in every direction.

Not until the cloaked stranger was dangerously near did Ysabelle notice it. With a start, she looked up to find the mysterious newcomer standing almost by her side. Fearfully, she searched for the fallen branch but the weapon was out of reach.

Wild thoughts crowded into her mind—the figure was like the fanciful descriptions of Death and she clung to Vesper more desperately than ever.

The hooded form made no further move, content for the moment merely to watch the maiden a little longer. Yet the still silence made it seem all the more sinister and Ysabelle felt as though she had at last encountered a foe from whom there was no escaping.

“Have you not gathered enough this night?” she cried. “First Tysle, then Giraldus! How many more of the righteous must you collect? What of the enemy—why do you not harvest from their number?”

The stranger took a step closer and at last it spoke. “A strange spectacle is this,” came a sharp and bitter voice, “what sign or wonder have I discovered in the haunted realm of night?”

Ysabelle held Vesper tightly as the cloaked form glided towards them with one paw outstretched.

“Keep thy distance,” she warned.

Gentle laughter issued from the depths of the all-concealing hood. “I mean you no harm,” said the voice, “I was simply trying to ascertain whether you were real or no. Unearthly visions have mocked me before now. Are you two phantoms sent to cheat my senses?”

The squirrel drew away from the reaching fingers as they tried to touch her.

“I am no spirit!” she insisted—then remembered when she had said that before and to whom. “Who... who are you?” she stammered. “It cannot be! Wendel—is it you come back from the grave?”

The figure lowered its arm and drew itself up. “Neither of us is certain,” it said, “what tricks the misery of life can play—I see that you have much sorrow behind you.”

“In front of me also,” Ysabelle replied.

The cloaked stranger regarded her for a moment then stooped over Vesper.

“Thy companion is injured,” it said, “he must receive help if he is to live.”

Ysabelle stared aghast at the bat and turned pleadingly to the newcomer. “Oh please,” she cried, “whatever you are, whether a shade of the unhappy dead or no, will you not aid me?”

“You beg me to help you?” the voice echoed. “Then I would also be assisting a Knight of the Moon.”

Ysabelle frowned and, as she watched, the stranger slowly drew the hood from its head.

“You... you are a squirrel!” she spluttered—overjoyed beyond belief.

“Thus do you see my dilemma,” returned the other, “are not the Moonriders our despised enemies? So, when I came across thee, I did greatly wonder. A maiden of my own race, nursing one of those accursed rats with wings!”

“You do not understand!” Ysabelle told her. “You cannot know what has passed between us and what we have learned. Please, is there anything you can do for him?”

The cloaked squirrel glanced up the sloping lawns and the white starlight shone over her gaunt face, glinting in the silver circlet she wore on her brow. “It is dangerous to remain here,” she said in a hushed whisper, “if we are caught they will punish us. You crave the bat to be attended to, then we must go now.”

“Wait,” Ysabelle called, “I do not understand. Where are we? What help is there—who are you afraid of? Is it the Hobbers?”

“So many questions,” said the other, peering nervously into the dim shadows around them, “did you not know that you lie at the foot of the slopes of Greenreach?”

“The holy land!” Ysabelle marvelled. “But that is excellent tidings!”

She caught her breath as the enormity of what lay ahead dawned. It was almost over, all the suffering and terror was nearly at an end. The maiden could hardly believe it, this was the time she had anticipated and blindly looked forward to since the fall of the Hazel Realm, yet now she had arrived, many unexpected fears reared to trouble her.

The time had finally come when she would have to accept the full power of the Starwife. No longer could she be just Ysabelle. Now she had a land to govern and all the daunting responsibilities that that entailed. The liberty she had experienced since the night she had escaped from the Ring of Banbha seemed to vanish. She was left stripped of her freedom and only long years of a lonely reign stretched out before her.

Lowering her head, she gazed sadly at the bat and slowly stroked his hair. “Oh, Vespertilio,” she called to him, “most courageous of Moonriders, you did make it to the holy land after all. We did cheat the Hobbers.”

“I know not why you speak of childhood ogres,” the standing figure announced, “only one enemy do we have. The forces of Hrethel have conquered this place and encamp about its borders keeping a close watch on all who come and go. They are as yet ignorant of the secret ways which are known to only me and I have roamed quite freely these past days in the hope of finding help. Yet all my hopes have proven vain, no aid is there and Hrethel will remain victorious.”

As Ysabelle listened she felt her terrible destiny bind her tightly. The time had come; she must disclose her identity to this squirrel—it was her solemn duty to complete the mission her mother had entrusted to her.

Resting Vesper’s head upon the grass she rose from her knees. “Do not despair,” she said grimly, “help has indeed come at last, for I bear with me that which has imbued the Handmaidens of Orion with majesty and might from the dawn of days.” Gingerly, she lifted the silver acorn and immediately the stranger gasped.

“The amulet of the Starwives!” she breathed in reverence. “Hope beyond all reason and daring has come to us! We did think the device lost—what chance brought it into thy keeping?”

“The acorn came to me by the strangest means,” the maiden told her, “a falcon had possession of it, bearing it no doubt from the wreck of this land. Yet the legions of Hrethel did kill the messenger in the sky and so the silver fell into my own paws.”

The other squirrel curtsied humbly. “Then truly art thou the chosen one,” she declared, “the successor has been decided by greater councils than ours. You are now my sovereign and I rejoice to be the first to bow to thee—My Lady.” She stared excitedly, then seemed to be in perplexed embarrassment. “But forgive me,” she ventured, “may I know the name of my new mistress?”

“I am Ysabelle, daughter of Ninnia and last of that royal house.”

“You must take the amulet to the Starglass at once!” the cloaked figure said. “Only then can you rid the land of the Moonriders.”

“What about Vespertilio?” Ysabelle asked. “I cannot leave him here!”

“Does the Hazel Realm love the company of bats so much that it would see the downfall of us all?”

Ysabelle knelt beside him once again. “I shall not leave him,” she said flatly.

“This is madness! Neither you nor I can carry your companion so far up the hillside—here he must remain! At least for a little while. As soon as we reach the Hallowed Oak I shall despatch a sentry to fetch him.”

“The oak still stands?” asked Ysabelle. “I did think the forces of Hrethel would have reckoned its destruction uppermost in their designs.”

“Stand it does,” returned the other, “and there are still a few like myself whom the bats did not slaughter. Do you not see how urgent is the need for you to come with me? Please, My Lady! Too long has this realm been without a Starwife. Think of thy subjects and the holy destiny which awaits thee—if you are in truth the daughter of Ninnia the Wise, you must see where your duty lies.”

Ysabelle was confused. Her heart demanded that she remain but her reason reproached her for abandoning her mission. She did not know what to do—surely it was best to watch over Vesper?

“Yet that time could be better spent taking the amulet to the Starglass,” she told herself. “What comfort can you give him if the world is plunged into the despair the Ancient predicted?”

“My Lady?” implored the squirrel beside her.

Ysabelle nodded. “You are right,” she said, “fates other than his and mine are depending on me. I will go to the Starglass.” But before she set off, the squirrel maiden kissed Vesper’s forehead then hid him beneath a covering of leaves. “It will not be long,” she vowed, “I will return for thee.”

“Hurry!” insisted the stranger. “Let us ascend the hill as fast we may.” She swirled the cloak about her and began walking briskly back into the shadows.

With a last, lingering look at Vesper’s concealed form, Ysabelle caught up with her. “Good friend,” she said, “may I presume upon thee to learn how thou art named?”

The other pulled the hood over her face once more. “Call me Morwenna,” came the short reply.

And so Ysabelle was parted from Vesper and she melted into the darkness on the slopes of Greenreach.

For some distance the ground rose in a gentle incline, but beyond the crowding trees, Ysabelle could sense some vast brooding shape looming before her. Then the land lifted sharply and the shoulders of the blessed hill climbed steeply beneath her feet.

It was not long before she became aware of the devastation the Moonriders had brought about. At first Ysabelle’s nostrils tingled with the acrid reek of burned timber and she could taste a bitter tang on the cold air. As she followed the cloaked and silent figure before her, she noticed the grass she walked on was withered and brittle as though scorched by fierce heats. Presently the undergrowth disappeared completely and bare soil took its place.

Morwenna seemed to disregard all need for secrecy and marched up the hillside quite openly. Ysabelle found this alarming; surely they ought to be seeking cover? Upon that naked hillside she felt increasingly aware that anything could see them and she craned her neck to stare at the open sky above. The fear that either a gore crow or a Knight of the Moon would come swooping down was constantly with her and she found her new companion’s brazenness impossible to understand.

The trees which now reared on either side of her were blackened and dead. Charred spectres of once glorious birches and hornbeams raked the sky with ugly stumps and the only foliage that bloomed upon their ghastly branches were ragged leaves of ash.

Ysabelle was shocked at the extent of the destruction. Surely no mortal creature could have so afflicted nature’s work. It was as if the sun itself had visited the hill with a tremendous fireball, for nothing living remained. No blade of grass, no green shoot and no spring bud had survived; all was lifeless and the earth had crackled into soot and cinders.

It was the most desolate landscape imaginable—a glimpse of Hades and the mournful ravages of the Pit.

“It is a nightmare we walk into,” she said to Morwenna, “how dismal and grim a place this is.”

The hood turned to her. “Yes,” she replied, “the fire-eggs were most efficient. Their targets blazed for two whole days and the pall of black smoke could be seen for many leagues. All of the sacred groves were utterly consumed and are now tangles of charcoal which crumble before the slightest breeze.”

She paused and pointed to a dark mass of withered boughs. “Once that coppice was the fairest place in all Greenreach,” she lamented. “There the virtuous blossom lingered on the bough throughout the seasons and the enchanted fragrance was stronger than wine to the senses.

“Now the land is a grievous desolation,” she said, drawing the cloak about her and resuming the climb. “An abode only of ghosts and memories too painful to rake from the ashes.”

Ysabelle clasped the silver acorn in her paw. “Can even this possess the strength to heal it?” she asked.

“It must,” Morwenna told her, “the amulet is more powerful than perhaps you realise.”

Ysabelle thought she detected a curious edge in the cloaked squirrel’s voice but could not understand what lay behind it and they trudged on in silence.

The barren, blasted hill continued to tower into the heavens and Ysabelle grew more uneasy the further she ascended. That familiar feeling of being watched, prickled the nape of her neck and she stared into the shadows around her. But the darkness pressed too heavily upon the holy land and her eyes could see nothing.

Morwenna observed her disquiet. “Is aught amiss, My Lady?” she murmured.

“I do not know,” said Ysabelle, “yet I feel as though we are under the scrutiny of many eyes.”

“Perhaps it is the ghosts I spoke of,” came the reply, “Green alone knows how many perished in the flames.”

The cindered soil under their feet was warm and smouldering now. From gaping cracks in the ground, trails of smoke curled slowly into the night. Absently, Ysabelle followed the winding course of one smoky thread and a cry of horror issued from her lips.

“In the trees!” she gasped. “Look!”

Silhouetted against the stars, the spindly frames of the blasted trees could be clearly discerned. Yet amongst the clumps of ash which draped across the blackened boughs like tattered war banners, small figures crouched and glared down.

“Bats!” Ysabelle breathed. “There are hundreds, no thousands of bats, all around us!”

Morwenna pulled her close. “Be silent, My Lady!” she hissed in her ear. “The forces of Hrethel might not harm us. Come quickly.”

She compelled Ysabelle to hurry, yet the squirrel maiden could not take her eyes off the countless Moonriders who returned her gaze without stirring from their perches.

“I do not understand!” she muttered. “Why are they letting us continue? Why have they not attacked?”

“It is better not to question such good fortune,” came the fretful reply, “let us pray we reach the Hallowed Oak in safety.”

Ysabelle wished she had obeyed the instincts of her heart and stayed behind with Vesper. This was complete and utter madness; they were marching deeper into the enemy’s territory—but why?

“I beseech you to trust me,” Morwenna muttered, “this is the only route—I swear.”

Through a pool of cold, feathery ash she led the maiden and the summit of the hill drew near. Breathlessly, Ysabelle longed to turn and flee, but she knew that was impossible now—it was too late to go back. Although the bats had allowed them to come this far, she knew that as soon as she tried to retrace her steps, they would rise from the trees and attack.

“My Lady,” Morwenna’s voice interrupted her chaotic thoughts, “behold!”

She lifted her paw and, in spite of her fears, Ysabelle stared at the wondrous spectacle which reared before her.

There, within a ring of charcoal twigs, was a magnificent and astounding spectacle. Upon the top of the blessed hill, rose a flourishing oak tree, the like of which she had never seen before. It was twice the height of the central oak in Coll Regalis and its girth was five times as wide. Amid all the scorched and cindered waste it soared into the sky, like a flame of hope besieged by fear and despair.

Ysabelle could not believe her eyes, yet the constant dread of the watchful enemy made it impossible for her to feel any relief at the sight. The hope that she could fulfil her mission flickered briefly in her breast, but one glance at the glaring Moonriders made her doubt they would ever reach that king among trees.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “yet how did it escape the flames?”

“Rohgar thought it prudent to leave well alone,” Morwenna replied in a low whisper, “even he dares not challenge the ancient powers which are twined about that holiest of oaks. It would take a force greater than his winged rabble to harm it.”

“And the Starglass is still in there?” Ysabelle asked uncertainly.

“It is, the Moonriders are fearful to even tread within the oak; they have not ventured to assail the royal chambers or take the Glass by force.”

Ysabelle peered up at the tree’s graceful and stately branches. It was like a fountain of crystal clear water that spouted magically in a parched desert.

Her excitement dwindled as she saw many Knights of the Moon on guard around the trunk of the Hallowed Oak, standing sternly about small camp fires. Screechmasks covered their heads and armoured gauntlets were upon their feet. Ysabelle feared those creatures more than she dared to admit and she found that strange, for were they not of the same race as Vesper? It was a confusing and unwelcome thought and she thrust it to the back of her mind, focusing on the present situation alone.

“Are you certain all will be well?” she asked nervously. “Will those guards not challenge us? How shall we pass through their ranks?”

“Do not concern thyself with them, My Lady,” said Morwenna, trying to conceal a tremor in her voice, “remain here—I shall speak to their general.”

“But what will you say?” Ysabelle demanded. “Why have they allowed us to come this far without attacking? It is as if they expected my arrival. There is much you have not explained: did they send you to bring me here—what dreadful hold do they have over you?”

Morwenna cast back her hood and her face seemed anxious. “Calm thyself, My Lady,” she said biting her lip, “I intend to answer all thy questions, yet this is not the time. Wait until we gain the safety of the oak—then we may talk freely. Oh, if we can but close the doors behind us!” she pressed her paw to her forehead as if she was about to faint and Ysabelle reached out to support her.

“What have they done to you?” she asked. “Is it so appalling you may not speak of it? Let me help you if I can.”

Morwenna thanked her, but added, “Only once we are inside can you know my woe.”

With that she strode over to the ferocious looking enemy, leaving Ysabelle to wait in uncomfortable silence. Standing, awkward and greatly ill at ease, she saw Morwenna greet the largest of the Moonriders, yet she could not catch what words passed between them.

The frightful and repulsive war helmet of the general turned and stared across at the maiden who at once felt the hostility and malice flow out from the narrow eye slits.

Ysabelle’s face clouded over as doubt and foreboding filled her. She grew certain that this was an elaborate trap and that the unfortunate Morwenna had been used by the bats to lure her into it. Oh, how she longed to be far from that horrible place.

In spite of herself, she gave a small laugh. “To think,” she murmured, “that the destination I had been so anxious to reach should prove to be the one place I have no desire to be.”

Her ironic musings were soon dispelled, for Morwenna was already returning.

“Most excellent news,” she said, “I have persuaded them to let you pass inside the oak.”

Ysabelle shook her head. “Would you truly lead me further into the jaws of the enemy?” she asked. “They must have threatened you most cruelly.”

Morwenna turned pale, “Please,” she sobbed, “I cannot talk of that—oh, My Lady, if you care for the lives of we who are left you will follow me.” She glanced over her shoulder and shivered. “Beware,” she whispered, “Rohgar watches us; he must not suspect you are wise to the danger.”

Ysabelle closed her eyes. “What a fool I have been,” she berated herself.

“Perhaps not,” the other said quickly, “there is still a way to outwit them. The Starglass can still be reached if we are cunning enough.”

The maiden sighed resignedly, not daring to hope any more, yet what else could she do? “Very well,” she murmured, “guide me to the oak, complete the plan of the Moonriders.”

A grateful smile flashed over Morwenna’s wedge-shaped face. “Oh thank you, My Lady,” she said, “and when we are within I shall speak to my sentries, they will seek out thy injured companion.”

“Then let us be swift—you did say that Vespertilio might not survive!”

Morwenna showed her teeth as she grinned again. “Perchance I was a little hasty in the diagnosis,” her syrupy voice admitted, “a few minutes more will do no harm to him I am sure.”

Taking the maiden by the paw, they walked quickly over the soot-covered ground to where the guards stood in rank upon rank of glittering armour.

Each screechmask turned towards Ysabelle as she approached and she was horrified to be so close to them. The bats shuffled on their gauntleted feet and cleared a path through their number—straight to the entrance of the immense tree.

Within the eyeslits of the hideous helmets, the Knights of the Moon glared at their reviled enemy. Here at last was the one they had so desperately been seeking and their gaze burned on the blood-tarnished amulet about her neck.

One of the older creatures moved without warning, shifting his weight and gouging the cinders with his steel talons as the two squirrels passed. Ysabelle winced and stared at him warily—the force of the Moonrider’s hatred blazed in his eyes and for an instant she thought he would lash out at her.

Through the remaining groups of guards they went. The crackling flames of the camp fires danced over the screechmasks and lent them a semblance of life, so that a host of gibbering demons seemed to surround the two squirrels.

By the time Ysabelle was taken to the great entrance, her nerves were overwrought—this was all wrong. She glanced upwards at the oak which now towered over her and so high did it stretch that Ysabelle felt like an ant at the feet of a giant. This mighty tree was part of her holy inheritance, yet remembering that did little to ease her fears. With her head thrown back to glimpse its topmost branches, the wild thought came to her that the oak would come toppling down and smash her into the earth. Ysabelle felt her knees buckle and her head began to swim.

“Come, My Lady,” Morwenna urged, and the harshness of her voice was like a slap to Ysabelle’s senses.

In front of them an ornately carved doorway reared: its handles were of gold, inlaid with silver, and fashioned in the shape of stars. Morwenna placed her paw upon one of them and pushed.

The door swung open and Ysabelle found herself standing in the grand hall. It was completely deserted and the sound of their footfalls echoed grimly around them. In other circumstances, the maiden would have admired the beautifully decorated chamber but her predicament allowed for only two emotions—fear and dread.

Silently, Morwenna closed the door behind them and her gaunt face was wreathed in a most unpleasant smile.

“Unbounded was the craft and skill of our folk,” she declared indicating the carved walls, “now all this is thine, My Lady.”

Ysabelle looked at her desperately. “Summon thy sentries!” she said at once. “Before I am taken and tortured by the waiting bats, send them for Vespertilio!”

“Tortured?” uttered Morwenna in surprise. “There shall be none of that, no bats will harm thee here, My Lady. Did I not say that they dare not enter the Hallowed Oak?”

“Is this not a trap of their devising?” the maiden mumbled.

“Most assuredly not. Why didst thou think I would take part in such a base deception?”

“But outside, you did lead me to believe it was so.”

“I think thy fancy hath got the better of thee,” Morwenna said, “but ought we not repair at once to the Chamber of the Starglass.”

Ysabelle looked at her curiously; if she had been wrong about the trap, and she sincerely doubted that, then her arrival here had been far too easy. “No,” she said cautiously, “call the sentries before we proceed any further, I am worried for my friend.”

“But Mistress,” the other replied, “at present they are all stationed with the Glass, and through the thickness of the chamber door, I have little chance of being heard no matter how hard I try.”

Ysabelle relented, although a dreadful suspicion began to dawn. “Very well,” she said, “take me there.”

“This way,” Morwenna replied, striding to the far left of the grand hall, “the chamber lies through here.”

Ysabelle collected her wits and resolved to discover what strange game Morwenna was playing with her.

Warily she looked through the archway that the other indicated. “It is a flight of stairs,” she said in mild surprise. “They lead downwards, yet I thought the chamber would be above the ground, not below.”

“Ah,” muttered Morwenna, “it was, but I did instruct the sentries to bear the holy Glass to the fastness of the tree’s root chambers for safety’s sake.”

She began to descend, the hem of her cloak brushing the steps behind her. Ysabelle found Morwenna’s explanation difficult to believe and her suspicions grew stronger within her.

Cautiously the maiden crept after, aware that she was walking into danger, yet how else was she to discover the truth?

“Tell me, my Lady Morwenna,” she said as they descended the winding stairway, “what happened that night when the Moonriders attacked?”

“Did I not already state that the fire-eggs were most cruelly efficient?”

“You misunderstand,” Ysabelle interrupted. “What I should like to learn is how the attack was possible? What happened to the defences woven by the last Starwife?”

“Ah,” the other sighed mildly and without a hint of remorse or regret, “my poor former mistress. She had been so very ill for such a long time. Very old and frail was she and when the Knights of the Moon invaded, it proved too much.”

“But how were they able to invade?”

They had reached the foot of the steps and, taking up a candle staff, Morwenna lit it from a lantern flame.

“Henceforth we must descend into the grottoes beneath the oak,” she told Ysabelle, “that is where I did think the Starglass would be most secure.”

Unlocking a small door, she passed inside a dry, earthen tunnel, and with a last, nervous look around her, Ysabelle went in after.

The guttering candlelight sent their shadows dancing around the narrow way and Ysabelle’s unease mounted. From the legends she had heard about the Starglass it was too large to have been carried down here. Morwenna was leading her to some unknown destination for reasons and motives all her own. Ysabelle tried to calm her fraught nerves, that dissembling squirrel possessed the answers to all that had happened and she determined to discover what she could.

“You did not answer my question,” she said.

The Lady Morwenna turned her most servile and fawning face upon her. “How can I know such things,” she declared, “when even my mistress was at a loss to explain it? The mystery still remains, perhaps the power of the Starglass was waning as the old Starwife died? Who can truly say?”

“My mother thought it was traitor’s work,” Ysabelle pressed daringly, “would you know aught of that?”

The implied accusation seemed to wash over Morwenna completely. “No doubt your mother was wise in many ways,” she replied blithely, “yet I fear her much vaunted and doubtless exaggerated wisdom was at fault touching this.”

“I think not; never have I known my mother to be wrong.”

“Have a care!” Morwenna said abruptly.

Ysabelle caught her breath, had she gone too far? Was the other squirrel threatening her?

Yet when Morwenna turned, that ingratiating smile was still fixed to her face. “You must tread with caution,” she explained, “the passage here becomes dank and mud covers the pathway.”

From then on, Ysabelle was forced to keep a close eye on the ground. It was not easy, for Morwenna’s candle failed to illuminate the squelching road, yet the other squirrel hardly seemed to need its light. Hurrying swiftly ahead of the maiden, she ducked beneath curtains of fibrous roots before they were even caught by the feeble flame.

Ysabelle knew that she had made a grave mistake coming down here, but she could not turn back now, for the blackness behind was absolute and when she glanced over her shoulder it was like looking down the throat of some immense fiend of darkness that was ever trying to swallow her.

“My Lady Morwenna,” she called to the receding figure, “was it really wise to bring the Starglass down this far?”

A mocking chuckle came back to her and Ysabelle wished she still possessed the knife of the high priest.

“Not far now,” Morwenna’s voice assured, “the chamber is very close.”

Ysabelle drew a paw over her forehead. What had she done? She had been fool enough to follow this deceitful creature and had become utterly ensnared by her lies—abandoning Vesper to the perils of the wild night. The maiden was furious with herself; here at the very end of her journey she had been tricked.

“Here our descent finishes,” said Morwenna, coming to an abrupt standstill and flourishing the candle before a low doorway. From a belt around her waist, she took a ring of keys and fitted one inside the lock. The mouldering door creaked open and she stepped inside.

“Enter, oh Starwife,” she hissed.

Ysabelle’s scalp crawled. The chamber beyond was pitch dark, yet a damp, stale smell flowed from it and for a moment she was beside the haunted mere once more.

“I cannot go in there,” she said.

“But you must,” Morwenna insisted, beckoning with a finger that ended in a long curved claw.

Ysabelle took a step backwards, “No sign of the Starglass can I see,” she muttered, “nor thy sentries. Where are they?”

“Oh they are here,” the other said with a faint snarl purring in the back of her throat, “come and see. Tell them of thy stricken friend.”

“Where have you brought me?” the maiden asked, staring fearfully into Morwenna’s heavily-lidded eyes.

“To a most lovely corner of the realm,” came the chilling response, “this is where the survivors of the Moonriders’ assault were brought and where you can at last greet thy new subjects.”

Ysabelle was breathing hard now. She knew it would be madness to step over the threshold of that vile chamber. There was something unclean and terrifying about the impenetrable blackness which seemed to seethe and swirl beyond the candle flame.

“Do not keep me waiting,” came Morwenna’s cruel voice, “do you not wish for the Starwife to accede to the throne?”

The way she said it left Ysabelle in no doubt exactly who she meant.

“You betrayed them didn’t you?” she said. “You were the one!”

Morwenna stepped back through the doorway and Ysabelle pulled away from her. “Oh the poor little maiden is affrighted!” she declared with feigned concern. “Come, take my paw, let me guide you inside.”

“How did you break the defences?” Ysabelle cried. “What evil arts caused the Starglass to fail?”

A light, careless laugh broke from Morwenna’s thin mouth. “Such fancies,” she sighed. “Here am I doing my utmost to help you and all you can do in return is lay such callous treacheries upon me.”

She took a step nearer and Ysabelle stumbled out of reach. “What did Hrethel promise you?” she asked. “What possible rewards could justify such abominable treason?”

“Hrethel?” echoed Morwenna innocently. “You think I laboured all those detestable and loathsome years simply for the benefit of that wizened bat?” Her voice rose until it became a shriek and she pounded the candle staff on the ground in anger, finally casting aside the last vestiges of pretence.

“He and his wretched forces were simply my instruments!” she snorted. “And how well I used them, how easily were they deceived by my great art and their own lusts. Didst thou really think I brought about the ruin of Greenreach merely for them? Soon they shall be swept aside and perish in the eternal fires!”

Ysabelle shuddered at the sound of that voice. It was totally consumed by evil and she continued to retrace her steps backwards. “Then why did you do this?” she cried.

Morwenna’s eyes threw back the light of the candle and came stabbing through the darkness at her. “I did it for my Lord!” she proclaimed. “I did it for He who was unjustly banished from this world by those who usurped Him. Now that mighty majesty shall come forth and govern a new darkness, every creature will worship Him, and despair reign over all.”

“Hobb!” Ysabelle murmured. “You are a worshipper of Hobb!”

Morwenna faltered and a curious expression crossed her face. In one quick movement, she removed the circlet of silver from her brow and held the candle near so that the maiden could see. There, upon her forehead was a tattooed image of a staring eye.

“I am the priestess of Mabb!” she spat. “When my Lord emerges from the imperishable darkness He shall release my true mistress from her long imprisonment and I shall serve them both!”

“You are insane!” Ysabelle yelled.

“Oh no,” the other replied softly, “my mind is clear—I know precisely what I am doing.” She stepped closer and her paw stretched out. “Such a pity about the high priest,” she muttered, “yet Wendel was always rash. He will not be missed—another will rise to take his place. I congratulate you on the good fortune which has followed you from your squalid homeland; many times have you confounded my designs—yet no more, alas. Here I command and thy fate is sealed.”

Swiftly, she snatched Ysabelle by the hair and the maiden screamed in pain and terror, trying to prise away the claws, but Morwenna’s grip was tenacious and strong. Desperately Ysabelle lashed out and struck her across the face.

The priestess fell back—outraged and astonished at the ferocity of the blow.

“How dare you!” she screeched. “How dare you raise a paw to me!” Bristling with graceless indignation, she shoved Ysabelle against the wall and tightly twisted her claws in the long tresses. “Too many drab, dreary years have I toiled in the service of others to let my plans slip now. Did you really think a paltry beggar from the crude, peasant-filled waste of the Hazel could replace me?”

She gave the tangled locks a vicious tug until tears sprang from Ysabelle’s eyes, then her fingers closed around the silver acorn and she pulled it viciously from her neck.

“No!” wailed Ysabelle. “You cannot take that! It belongs to me!”

Morwenna cackled, “The amulet is mine!” she hissed. “There shall be no Starwife but me!”

Clenching the acorn in her claw, she dragged Ysabelle towards the dank chamber and shrieked, “The time has come for my darlings to feed!”

Fiercely, she hauled Ysabelle into the dismal grotto then gave her a rough push which sent her slithering over the muddy ground.

“Come my pretty ones!” Morwenna crooned, holding the candle high above her head. “See what new morsel I bring!”

Ysabelle stared about her, expecting the shadows to be filled with hellish rats with knives and cudgels in their fists, but there was nothing and all that happened was a distant gurgle which issued from the far darkness. Morwenna gave a satisfied smile, then strode to the rocky wall and lit a torch that was mounted there.

It spluttered into flame and by its greater light, Ysabelle could see that she stood upon a slimy shore which dipped into oily black water—yet upon that slippery bank she saw a sight which churned her stomach and froze her blood.

Scattered all around were hundreds of chewed and crunched up bones—the grisly, skeletal remains of some horrendous, carnivorous feast. Ysabelle cried out, for grinning from the mire was the skull of a squirrel.

“Is this what became of the survivors?” she shouted. “What poison flows through your veins—what diseased canker pulses inside your breast?”

Morwenna held the silver acorn aloft and twirled it in the firelight. “Even in the throne room I could hear their screams as my pets devoured them,” she murmured. “I wonder if thy piteous wails will carry so far?” Then, gazing at the dark water she added, “It has been two whole days since last they dined. I am certain your end will be a swift one—alas.”

With that, she returned to the doorway, pausing only to listen to the faint splashes that drifted ever nearer to the shore.

“I am not afraid,” Ysabelle called defiantly.

Morwenna looked at her in mild amusement. “Not yet, perhaps. You are still very much the little royal princess, stiff-necked and proud. How many of those have I seen in my drudging years? Yet all are gone now; they either burned or were brought hither—how my ears were amazed to hear their ignoble shouts and screams.” She chuckled ever so faintly. “Soon you too will squeak as they did before you. Squeak and squeal until your lungs rupture.”

“You will not hear me cry out,” Ysabelle swore, “I shall not satisfy thy black heart by shrieking for mercy!”

Morwenna put her claw on the iron handle of the door. “Most commendable,” she said sourly, “but you really are no different to the others. When the time comes I shall hear you sing as they did.” A sudden thought seemed to take her and she gave a hissing snigger.

“Oh,” she cried, “perhaps you hope to be rescued? Ah, my dear vulgar peasant urchin—how simple thou art. Tell me that you do not put thy faith in the churl-filled forces of thy mother’s stinking and noisome land!”

“How do you know of them?”

“I shared all that Wendel knew. Oh yes, I know that thy dispossessed army of paupers will strike, but you see—so do the Moonriders. As we speak, they are preparing for battle—why do you think they wore their ridiculous tin pots on their ugly heads? Not to greet thee alone.

“As for the other squirrel houses, thy arrogant mother was deluded. Never will they open their borders to take up arms and venture to march here. We have all been sundered too long, why should they hazard such a risk? No, only two armies will do battle this night and when the dregs of both are spent, the children of the Raith Sidhe shall destroy any in their path!”

“No!” cried Ysabelle.

Morwenna sneered then pulled the door shut.

Hearing the key turn in the lock, Ysabelle came sliding through the mud and beat her fists upon the door.

“Wait!” she shouted. “Morwenna!”

No sound came from the other side and Ysabelle slumped against the sealed entrance in despair.

On the surface of the dark water a large bubble burst and she stared across to see what had caused it.

“Save me,” she whispered, “Green save me.”

A pair of bulging, golden eyes swept towards the shore and, as a repulsive, wart-covered head rose beneath them, they swivelled round to glare at her.

Ysabelle ran to the burning torch, but it was fixed into the rocky wall and when next she looked round, two further pairs of eyes were sailing out of the blackness.

On to the shore the first of Morwenna’s disgusting pets lumbered. Its bloodless lips gaped open as it gazed greedily at the squirrel maiden and an enormous tongue flicked out like a whip of flesh.

Ysabelle hurried back to the door and screamed for help, but Morwenna had gone and there was no one to hear her.

Throughout the trackless and gloomy forest, an atmosphere of expectancy and tension thrilled and charged the deep shadows.

Beneath his covering of leaves, Vesper slowly unfurled one wing and gave a weary groan. Gradually the young bat stirred but before he had a chance to look about him, a searing pain stung in his cheek and he delicately touched the wounds that the gore crow had torn in his face.

Vesper sucked the air sharply through his teeth and grimaced. “A fine sight thou must surely be,” he grumbled to himself, “scored and slit like the pastry crust of a pie.”

Covering his head with his wings he gave another groan. “What dull hammering throbs under my skull, and why does mine chest burn and plague me?”

His complaints suddenly disappeared as his face reared from the leathery membranes of his wings and he stared about the dark woods aghast.

“Ysabelle!” he cried. “Ysabelle—where are you?”

Quickly, he staggered to his feet, brushing away the leaves that clung to him, his tongue clicking all the while to pierce the surrounding shades of night.

No sign of the squirrel maiden could he see, and there was no clue as to where she had gone.

“Ysabelle!” he called. “Ysabelle!”

Countless possibilities as to what had happened flooded into his throbbing head. What if the gore crow had carried her off to devour in seclusion? What if she had run away in terror and had fallen and injured herself? What if...

“Stop this,” he berated his fevered imagination. “Jumping to wild fancies shall achieve naught but a greater pounding on the skull than already exists. No, you must be calm Vespertilio, think wisely, for tearing about the forest is no solution.”

He gazed at the leaves which had covered him and nibbled his wispy beard. “That is a proof that someone cared enough to try and conceal me from hostile eyes,” he muttered. “Only Ysabelle would do that. If she had time to contrive such a screen then surely that shows she was not taken by force and went from here of her own free will.

“The question remains, however,” he mused, “what am I to do now? Did she mean to return? And how long was I lying senseless? Perhaps she departed only a short while ago.”

He scowled and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then am I to wait here?” he asked himself. “Would it not be better to scout the land? From the air I might catch a glimpse of her.”

That decided the matter for him and Vesper stretched out his wings to see if they too had suffered any damage from the crow’s attack. Gingerly he shook them, then caught the air between his fingers and rose gently from the ground.

Flitting in a cautious circle to begin with, the bat tested the strength of his shoulder and was satisfied that it would bear him safely. Then he beat his wings more rapidly and shot up through the branches and into the heavens.

With the high air currents ruffling his fur and cooling the stinging cuts that marred his face, the bat gazed in surprised wonder at the vast bulk of the blessed hill which reared from the forest.

“Then we did reach her holy land,” he breathed and at once Vesper realised that there he would be sure to find her.

Fluttering his wings, he wheeled a wide arc in the starry sky and swooped towards the land of Greenreach.

The dark shape of the hill rose beneath him as he flew low over the steep slopes.

“Ysabelle,” he called, peering into the veiling gloom.

But the young bat’s voice dried in his throat as he witnessed for the first time the destruction his kind had inflicted upon the land. The blasted trees lay stricken and mutilated all around and Vesper felt deeply ashamed.

The grievous sight wrung his heart and he wondered what Ysabelle had thought when she had looked upon the charred wilderness. Perhaps that was why she had not returned; what if the maiden now despised him?

With these wretched notions weighing heavily on his spirits, he flitted miserably over the devastation.

“Hold there!” bawled a commanding voice.

Vesper was shaken from his thoughts and fluttered to a surprised halt. “Who is it?” he cried.

From out of a knotted web of cindered branches, a Knight of the Moon came flying. He was almost twice the size of Vesper; a fearsome screechmask covered his head and the outstretched wings were painted with flames and images of the moon. Snarling, the bat zoomed about Vesper—glaring and squinting at him.

“What is this?” he barked. “A puny weaning come to play at battle! Declare thyself and thy errands here.”

“I am Vespertilio!” he obeyed. “Son of Indith and Novatus of the ruined tower and second colony. My errand is a most urgent one. I must speak with...”

“Novatus?” broke in the fierce Moonrider, eyeing him with suspicion. “He was a courageous warrior and died in great honour. If thou art in truth of his blood—name me his battle helm.”

“Terrorgrin,” came the instant response.

The bat flew beside him and gave Vesper a hearty clap on the back. “Welcome friend,” he said, “thou wilt pardon my mistrust but ’tis a deadly time and I have mine orders from Rohgar himself.”

He fluttered down to the gnarled and blackened branches and beckoned Vesper to follow him.

Alighting, the Knight of the Moon removed his screechmask and scratched his ears. He had a stronglooking face with many old scars across his snout and a tuft of fox-coloured hair sprouted on the top of his head.

“Aldwulf am I called,” he said as Vesper landed at his side, “and this grim helm is ‘Warbrow’. Now, relate unto me the unusual chances that bring thee here, for I know thou art too young for combat. Yet what caused those vicious cuts upon thy face and that raw wound in thy chest? Hast thou encountered the enemy?”

“I have not come to fight,” returned Vesper, “but to find... someone.” He stared nervously at the other bat and tried to muster the courage to say what he must.

Aldwulf snorted at his hesitation. “I perceive what has brought thee!” he roared. “Why, do I not have two fine sons of mine own reaching thy years. Mischief doubled are they—is it thine intent to observe the final battle? Aye, my offspring have tormented me with the same desire. The art of the pouch bombers is fine indeed yet the field of combat is no place for idle spectation.”

“No!” Vesper cried. “I have not come to view the battle either...” Frantically, he gripped Aldwulf’s shoulders and his eyes grew wide. “What battle do you speak of?” he asked. “Why art thou bedaubed with paint? Who art thou preparing to fight? Have the Hobbers assailed this hill?”

The Moonrider pulled away from him. “What riddles are these child?” he murmured. “’Tis the tree worshippers we ready our legions for. Didst thou not know that a host of those foul tree rats are marching towards us?”

“The army of Ysabelle!”

“’Tis the enemy!” Aldwulf snapped, raising his eyes to stare into the night sky as dark shapes coursed overhead. “Behold!” he yelled. “There fly the pouch bombers with their fiery burdens. That pack of barbarous savages will soon know the meaning of terror.”

Vesper gaped upwards, and as he stared, he could see other squadrons gathering in the heavens. “You must stop this!” he demanded. “You know not what is truly happening! The squirrels are not our foes!”

“What treason is this?” Aldwulf cried. “If thou wert not so green in years I would smite thee with mine fists! Bite thy mutinous tongue—no pity shouldst thou feel for that heathen dross! Death is too blessed a gift for them and if there were another fate I could deliver I would not hesitate. All should perish and so they shall.”

“You must listen to me!” Vesper shouted. “You all must, this is not how it should be—the Hobbers are the true menace!”

Aldwulf grabbed him by the throat and bared his fangs. “Avaunt!” he spat. “No craven weaning shall utter such filthy lies in my hearing. Go join the other cowards and collect chiff-chaff eggs!” He thrust his screechmask back over his head and started to beat his wings, leaving the spineless youngster behind.

“Wait!” Vesper begged. “I have spoken with the Ancient! The messenger of the Lady—please you must listen!”

But the warrior soared away in disgust—his talons glittering a trail of silver light beneath him.

Vesper rose to follow, but Aldwulf was speeding towards a vast legion of Moonriders mustering in the sky and the young bat’s nerve wavered. The moon-sent angel had been wrong to choose him; no one would ever believe what he had been entrusted to say.

As he hesitated, high in the chill airs a trumpet blast blared from the forest and rang in his ears. The army of the Hazel Realm had arrived at last.

Vesper’s stomach lurched—he was too late.

Thundering shouts came echoing from above as the forces of Hrethel roared for blood and, flying from legion to legion, the large form of General Rohgar called out his final instructions. Suddenly he shot upwards, giving the signal to the pouch bombers and with terrible shrieks, the bearers of the fire-eggs veered away from the main host.

Upon the ground, the mighty army that had set forth with Ysabelle from the Hazel Realm drew their swords and raised their spears as the holy land loomed before them. Vesper could just make out their shadowy number far below and his pity went out to those who had once held him captive as the pouch bombers spiralled down.

Soon the first explosion would erupt at the foot of the blasted hill and the carnage would begin.

“There must be something I can do!” Vesper wailed. “I have to stop this!”

Thrashing the air desperately, he raced towards the huge cloud of Moonriders, yet they were already swarming after the pouch bombers to assume attack formations. In a moment, the first of them hurtled past Vesper as he shouted at the top of his voice trying to make them hear him.

“’Clear the way!” shrieked a furious Knight of the Moon who sent Vesper spinning as he rocketed hazardously close.

“Wait!” Vesper yelled until he was hoarse from shouting. “This is wrong—listen to me!”

The immense host swooped over the hillside and circled round the lower slopes where the army of Coll Regalis waited defiantly.

Ysabelle’s faithful border wardens strung arrows to their bows as the tremendous cloud of winged enemies blotted out the starlight.

Since their sovereign had been taken from them, the highest ranking royal guard had assumed command. Warden Mugwort he was called and by his strength of will the forces dispersed by the Hobber attack had mustered and continued the solemn march to Greenreach.

Now he strode to the front of the thronging mass of black and red squirrels. Holding his sword high in a gesture of challenge, he called to the assembled force.

“We stand before the holy land!” he shouted gravely. “Let us offer our prayers to the spirit of the Green and hope that wherever our Lady Ysabelle now resides she will be proud of us this night.”

At the rear of the troops a small figure wept into her cap as Mugwort continued.

“From darkness into darkness we have come, yet let valour and courage light our way now. Above us the enemy are poised to strike and we are but few in comparison. Our kindred of the remaining houses have proven faithless, so in the name of the Hazel Realm alone let us show these winged rats what it is to battle bravely. With their lives shall they pay for defiling the holy land!”

A resounding cheer was sent up and a volley of arrows flew into the sky as a sign of defiance to the reviled flying vermin.

With scornful laughter, the first phalanx of pouch bombers dived down. “The flame of victory is with us!” they sang. “Let us scorch the earth with our fierce flowers.”

Numb with horror, Vesper could do nothing but watch as the first pouch fell to the ground and a ball of red fire erupted in the midst of the squirrel army.

“I have failed,” he murmured dismally, “now there is no hope left. The children of the Raith Sidhe will be the only victors and the world will be plunged into eternal suffering.”

Another explosion burst into the night and the ferocious flames tore upwards. Even from where he despondently fluttered his wings, Vesper could feel the unbearable heats singe his fur, yet despite this a freezing chill crept over him. He was witnessing the end of everything, the only forces capable of purging the forest and ridding the land of the Hobber threat were annihilating one another.

The young bat trembled as, far below, the slaughter commenced. Squirrels burned in the dreaded flames and Moonriders plummeted to the earth—pierced by many arrows.

As the fire-eggs continued to blast and shake the ground, Rohgar’s voice bawled the order and his legions plunged downward—their razor sharp talons outstretched.

“Forgive me,” Vesper whispered, “I did all I could, yet it was in vain.”

He could stand it no longer. Torn with remorse and filled with the dread of what was to come, the bat turned from the carnage that raged below and flew away.

“Oh, Ysabelle,” he wept, “where are you?”

14 - The Fall of the Oak

The Lady Morwenna hurried up the steep stairway clutching the silver acorn tightly to her bosom. This was the moment she had waited for, the only delicious dream that had kept her in the Starwife’s service all those tiresome and humbling years. Now a power older than the foundations of the world would be hers to command and wield. Under the Triad she would have complete mastery over the creatures who survived the tumult that would shortly lay everything to waste.

Up she sped, pausing only to hear the sounds of battle echoing from outside the Hallowed Oak. Soon those meagre forces would be overthrown by Hobb’s followers and true darkness would be reborn.

Hastily she climbed the sacred stair and with her breath rasping from her chest, she stood at the entrance to the Chamber of the Starglass.

It was exactly as she had left it. Her old cloak, embroidered with powerful charms and black enchantments still covered the great device and the circular room was filled with shadow.

Morwenna waited to catch her breath before entering. She had endured much for this one moment and she wanted to savour every instant.

“At last,” she panted, “all my struggles and hardships are ended. The old life shall wither and the new will begin.”

An exultant expression lit her bony features as she stepped across the threshold.

In her fist, the silver acorn tingled and pulled her towards the centre of the chamber.

“The Starglass,” Morwenna breathed, “it calls to the silver and the metal hearkens to the summons.” She closed her claws about the precious symbol of the Starwives to prevent it flying from her grasp and stepped nearer to the covered glass.

“Have patience,” she crooned to them both, “you shall greet one another presently and I shall rule each.”

The closer the acorn came to the Starglass, the more agitated it became and Morwenna strove to control the violent tugs which wrenched her forward. Finally she held the amulet above the dark spells sewn into her cloak and through her claws a pale radiance welled up...

The silver of the talisman glimmered, shining from the tarnished metal, and the light grew in intensity, until it filled the chamber with a harsh glare. Beneath the embroidered cloak the Starglass rippled and the black material billowed as power surged from its immeasurable depths.

A triumphant laugh issued from Morwenna’s lips and she took hold of the cloak to drag it from the magical device. Then she froze.

“But wait,” she reproached herself, “if I uncover the Glass then the walls of defence shall spring back around the hill. I would not be able to break the sorceries in time for the arrival of the Worshippers of Hobb. They will be unable to invade and those who stand in our way will survive!”

Her claws twitched away from the cloak and she staggered back to the doorway.

“I shall not be thwarted!” she cried. “When the black tide pours from the forest I shall return.”

The silver acorn grew dull once more behind the immovable blood stains as Morwenna fled down the sacred stair. In the deserted chamber, the Starglass became still and the cloak continued to suffocate its magic.

Ysabelle shrank against the damp and dripping wall. Two bloated and glistening toads stalked her and behind them she could see another emerging from the scummy water.

Over the bone-strewn mud, the misshapen, squabfaced monsters came squelching. Splaying their webbed claws wide, they swaggered after the squirrel maiden, their bulbous eyes almost popping from the livid sockets. Their mistress had fed them well; on tender young flesh they had gorged—satiating the brutal appetite which always festered and inflamed their putrid bellies. Yet their last victim had been sent to them days ago and they had since picked the bones clean and sucked out the final dregs of marrow. In the dark water they had waited, the hunger growing once more until they did think their benefactor had forgotten them.

Now, however, a fresh morsel had been given, and their ravening mouths dribbled greedily as they approached.

Ysabelle looked from one hideous toad to another and knew there was no escaping them.

A long tongue lashed from the nearest slime-oozing beast and flicked across Ysabelle’s arm. She cried out in revulsion and terror, then the tongue came snaking for her again, this time slithering around her tail before it snapped back inside the wide gaping mouth.

The second toad snorted a snotty bubble from its nostrils and sidled closer. An odious grin split the squat head and the green lips parted as it prepared to strike. Eyeing the squirming bait and carefully selecting the tenderest cut, it inhaled as though relishing a sumptuous and mouth-watering scent. Indeed saliva did slobber from the ogre’s jaws as its own tongue unravelled and shot out.

The squirrel screamed as the fleshy pink rope wrapped tightly about her waist, constricting and forcing the breath from her body. Another tongue caught hold of her wrist, gripping fiercely until her fingers throbbed and she squealed in pain.

With their luminous eyes swollen and projecting more than ever from their glutinous heads, the creatures gurgled and slowly began to draw Ysabelle to them.

“No!” she protested, slipping on the mud as the whips of muscle dragged her forward. But there was nothing she could do and when a third tongue twisted about her—this time squeezing around her neck, all Ysabelle’s cries were strangled into a choking silence.

The unclean beasts bobbed excitedly as they trawled their catch in. Their webbed claws slapped the mud with malevolent glee and the squirrel was pulled to her knees. The fattest and most deformed of Morwenna’s beauties waddled up to her, its sticky tongue retracted swiftly into the twisted mouth and it brought its stinking face close to hers.

Ysabelle tore at her throat as she struggled for breath. The grotesque nightmare licked its cold lips as it reached up a clammy claw—enthralled and captivated by the luscious delectable. It clutched at her, running its slime-dribbling fingers zealously through her fur. The other toads gave guttural croaks and belches as it opened its monstrous mouth and lunged to snap and bite.

Ysabelle closed her eyes and shuddered.

Suddenly the mouldering timbers of the door splintered, bursting asunder as a raging fury came crashing into the dismal grotto.

Morwenna’s pets blinked in surprise and splashed in the mud—wild with dismay.

“Begone!” commanded a voice that boomed throughout the cavern. “Release her!”

The toads cringed and flinched as the hateful intruder charged at them, rising into the stale air, beating them with its wings and lashing out at them like a thing demented.

Gulping their tongues back into their throats, they shuffled away from the squirrel and slithered down the bank to the safety of the water.

Ysabelle gasped as the air filled her lungs and she rubbed her bruised neck. “Vespertilio!” she cried. “I never thought to see you again!”

“Nor I you,” the bat said, taking her by the paw and helping her up, “till I did hear thy voice calling. But be quick, little time is left to us.”

“Where is Morwenna?”

“Who? When I entered this mighty oak I did meet no other. Is she a friend of yours?”

“Hardly that!” she replied. “She is the cause of all this madness and has taken the acorn from me!” And running from the cavern, she hastened through the passage behind the shattered doorway.

From the chill water the forlorn toads gazed miserably at Vesper as he hurried after her and each began to howl retching wails.

Up through the narrow tunnels Ysabelle ran until she reached the entrance to the Hallowed Oak and passed within, swiftly climbing the stairs beyond.

But on arriving at the grand hall, she hesitated—a fearful clamour was issuing through the great doors and, with cautious steps, she ventured towards them.

Vesper flitted behind her, flying over the winding stairs and came gliding into the hall, alighting at her side.

Ysabelle stared out at the withered hilltop and hellish lights starkly lit her face.

“Vespertilio,” she breathed, “what riotous uproar is that? What are those flames which blister into the heavens yonder?”

“Princess,” he began, “thine army has arrived. That is the sound of my kind destroying the forces of thy mother’s realm.”

“My army?” she repeated. “Why do they engage so soon? Have the other squirrel houses joined them?”

“They have not.”

Ysabelle held onto the door as her hopes were dashed. “Then all is lost,” she murmured, “every one of my royal guards will be slain—against your fire-eggs they are defenceless. The Knights of the Moon have conquered.”

Vesper cast his eyes down guiltily. “No, we have not,” he muttered, “for only the Hobbers shall be victorious. Our triumph, shameful though I find it, will be shortlived.”

The maiden reached out for him and he took her paw in his wing. “Without the amulet there is naught we can do,” she said sorrowfully, “the battle will rage until no more blood can be shed and a darkness with no chance of dawn shall creep over the land.”

In stricken silence they watched the fierce red flames blast upwards and the clashing of steel against steel rang in the infernal night.

The scarlet fires of those warriors he had once so admired were reflected in Vesper’s dark eyes and remorse wrung his spirit until he felt as hollow and desolate as the scorched realm about him.

Unfurling one wing, he spread it about them both, as if to shield them from the horror to come. As he did so, Vesper’s thumb brushed the strap fastened over his shoulder and he tugged at it irritably. The leather bag at his waist gave a jerk and Vesper stared down—amazed at his own stupidity.

“Ysabelle!” he cried. “Come—before it is too late!”

Dragging her from the vast tree and out into the troubled night, the bat bounded over the hill to where a small neglected campfire brightly crackled.

“What are you doing?” she yelled above the thunderous din. “There is naught we can do—the span of this world is ended!”

Vesper tore the bag from about his shoulders and wrenched it open. “Not yet!” he declared. “There may still be a way!”

Stepping up to the flames, he held the gift of the Ancient aloft and, glancing desperately at Ysabelle, poured the powdered contents into the fire’s heart.

On the slopes of Greenreach the bitter war rampaged, bloody and savage. The squirrels of Coll Regalis had lost many of their host to the scalding flames of the pouch bombers and countless archers had fallen before the steel gauntlets of Hrethel’s forces. The standard bearer had been one of the first to die and his lifeless body smouldered in the terrible heat, sprawling across the banner he had once been so proud to carry.

The Knights of the Moon plunged amongst them, ripping and slicing with their talons. Yet they too suffered losses; nigh on a hundred slaughtered bats lay on the battlefield—stuck through with arrows and spears or hacked by swords. The withering grasses were dyed crimson and the soil had turned into a mire of gore.

All around, trees blazed like gigantic torches and choking plumes of poisonous smoke flooded the air, forming an immense ceiling of fumes that blanketed the entire sky.

Courageously the squirrels fought on, brandishing their glittering blades and striking whenever the enemy swooped to tear at them, yet they knew that their numbers were dwindling.

Despair and vengeance drove them, repaying the bats as viciously as they could for the loved ones they had left behind in the Hazel Realm. Those innocent families that the Moonriders had ruthlessly murdered in their hunt for the silver acorn.

“In the name of the Hazel!” Warden Mugwort roared, cleaving a wounded bat in two.

Boldly he fought and with each drop of blood that he spilled he called out the names of his dead children.

“For Penda! For Sorrel! For Bellinia!”

Leaping over the fallen corpses of both races, he swung the blood-soaked sword over his head to await another assault—yet none came. All across the battleground, Ysabelle’s forces were left swiping at empty air and firing arrows into blank emptiness. For some unaccountable reason, the bats had gone.

Amid the inferno of burning trees, the squirrels stared in bewilderment into the smoky heavens. Flying with great urgency from the field of combat, every Knight of the Moon was returning to the hilltop of Greenreach—as though summoned by a single command which none could ignore.

The army of Ysabelle looked up at that which drew their foes and shook their heads in wonder.

Rising from the lofty hill, a huge pinnacle of purple flame towered into the sky. The violet brilliance seared through the dense reek of the blazing woods, setting to flight all the midnight shadows.

The like of its glory had never been seen on mortal lands and would only be glimpsed again nearly a thousand years hence.

It was a dazzling beacon, shining like a fierce pillar of hope through fear and doubt, and in the heart of each bat it called to them. Irresistibly the winged legions swarmed towards it—too awestruck to utter a sound and even the fearsome General Rohgar let the livid magnet guide him without question. The purple flame seemed to speak to every single one of them, promising lost delights and offering forgotten dreams. It was a magnificent, worshipful spectacle and they sped over the hillside as fast as their wings could bear them.

Warden Mugwort lowered his sword in disbelief, dumbfounded that the enemy had withdrawn so unexpectedly. Then a grim and determined expression stole over him and his knuckles shone white about the hilt.

“After them!” he yelled. “Follow those retreating craven vermin!”

Jeering challenges, the army of Ysabelle stormed up the hillside to where the needle of flame reared into the sky.

With his face buried in his wings, Vesper stood at the squirrel maiden’s side. The ferocity of the mysterious powders had taken them both by surprise. As soon as the young bat had sprinkled them into the camp fire they had sparked and spat, immediately changing the tongues of flame from yellow to brilliant purple. Then, with a burst of glimmering, amethyst stars, the fire had streaked upwards, shooting into the night until a radiance as harsh as day illuminated the Hallowed Oak and the scorched trees around it.

Covering her eyes, Ysabelle held onto Vesper and both wondered at the mighty force he had unleashed.

With the light of the beacon bleaching all colour from his furry face, Vesper felt the urge to fly upwards and spiral about the flame. But he gritted his teeth and, with Ysabelle at his side, mastered the insistent summons and stared into the sky.

Racing towards the splendour of the tapering flame came an enormous cloud. The bat swallowed timidly and gave Ysabelle’s paw an anxious squeeze.

“They are coming,” he whispered, “the legions of my folk have been called from the battle.”

The squirrel smiled encouragingly. “Now fulfil the destiny the Ancient envisaged for you,” she told him, “you have their attention—but the doom of all still hangs in the balance. It is a slender thread; do not fail Vespertilio, the fate of us all depends on you.”

“My thanks for that,” he answered ruefully, “now my nerves are more unsettled than ever.”

Ysabelle looked steadily into his eyes. “I have faith in you,” she said, “this is your hour. Seize the chance and put a final end to the evil war.”

Her confidence inspired him and he gazed upwards where the first of the Moonriders were congregating about the intense light—fluttering around it like giant moths.

When the entire host of bats had gathered above the hilltop, the draught from their thousands of beating wings blew down upon Vesper and Ysabelle’s upturned faces. As it streamed through their hair the young bat took his leave of her and slowly rose into the air.

Up he flew, and as he soared beside the blinding tower of light, his mind reeled trying to think what to say. How could he ever reconcile his race with Ysabelle’s?

Vesper climbed swiftly, close enough now to recognise the screechmask of Rohgar amongst the mighty host and he cleared his throat to greet him.

“Hail, Rohgar—heroic warrior of countless battles, I welcome thee!”

The huge noctule wheeled around and the enchantment which had lured him and so beguiled his wits, faded—leaving him confused and angry.

“What sorcery is this?” his voice thundered within Slaughtermaw. “Where are the paltry forces of the tree worshippers?”

His wrathful cries shattered the mesmeric spell which entranced those around him and they too glared sternly about them.

“Who art thou?” Rohgar demanded of Vesper. “What black art fetched us hither?”

“It was a gift of the Ancient,” came the proud reply, “and I am the one he chose to...”

Before he could finish, one of the other Moonriders chanced to look at the ground and there he spied Ysabelle standing alone and defenceless.

“General!” he shouted. “Behold, is that not the heathen savage our agent withheld from us and guided inside the oak?”

The noctule peered down and laughed within his screechmask. “Verily it is the same,” he said, “’t’would seem the treacherous lady hath done with her and thrust the maggot out to please us.”

He stretched out his legs and the steel talons looked like white flames before the light of the beacon. “Now she is ours!” he called. “Let us shred her vile being into a thousand ribbons!”

Shrieking with eager joy, the Knights of the Moon followed their general as he dived—plummeting for the kill.

Vesper was horrified. “You cannot!” he wailed, staring down at the vulnerable figure of Ysabelle.

Screaming with fear and rage, the young bat swept his wings behind him and hurtled towards the ground. With the wind tearing at his plunging body, he raced past Rohgar and reached the maiden before any of them.

Hastily he leaped in front of her and spread his wings wide. If they were going to kill Ysabelle it would have to be through him.

Rohgar came streaming through the night—straight for them, while behind, the multitude of bats poured after.

The talons sliced the air; Ysabelle clung desperately to Vesper and Rohgar bore down. The blades glinted before Vesper’s eyes but just as he closed them and braced himself for the onslaught, the noctule swung upwards in a wide circle.

“What deception is this?” Rohgar screamed. “Why dost thou defend that rat of the trees?”

The legions that swooped after settled upon the mutilated branches of blackened trees and their displeasure seethed.

“You have betrayed thine own kind!” they accused.

“I have not!” Vesper shouted defiantly. “The squirrels are not our enemies! We have all been betrayed!”

Rohgar charged at him and pressed Slaughtermaw into the young bat’s face. “Stand aside, thou most wanting of lackbrains! That stinking witch is mine for the killing!”

But Vesper was not daunted and bravely stood his ground. “Listen to me!” he cried. “All of you! Other powers are at work here. Evils that you are ignorant of.”

“If thou wish to be skewered along with that filth, then so be it!” Rohgar snarled, raising his talons to Vesper’s throat.

Suddenly a horn sounded and all eyes turned to the rim of the hill. Brandishing their weapons in challenge, the army of Ysabelle surged forward and for a moment all was confusion.

“Vesper!” Ysabelle cried. “The battle is to commence all over again!”

“No, it shall not!” he said firmly.

Using all his strength, he shoved Rohgar aside and pulled the squirrel after him. Out before the ranks of the Moonriders they ran, dashing headlong into the vanguard of the squirrel troops.

The royal guards at the forefront stared in amazement as they saw their sovereign rushing towards them, yet they gripped their spears ready to slay the evil bat which held her.

“Now!” Vesper shouted, skidding to a standstill and whirling Ysabelle round.

The squirrel stared around them, to the left the hordes of Moonriders shrieked their war cries and to the right her own warriors were preparing to resume the battle.

“What shall we do?” she cried.

Vesper took hold of her shoulders and a mad gleam danced in his eyes. With the purple flame of the magical beacon shining lustrously over his face, he gave a toothy grin and said tenderly, “Kiss me.”

Before Ysabelle could resist, he had pulled her close and pressed his lips against hers.

Squirrels and bats stumbled over each other as they beheld the unbelievable sight and a ghastly, appalled hush descended.

Knights of the Moon sank to the ground, disgusted and horrified at what they were witnessing. Gallant wardens rubbed their eyes in disbelief, then threw down their weapons dismayed.

The stunned quiet deepened, with only the crackle of the enchanted fire to disturb it. Then, with a splutter, the burning logs crumbled and the beacon that had drawn the bats faltered. The purple flames perished, dwindling down and changing back to yellow until they too guttered and all was dark.

Vesper and Ysabelle turned and faced their separate armies.

“Now you will hear me,” the bat said, “for my words shall shape the future of the world.”

A bewildered murmur of revulsion rippled through the astounded legions, yet all waited on the young bat’s explanation for this unnatural union.

Choosing his words carefully, Vesper began—leaving out nothing. He told the gathered forces what had occurred since his capture by Ysabelle’s guards. At first his voice was small and unsure but as the tale grew it became filled with power and might until it resounded over the hilltop and all who heard the young bat marvelled.

Gravely his audience listened, hearing of the horrors which had pursued him and the squirrel maiden through the forest. Never had Vesper spoken with such force and his impassioned speech moved many and their hearts began to doubt the wisdom behind the holy wars. Ever his voice urged them to put aside mistrust and hatred—for they were only serving the ends of the true enemy.

Into his tale Vesper wove themes of hope in the midst of despair, and valour in the face of terror. The Knights of the Moon who hearkened to him removed their screechmasks and gazed guiltily across at the strength of the Hazel Realm. But there remained those who refused to believe and their black enmity smouldered still within their breasts.

The royal guards of Ysabelle stared at their queen in wonder as the fearful account of the past days unfolded. The red squirrels, always quick to mirth and swift to tears, sniffed and wiped their eyes at the perils that she had endured—yet their black kindred listened stiffly and with grim expressions. Warden Mugwort kept his paws clasped about his sword—watching for the first sign of treachery on the part of the bats. His loathing for them still untouched by Vesper’s beguiling and eloquent telling of events.

At the point where the mouse captain had taken them to meet the Ancient, an astonished gasp escaped from the Moonriders when the identity of that venerable being was revealed.

“The messenger of the Lady!” they breathed. “The weaning has conversed with the Herald of the Moon!”

Their bead-like eyes gleamed fiercely as the story rolled on, until Vesper told them the name of the one who had truly stolen their birthright.

“Hrethel!” repeated Rohgar, enraged at the young bat’s insolence. “How dare you accuse our great Lord—always has he been anxious to restore our gifts! Thy madness is finally proven!”

Infuriated, the noctule raked the ground with his talons but as he stared at his legions he could see that they were not so certain of Hrethel’s innocence.

“What is this?” he shrieked. “Can you doubt our good Lord on the rambling words of a crazed fool?”

The Moonriders eyed him uncomfortably. “Yet it would explain much,” answered one. “Have we not wondered why the Warden of the Great Book has locked himself away with his charge? Why does he no longer attend the councils, and why does he suffer none to enter his chamber?”

“His actions are not for us to question!” Rohgar snapped.

“I put my trust in the Ancient,” the other replied.

“The Ancient!” bawled Rohgar. “Only that fool’s word do we have that he exists. How are we to know he is not deceiving us? For myself I do not believe any of this fantastic deception. The tree rats are our enemies and always shall be!”

From his warriors, the general received some approval but the majority of the bats shouted them down. Rohgar glared around him. “Am I besieged by faithlessness?” he cried. “Where is the honour of we Moonriders?”

Vesper moved to approach him, but Ysabelle held him back and advanced in his stead.

“My Lady!” Warden Mugwort called behind her.

But the squirrel maiden ignored the warning and stepped up to the huge winged shape of the wrathful general. There she looked fearlessly into the eyeslits of Slaughtermaw and said firmly, “By the spirit of the Almighty Green, all that Vespertilio has told you is true.”

Within the screechmask, the noctule snarled; he could slay this miserable wretch so easily. Yet as his gauntlets twitched and the blades scored the cindered earth, a curious light blazed in the squirrel’s eyes and Rohgar—mightiest general and fiercest of all Knights of the Moon—felt his heart quail inside him and his anger was quenched. Silently, he removed the helmet from his head and gazed at the ground abashed.

At the forefront of the Hazel forces. Warden Mugwort loosened his grip on his sword and sought for the strength to forgive.

From the rear of the squirrel army, a high, frantic voice piped up as the royal guards were pushed aside.

“Move thy hulking bulk!” it cried, squirming to the front. “I must get by. Oh, M’lady, oh, my poor heart—it flutters so.”

Ysabelle turned and gazed into the centre of her troops. A delighted smile lit her face and she gave a grateful laugh.

“Griselda!”

From the ranks of the squirrels the small mouse came. The brim of her ill-fitting cap had been tucked underneath to keep out of her eyes and in her paws she still clutched the shield and tiny knife that one of the wardens had given to her.

“Oh, M’lady!” she blubbered, tears coursing down her face. “I knew you were safe, I knew it I did. I said it all along!” Scampering towards Ysabelle, she threw down her war gear and flung her arms about the maiden’s neck.

Vesper grinned as they greeted one another, but there was still much to be done and he saw that all eyes now looked to him and Ysabelle.

“What are we to do now?” asked Warden Mugwort.

Rohgar lifted his head and peered through the night, across the dark shape of the great river, out to the invisible walls of the city in the distance.

”We must fly to the Chamber of Hrethel,” he growled, “he must be forced to return our birthright—the Great Book must be wrenched from him and restored to the other members of the council.”

A murmur of agreement flowed from the other Moonriders but Vesper spread his wings and shook his head vigorously.

“Have you not heard me?” he cried. “Hrethel must wait—let him gloat over his precious pages a while longer. The children of the Raith Sidhe must be our first concern.”

From high above them a cold voice rang out and it laughed disdainfully at them all.

“Vain, empty words!” it shrieked. “What a shallow threat thy numbers are!”

Everyone stared upwards. There, in the topmost branches of the Hallowed Oak stood Morwenna and her gaunt features were twisted with her hatred for them all.

The royal guards gazed at her in disbelief. For around her neck the silver acorn gleamed dully.

Morwenna regarded them with scorn and derision. From her high position they seemed like insects and she chuckled at that, for she would certainly crush each and every one.

“Who is that?” asked Griselda fretfully. “Why does she wear the symbol of the Starwives?”

A look of immeasurable contempt crossed Ysabelle’s face. “That is the traitor who brought about the destruction of this fair land,” she spat, “it was she who allowed the Moonriders through the defences.”

“That creature is in league with Hrethel!” declared Rohgar.

“Oh no,” Ysabelle told him, “she has a far more sinister ally.”

The noctule bared his fangs and seized his screechmask once more. “Gladly shall I slay that foul deceiver!” he exclaimed, donning Slaughtermaw and rising into the air.

Morwenna’s harsh voice mocked him as Rohgar bolted upwards. “Miserable worm!” she shrieked. “Too late art thou—much too late!”

The general shot straight for her, soaring through the stately branches of the oak—his talons glinting in readiness.

When he was barely a yard away, Morwenna hissed and opened her arms wide.

Suddenly, from the dark night, many black shapes darted. Surging from the shadows, they fell upon Rohgar and surrounded him in a frenzy of feathers and hellish squawks.

Upon the ground, everyone watched helplessly, as dozens of crows and ravens viciously mobbed the general, tearing with their claws and stabbing with their beaks.

Rohgar’s voice roared at them and his gauntlets flashed red in the sky—yet there were too many. With an agonised wail, Slaughtermaw was wrenched from his head and in a moment the bat’s lifeless body tumbled down after it.

“Now do you see your failure,” Morwenna called, “for the final battle is begun and darkness shall consume all!”

Her cloak swirled about her, flapping madly as a thousand carrion birds descended from the heavens and swooped upon the hilltop.

Harsh cries rent the air as the armies scattered before the brutal assault. Moonriders desperately tried to take flight but savage claws came ripping at their wings and they spiralled helplessly down. Squirrels panicked in the ferocious onslaught and many of them ran blindly and with no weapons to defend themselves.

“Stand and fight!” Vesper yelled snatching up the tiny knife Griselda had dropped. “Ysabelle call to your archers!”

The squirrel looked quickly at the band of black squirrels who alone had stood their ground. Under Warden Mugwort’s orders they were already stringing their bows and the arrows of Coll Regalis went singing into the feathery hordes.

Recovering from the surprise attack, many of the other squirrels were regrouping and a legion of bats had managed to rise into the air to deal with the infernal birds in their own element. And so the bloodiest of all battles commenced.

High above them, Morwenna laughed to herself; the foes of Hobb had not seen the full might of her followers yet. She raised her claw to give the signal and at once the terror of her enemies doubled.

All about the hilltop, a sea of fiery faces reared—flames dripping from their gaping mouths. A horrendous mass of evil creatures flourished their Hobb lanterns and came charging forward, screaming foul oaths and curses.

Before the squirrels or bats knew what was happening, the ravening tide was upon them. Rats without number surged at the squirrels with poisoned spears in their claws and daggers clenched in their sharpened teeth. Swords rang and shields buckled, maces crunched into skulls and arrows plunged through skin and hide.

In the air, the jackdaws and ravens flew against the Knights of the Moon in a blizzard of feathers and huge rooks tore at the screechmasks with claws as bitter as steel and just as deadly.

Surrounded by the ringing battle, Vesper remained on the ground, thrusting his knife into any Hobber that leapt before him. Tirelessly he fought, parrying the terrible strokes which lunged at his flesh and slicing where he could in defence. At his side Warden Mugwort swung his sword, notching it on the iron breast-plate of a vile hedgehog who winded the squirrel by a swift blow to the stomach. Mugwort crumpled in two and the gleeful creature raised its mace to dash in his brains.

But Vesper rushed in and stabbed the Hobber in the side. The warden gave him a grateful look, then wielded his sword more furiously than ever and cut a bloody swathe through the invaders. Side by side, the age-old rivals of bat and squirrel fought against the true enemies of light and reason, and in those desperate moments the rift between the two races was forgotten.

As the horrific battle raged about her, Ysabelle stared at the uppermost branches of the Hallowed Oak. There Morwenna haughtily shrieked her commands, instructing the children of the Raith Sidhe and guiding them towards the inevitable victory.

A wintry calm entered Ysabelle’s soul as her hatred for that artful traitor swelled and she knew what must be done. Swiftly she ran to the great entrance, leaving her nurse to patter after her.

“M’lady!” Griselda squeaked. “Whither art thou going? Come back!”

Through the grand hall Ysabelle stormed, almost flying up the staircase which spiralled inside the gigantic trunk of the mighty tree.

At the Starwife’s bedchamber, the maiden hesitated. The shutters of the window had been thrown wide open and in an instant she had crossed the room and gazed out.

Below her all was chaos. Her army was beleaguered on every side. The number of Hobbers was beyond anything she had imagined and the flames of their lanterns formed a great ring of fire about the squirrels. In the sky, the carrion birds were revelling in the deaths of countless bats. The Knights of the Moon were no match for the unbounded hordes that flew against them and their battered bodies fell into the confusion beneath.

Ysabelle lifted her eyes from the sorrow around her, up to where a branch twisted gracefully from the tapering trunk and upon which a tall, cloaked figure stood.

Hurriedly the maiden clambered out of the window and, clinging to the bark, began to climb. With the ground dwindling into the distance beneath her, she pulled herself up until the bough was directly over her head. Pausing only to catch her breath, and with the rumble of the battle rioting in her ears, she caught hold of the graceful projection and swung herself round—expertly leaping up until her feet were planted firmly on the branch.

Not far away, standing aloof amid the rustling twigs and new budding leaves, Morwenna’s heavily lidded eyes shone across to her.

“My beautiful emeralds must be sadly disappointed,” she said, “I was so hoping they would find you to their taste.”

Ysabelle edged along the bough. “The amulet!” she demanded. “Give it to me!”

The other wrinkled her snout in disdain. “The audacity of the whelp,” she hissed, “is that the courtesy due to the Starwife?”

“Thou art no Handmaiden of Orion!” denounced Ysabelle, staring at the tarnished acorn. “Why! You have not brought it to the Starglass!”

Morwenna’s claws clutched at the acorn. “Alas,” she admitted, “that much is true, yet there was a reason.” She peered down at the seething forces far below and gave a throaty laugh. “But the purpose of that hath now been achieved,” she announced, “the worshippers of Hobb are all here. See how they swamp thy meagre brigands. The children of the unholy darkness shall rout thy friends and trample them under foot and claw. A fine, gorging feast shall they enjoy. This blessed hill will become a mountain of the dead—for corpses too numerous to count shall be piled here.”

Stealing a glance at Ysabelle, she sniggered. “Now the time has come for me to join the silver with the Glass. The spells of smothering have served their purpose.”

Morwenna strode over the branch, her steps deliberately heavy and the precarious road swayed alarmingly.

“Thou art standing in mine way, peasant girl,” she purred, causing the bough to shudder even more, “am I to hurl thee from this deadly place?”

Ysabelle staggered backwards as the branch bucked and jerked. “I shall not let you take up the Starwifeship!” she shouted.

“Then thy bones will be shattered against the tree as thy body plummets into the midst of thy misguided and foolhardy companions below.”

Morwenna advanced, her hooded eyes flaming as brightly as any Hobb lantern. With her cloak billowing in the high breezes, she raised her claws and stepped nearer.

Suddenly a pouch bomber came shooting beneath the branch, pursued by a screeching gore crow. The bat swerved, veering around the enormous trunk, but the bird tore unerringly down and before the Moonrider could check himself, they collided and smashed into the side of the tree.

A tremendous explosion ripped through the bark as the fire-eggs the bat carried burst into devouring flame.

Ysabelle was thrown off balance and almost fell to her doom. But as the fierce ball of flame scorched the leaves behind her and leapt into the midnight sky, the priestess of Mabb came steadily closer. “The end of all that you find good is here,” she said softly.

The maiden backed away, then Morwenna gasped and her claws flew to the amulet about her neck.

“It burns!” she shrieked. “The silver burns!”

Ysabelle stared in horror as a stream of acrid smoke poured from Morwenna’s fist. The squirrel writhed in pain and tore her claw from the acorn. “What is happening?” she whined. “The blood-stains—they swirl and move over its surface! The amulet glows like an ember!”

“No,” Ysabelle muttered, “please no.”

A shrill scream issued from the hilltop, cutting through the uproar and the sounds of death that filled the night.

Through the fire and smoke, the two squirrels stared down, the battle was floundering, the Hobbers were hastening from the fray, hotly pursued by the royal guards.

A mad fear seemed to have dismayed them all and the fighting ceased as they cleared a wide space before the Hallowed Oak as if horribly afraid of some new, unseen terror.

As Ysabelle watched an ugly crack streaked over the ground and a hiss of sulphurous steam gushed from its depths. Morwenna put her claws together and held them to her mouth, trembling with anticipation.

From deep beneath the earth a vile roar came bellowing and in the sky the carrion birds squawked in fear and sought safety amid the concealing foliage of the Hallowed Oak’s branches. As the trumpeting roar reverberated across the heavens, the Knights of the Moon hovered in the air and their screechmasks gazed down in bewilderment. The frightful shriek pierced Ysabelle’s spirit and she almost fell from her lofty perch in dread of that familiar sound. She called to the Green for mercy.

“But it is only the second night,” she cried, “not so soon—not so soon!”

The hideous, blaring roars grew louder until every creature stopped its ears and the hill shook beneath them. Jets of sulphur blasted from the fissures which now gaped before the mighty tree and the oak shivered from the lowest root to the topmost branch.

Ysabelle fell back against the trunk and wept dearly as the Hallowed Oak quivered uncontrollably and her eyes stared at the soil which blistered and bulged through the spitting fumes.

“My Lord is coming,” exalted Morwenna, the acorn gleaming around her neck, singeing the fur at her throat. “His dark majesty approaches!”

From the steaming earth—to the terror of all—the god of the rats, the Lord of the Raith Sidhe, slowly emerged.

Two massive horns punctured the tormented ground as the Master of the Pit reared into the waking world and the roots of the mighty tree flew apart as he crashed through them.

All around the hill the Hobbers screamed as the huge head rose before them, blurred and shimmering behind a screen of vicious heat that incessantly poured from the unlit, lower regions of the earth. Lanterns wrought in his venomous image were thrown down as the rats tore at their hair and writhed in anguish at the malignant spectacle which manifested before them. Then, their Lord’s fiendish eyes blazed in their direction and many terrified creatures slew themselves to escape his awful countenance.

Vesper recoiled and staggered into Warden Mugwort. Fear had seized them both—for the face which rose from the soil and glimmered through the heat haze was a vision of pure evil.

The horns that twisted from the forehead of the titanic apparition curved high into the night and even from where he stood, Vesper could see they were steeped in blood. A matted tangle of fiery-red hair grew between the horns, forming a phosphorescent mane about the contorted, hellish head.

Beneath the wiry brows which arched into barbed points of ginger bristle, Hobb’s eyes balefully shone on the world which had been denied him for so long. His pupils were as dark as the bottom-most pit and flames of war rimmed them, piercing into the hearts of the cowering onlookers, inspiring them with dread and despair.

Bellowing roars boomed from his gaping maw. It was a vast tunnel of flesh, edged by long yellow fangs and the spittle which poured from the dark blue lips was the colour of blood.

The immense, rat-shaped fiend drew himself further from the ground. A garland of skulls hung about his neck and as he towered over the hilltop, a forked tail came ripping through the ashes and lashed about the oak tree, stripping the bark from the trunk and splintering the great doors of the entrance.

Out from the Pit the Lord of the Raith Sidhe climbed, his cloven hoofs stamping on the earth and, with his head thrown back, he beat his claws upon his chest—free at last.

The Hallowed Oak gave an ominous groan and jagged splits ripped through the trunk as the gigantic tail pounded it and the poisonous fumes ate into the tree’s fibres.

In the upper branches, Ysabelle turned her face from the awful vision and gripped the bark desperately as the tree shook and trembled.

Morwenna was jubilant; gazing down as the two horns came rearing up, she threw her arms open in greeting. “Welcome, My Lord!” she shouted. “Thy servant has prepared the way for thee. Welcome to the unhappy world once again!”

The curling, tangled mane rose before the cloaked squirrel and behind the shimmering haze, the fire-rimmed eyes lifted high overhead as she made a humble bow.

Ysabelle howled when she beheld that terrifying face; the stench of Hades flowed from the open maw and the light from the infernal gaze bathed the branch a lurid crimson.

With the amulet blazing at her throat, Morwenna laughed. “I have done this!” she declared. “For thy unholy glory and for that of thy consort—my Lady Mabb. I have worked unceasingly to bring this moment into being.”

The terrible mouth of the Lord Hobb stretched into a macabre grin and the malevolent fires burning in those eyes grew brighter than ever as slyly they swivelled from Morwenna to Ysabelle.

A hideously gnarled claw reached up and Ysabelle screamed. This was it, Wendel’s curse had come true, Hobb was going to claim her.

Morwenna cackled as the misshapen talons came groping through the choking, sulphurous air. “Send her to the Pit!” she squealed. “Let her know the misery of thy imprisonment and through eternity suffer a thousand torments!”

Ysabelle cringed from the huge claw and Morwenna made to bow again, but something was wrong; Hobb was not reaching for the maiden—but for her.

“No,” she shrieked, “I am the one who released you!”

Terrified, she realised her mistake and tried to tear the symbol of the Starwife from her neck. It was the power of the acorn which had summoned her diabolic master, and by invoking his dreaded name, his own high priest had cursed the bearer of the amulet.

In her horror, Morwenna fumbled with the chain but it was too late and she could not remove it. A fetid reek blew upon her as the ghastly head drew near and the unclean claw closed about her cloaked body.

The priestess screamed when the talons squeezed. “You are mistaken, Lord!” she ranted. “Spare me!”

With imploring squeals still on her lips, Morwenna was plucked from the branch and dragged into the swirling heats, her limbs flailing in the cloying fumes until she was brought before the demon’s jaws.

Screeching, she threw up her arms, but her earthly life was over. The fiery eyes mocked her and from the dark throat a cloud of sulphur blasted the struggling figure in the fiend’s grasp.

Morwenna’s screams cut the night as sheets of flame tore through the choking fumes.

The shrieks of the treacherous squirrel died, as her body crackled and burned—writhing in the ghastly furnace.

When the noxious fog began to clear, only ashes and smoking dust remained in her Lord’s evil grasp, and an empty black cloak twirled forlornly on the breeze until it snagged on the nearby branches.

Ysabelle’s heart banged against her rib cage. It was Morwenna’s soul which had been sent to the far reaches of the Pit. Gazing at the cloak which smouldered close by, she knew that that fate had been meant for her. Then the squirrel’s eyes caught something bright spinning through the air like a falling star and she stared impotently as the silver acorn dropped to the ground.

Now Hobb turned his attention to her.

With the light of the underworld radiating from those baleful eyes, he blew Morwenna’s ashes from his claw and his putrid breath smote Ysabelle as if she had been struck a violent blow.

The squirrel almost fainted dead away, but the glare of that foul apparition held her and she could only balk as the talons reached towards the branch once more.

Suddenly a draught ruffled her fur and Vesper’s voice came shouting from above.

“Hold onto me!” he cried.

Before Hobb could snatch at her the squirrel had gone. A fierce bellow issued from the immense nightmare as he saw a young bat bear his second victim into the sky and out of danger.

But now the night was filled with angry voices, as the Knights of the Moon showed their mettle and zoomed towards the rat god’s monstrous head, mustering their forces above him.

Before his very face they flew, striking with their gauntlets at the blood-matted fur and slashing the foul flesh of his venom dripping snout.

“In the name of the Lady!” they called defiantly.

The Lord Hobb rained poison and fire upon them and many bats were shot down, spinning helplessly in screaming bundles of flame that exploded when they hit the ground. Yet still the others harried the deadly creature that dwarfed the blessed hill, daring to bite him with their steel talons and shouting challenges as they dived past his towering form.

The legions of Moonriders were as gnats to the unholy Lord of the Raith Sidhe, yet their incessant stings inflamed him and he roared in fury, bringing his fist smashing down against the trunk of the Hallowed Oak.

With a thunderous creaking of timber, the tree toppled and went crashing through the air.

The squirrels and Hobbers who had remained, staring up at the apparition in abject terror, hurried from the hilltop as the roots of the oak tore from the ground and the gigantic tree tumbled down the hillside—claiming many lives in its calamitous destruction.

Holding grimly onto Vesper, Ysabelle saw the magnificent oak smash down the slopes, throwing up tons of earth in its wake. Beneath them the foul demon bellowed, its fiery breath streaking through the darkness and withering the Knights of the Moon who plagued him into ashes.

The world shook as Hobb pounded his hooves and the forked tail thrashed about him.

Ysabelle gazed below and spoke quickly into Vesper’s ear.

“Take me down,” she said grimly, “to the very feet of that abomination.”

The bat stared at her, yet he knew the maiden too well to argue and with a sweep of his wings they descended.

Past the twisting horns they flew, past the fearful countenance and the necklace of skulls. Catching the wind in his wings, Vesper narrowly dodged the tail as it whipped towards them, and they landed on the ground without injury.

As soon as her feet touched the earth, Ysabelle raced over to the cloven hooves, not daring to look up at the towering nightmare and snatched the discarded amulet to her bosom.

“Hurry!” she cried, wrapping her arms about Vesper’s neck. “To the fallen oak!”

Beating his wings, the bat rose from the ground and sailed through the tortured night, out over the hillside to where the mighty tree lay broken in its ruin.

The massive trunk was shattered and the decorated chambers which the craftworkers of Greenreach had toiled over were exposed and demolished. A section of carved stairway poked from a gaping, jagged hole in the wreckage, and over the oak’s fragmented corpse, small fires blazed where the silver lanterns had spilled their oil and flame.

Over this devastation, Vesper flew and Ysabelle scanned the dismal sight keenly.

“There!” she exclaimed. “Take me down there!”

The bat obeyed and they alighted far from the main bulk of the crippled oak.

Through the shattered tangle of torn twigs and branches, Ysabelle hurried, striving to reach what she had seen lying upon the grass.

There it was, the dark circle of the Starglass, thrown clear from the fractured tree, darkly mirroring the smoke-filled sky.

The amulet was still hot in her paws but she had borne the pain in silence; now the metal began to cool as it drew her forward.

Vesper stared at the Starglass in wonder, for already its surface was shimmering.

Ysabelle held the acorn by its chain and breathlessly brought it over the magical device.

The black glass rippled and churned and within the amulet an answering light welled up.

“Now is the time!” Ysabelle cried. “Now do I accede to the throne and claim my place as Handmaiden to Orion!”

Hesitating at the last instant, she gazed back at Vesper and tears brimmed in her eyes as she murmured in a meek voice, “Goodbye my love.” Then she returned to the enchanted device and called out, “May this new vessel serve you well!”

The stars in the heavens shone fiercely through the blanketing smoke and their brilliance burned in the churning depths of the Starglass as the maiden lowered the silver acorn. Cold white flames licked over the bubbling glass, leaping up to dance around the glowing amulet.

A high-pitched, sonorous note rang in Ysabelle’s ears and a wintry chill passed into her fingers, searing up her arm until she spluttered and a halo of silvery light shone around her. Vesper stood back as the icy fires enveloped the squirrel entirely. The power which beat from the Starglass was blinding and he protected his eyes with his wings as Ysabelle became a pure white, dazzling flame.

Then, abruptly all was dark.

Vesper rubbed his eyes, but it was a few moments before they adjusted and he was able to see again.

The Starglass was calm and still once more and, standing beside it, Ysabelle turned a resolute and solemn face to the young bat. In her paw the silver acorn gleamed brightly—cleansed of the blood which had sullied it and she fastened the chain about her neck.

“What happened?” Vesper muttered.

“I accepted the high office,” she replied with a cool dignity he had not seen before, “and the power is now channelled through me.”

“But... but what does that mean?”

“The Starwifeship is truly mine,” she told him, “and all that it entails.”

A ferocious bellow sounded upon the nearby hilltop and Ysabelle’s face grew hard. “Take me back,” she demanded.

Vesper began thrashing his wings and the Starwife held onto him as they climbed into the sky.

About the blessed hill the Lord Hobb roared. Destroying flame blasted from his jaws, remorselessly burning those who had worshipped him alongside the squirrels of the hazel Realm. The tumultuous clamour of the shrieking multitudes was terrible to hear, yet cutting through all the chaos, came a clear and strident voice.

“Lord of the Raith Sidhe!” called Ysabelle, letting go of Vesper and dropping to the ground as he swooped down. “Hearken to me—the bringer of thy doom!”

The dreadful visage of Hobb turned to her and his fire-rimmed eyes blazed with triumph.

But the Starwife was not afraid and she held the symbol of her office aloft for all to see.

Steeped in the hellish glare of the infernal presence, the amulet gleamed. Pricking through the haze like a frosty white star, it shone within the baleful light—glimmering with might and purity.

“The world has no use for thee!” Ysabelle proclaimed. “Long ago thou wert shuttered from the living and must be so again!”

A chilling noise issued from the hideous fiend above her, and those that heard it realised, with a shiver, that Hobb was laughing.

Fearfully, Vesper rushed to the squirrel’s side and took her by the paw. “This is madness!” he cried. “Let me bear you from this foulness!”

But with a determined look on her face, she pushed him aside and repeated her warning to the monster above.

“The time of darkness is gone!” she shouted. “Never shalt thou trouble the world again!”

The scathing laughter subsided and for the first time in many ages, the demonic god of the rats spoke.

To hear his sepulchral voice was like being torn and cut by knives and some of those Hobbers who remained shrieked and fell upon their swords to drown the insidious horror of that evil sound.

“NEVER SHALL I BE RETURNING TO THE LOWER DEEPS!” he rumbled. “NO LONGER CAN THEY HOLD ME! THINE SPARKLING JEWEL DID FREE ME OF THEM FOR ETERNITY. NO, NOW THE LORD OF THE UNDERWORLD HATH DOMINION OVER THE UPPER REALMS. DARKNESS AND DEATH WILL I SPEW FORTH AND THE LUST FOR SLAUGHTER CRAWL INTO EACH PITIFUL CREATURE’S MIND.”

Ysabelle almost swooned before the force that was in that unearthly voice, but she roused herself and strode defiantly forward with the amulet in her paws.

“Not to the Pit which is broken do I consign thee!” she cried. “But to another confinement—of my own devising!”

“NEVER!” the Lord Hobb arrogantly scorned. “THERE IS NO FETTER IN ALL CREATION STRONG ENOUGH TO BIND ME. I AM FREE AND THY HAUGHTY WORDS CAN INFLICT NO HARM.”

“Though the fastness of the world’s dungeons is breached,” Ysabelle called, “I cannot permit thee to stalk the troubled earth and bring forth thy consort and the trickster. Begone from here—Beast of the Poisoned Seas!”

Behind the plumes of sulphur, the awful face contorted and a ghastly sneer formed on the dark blue lips. “PRINCE OF THE DESPAIRING DEAD AM I!” he roared. “HEIR TO THE INNER VOID WHICH WAS AND WILL COME AGAIN. CAST THY PETTY NETS ELSEWHERE, SQUIRRELING, FOR THY REIGN IS ENDED!”

A torrent of flames gusted from his mouth, but Ysabelle darted beneath him as the fires erupted where she had been standing and in a condemning voice, pronounced his fate.

“Father of lies!” she called. “Hear my curse and tremble! By the powers of this amulet you were summoned from the Pit, and to the acorn thou wert drawn. Take now that which I give so freely—may thou have that which lured thee!”

As she finished speaking, the sulphurous jets that belched from the soil shivered and stirred before the night airs and the Lord Hobb glared around him suspiciously. Quickly the breeze grew in force until a fierce wind fell on the hilltop and the reeking yellow fumes were scattered throughout the sky.

With the gale tearing around him, the rat god heard a low rumble shake the heavens which were suddenly ripped asunder as bolts of lightning jagged over his repulsive head.

The amulet in the Starwife’s paws crackled with magical force and the stars blazed in the firmament as the power waxed steadily.

Ysabelle closed her eyes as the full might of the silver acorn seared through her and her voice rose in unbearable anguish.

Bawling, the Lord Hobb raised a cloven hoof to crush the squirrel beneath him. Yet, even as he brought it smashing down, a streak of lightning struck one of his horns, which burst into white flame and a pall of livid green smoke spluttered into the flashing sky.

Never had the Lord of the Raith Sidhe known such pain and he screeched in convulsing torment as the fire burned and scorched.

“WITCH!” he roared. “WHAT HAST THOU DONE?”

Arcs of blinding energy raged about the titanic fiend, bristling down his forked tail and wreathing around his deformed head.

The Starwife shuddered as the lethal forces locked within the amulet flooded out, lashing against the demon with unstoppable fury. The awesome might of the silver acorn coursed through Ysabelle’s entire being, charging through every sinew and streaming forth to enmesh the Lord of the Underworld in a cage of dazzling stars that blistered and devoured him.

“NOTHING CAN HOLD ME!” he raged through his agony. “I SHALL NOT SUBMIT!”

Ysabelle felt the strength draining from her as the energy relentlessly beat out and the lightning crashed around the towering figure above.

Hobb was now covered in white flame and the gnarled claws that thrashed the air wove a frantic web of fire in the rampaging storm.

All around the hilltop, his followers and the squirrels gaped in terror as he bayed and shrieked. Then they rubbed their eyes as gradually a change stole over the evil creature. The flame-enveloped figure was slowly diminishing, dwindling behind the sizzling sparks and shrinking into the ground.

“NOOOO!” Hobb’s resounding scream echoed.

An inferno of blinding heat and light erupted from the soil and the fierce bolts of lightning that snaked from the amulet in Ysabelle’s grasp whipped furiously about the land of Greenreach. Then all was dark and the raging wind sighed into a calm and peaceful silence.

The hideous majesty of the Lord Hobb had utterly vanished.

Not a murmur disturbed the stunned quiet that followed, only the soft beating of leathery wings as Vesper landed at Ysabelle’s side.

“You destroyed him!” he marvelled.

The Starwife shook her head feebly. “He cannot be destroyed,” she answered in a drained whisper, “the god of the rats lies yonder.”

Nervously, Vesper flitted to where she pointed but he could not see anything upon the ground. Then he gave a small cry and peered at a tiny object that lay upon the charred soil.

It was a simple acorn, the ordinary green fruit of the oak tree—similar to the millions that grew in the forest. Yet, with infinite caution, Vesper picked it up and brought it reverently back to Ysabelle.

“There is the prison I wrought,” she said with great strain showing on her face, “no other choice was there. An acorn called him and by that was he doomed.”

The young bat gazed at the small round shape doubtfully. “I do not understand,” he muttered, “surely he can break free from there?”

“Do you not see?” she asked, putting her paw to her brow and swaying unsteadily. “Hobb is not merely trapped within the shell—his very being is locked within the nature of this and as long as it lasts, and a squirrel sits upon the Oaken Throne, so shall the term of his imprisonment.”

“Then you must keep it safe,” he replied, putting it into her paws.

“No, Vespertilio,” she breathed, “the acorn must be buried. A tree must grow and that oak shall flourish for over a thousand years. In every splinter of its timbers Hobb shall be sealed and... and while a twig... or leaf of it... remains, the world... the world is... is safe.” And with that, she slumped to the floor—exhausted by the forces she had unleashed.

But the danger was not yet over. All around the ruptured hilltop, the members of the Hobb cult were rising from where they had cringed and prostrated themselves. Madness shone in every staring eye and, hissing and gibbering, they took up their weapons once more and stole forward.

With a sudden wail, they leaped upon the squirrel army, rending and hacking, butchering the royal guards with a wild savagery that was terrible to behold.

Cawing maniacally, the carrion birds dived upon the Knights of the Moon and their armoured bodies began to fall in a grisly rain.

As the madness and uproar seethed about them, Vesper took hold of Ysabelle and carried her over to where the roots of the ruined oak had been torn from the ground.

“Ysabelle,” he called, laying her against the mangled tree, “can you not stop this?”

The Starwife opened her eyes wearily, and gazed in despair at the carnage which rampaged around them. “I am too spent,” she breathed. “I cannot wield the magic to protect our forces. I am sorry.” Then her head fell to her chest and she knew no more.

A guttural shout made Vesper whirl round, just as a hump-backed rat sprang for him. The young bat’s knife flashed in his grasp and a moment later the rat lay dead.

Yet the number of Hobbers was immense; their insane yammering travelled to the farthest shores of the great river and filled the wild expanse of the forest. Brutally, they swarmed over the defending forces, and, into the gaping fissures which scarred the earth, the hot blood of bat and squirrel gushed and flowed.

With his back against the Hallowed Oak, standing over the body of his beloved, Vesper slew many raving creatures. Yet always others leaped in to take their place and he knew he could not hold out much longer.

Overhead, the Knights of the Moon were failing against the gore crows and rooks, whose beaks and claws were stained a bright and sticky scarlet.

Warden Mugwort called to his troops, rallying them to him and keeping the flames of their courage burning. Yet the army of Ysabelle was hemmed in on all sides and, with each second that passed, another of their number fell before the rabid Hobbers.

From the flanks of the shrieking enemy, a jagged dagger came flying. Mugwort cried out as the barbed blade plunged into his shoulder and he tore it out fiercely—yet even as he cast the repugnant weapon from him, a blackness closed over his senses. The dagger had been dipped in venom and, with a cry of anguish, he fell dead.

The squirrels around him yelled in dismay. Roars of victory erupted from their broiling foe as they surged forward in one violent charge. The forces of the Hazel Realm were swept aside and the battle seemed to be nearing a grim conclusion.

Vesper was overwhelmed by the countless hordes. A shrilly squawking hedgehog rushed at him swinging a cudgel above its spine-covered head. The young bat threw up his wings to defend himself but his assailant delivered a terrible blow to his ribs and Vesper was thrown sideways.

With insanity shining in his eyes, the hedgehog lumbered up to Ysabelle and licked his teeth gruesomely.

Vesper struggled to his feet, but the blow had knocked all the strength from him and he collapsed at Ysabelle’s side just as the creature prepared to pounce.

Suddenly a loud trumpet-blast boomed over the hilltop and the hedgehog gazed blankly around him. His squinting eyes bulged in terror at what he saw and, with a frightful yelp, he threw down his cudgel and waddled away as fast as his bow legs could take him.

Vesper shakily lifted his head and a cry of joy blurted from his lips.

From the forest an immense host was marching up the hill. Never had such a force been assembled, for here were two of the remaining squirrel houses and their mighty armies contained ten thousand courageous souls—all geared for war and eager for battle. Yet what made Vesper’s heart leap inside him, was the sight of those who came at the vanguard of the vast number.

With swords drawn, the surviving woodlanders from the ruined mound stormed up the hillside—and Fenny was at their head.

“Ysabelle,” the bat called, “we are saved.”

The children of Hobb uttered terrified screams as this new threat advanced. The clamouring rats tore blindly about the hilltop, stumbling over themselves, fighting each other in their fear. Before the vast host had arrived, many terrified creatures had already perished at the feet of their brethren.

As the woodlanders reared over the rim of the hill, a number of the crazed Hobbers rushed at them and were swiftly slain, while others fled down towards the flowing river and were drowned trying to escape.

When the glorious reinforcements rushed at the enemy, the battle-weary army of Ysabelle revived and continued their fight—refreshed and filled with hope.

Yet in the sky the carrion birds were undaunted by the arrival of the unbounded legions and set about the Moonriders with more ferocity than ever. It was not until the squirrels strung their bows and shot volleys of arrows into the air that the crows paid them any heed. Each flurry of arrows brought three score of the feathered Hobbers down and they dropped like stones from the sky.

Screeching, the birds veered from the hill, but the Knights of the Moon pursued them unto the furthest reaches of the forest and none escaped their vigilance.

The ensuing battle was brief and deadly; nearly all the worshippers of the Raith Sidhe were destroyed, but some managed to flee with their lives and ran shrieking into the forest—to lick their wounds and wait for another day.

About the hill of Greenreach cries of jubilation rang out and the squirrels of the Hazel Realm greeted their long-sundered cousins.

But this rejoicing was marred with great sadness, for the cost of victory had been dear and the tally of the fallen ran into hundreds.

With jubilant cheers mingled with wails of lamentation filling his ears, Fenlyn Purfote strode through the bodies of rat and squirrel, over to the huge roots of the Hallowed Oak, where Vesper and Ysabelle lay.

At first he thought that both were dead but, as he drew closer, he saw the young bat stir and welcome him with a feeble grin.

“Hail, Captain,” Vesper whispered, “glad am I to see you again.”

The mouse smiled then looked at the maiden at his side. “Thy friend is pale,” he observed. “The denizens of the Ivy House are skilled healers, let me call them.”

“No,” said Vesper putting his wing about Ysabelle, “the Starwife is fatigued—no more.”

Fenny whistled through his teeth. “The Starwife!” he exclaimed, but before he could say any more an anxious voice trilled behind him.

“M’lady!” squealed the mousemaid. “Don’t fret none I’ll soon be with thee!”

As Griselda hurried from the midst of her mistress’s army, Vesper made a desperate appeal to the mouse captain.

“Please,” he asked, “keep that nursemaid from us for a while longer.”

Fenny nodded and turned to lead the clucking mouse away from the tangled roots.

Alone with Ysabelle, Vesper drew her close and kissed her lightly on the forehead and, as her eyelids fluttered open, the first rays of the morning sun edged into the sky.

Ysabelle

The celebrations lasted for many days, yet it was a time in which Ysabelle saw little of Vesper, for his people had one last score to settle and had besieged the chamber of the evil Lord Hrethel.

Having been the one to expose his dire treachery, and proving himself to be valiant and courageous, Vespertilio finally achieved his lifelong ambition and followed in the tradition of his forefathers. Now he too was a Knight of the Moon. As such, his duty had compelled him to encamp with the other survivors of the final battle about the lair of their last enemy.

Two whole weeks stretched by and the Warden of the Great Book refused to come forth. Then one evening, a messenger came from Greenreach announcing that the new Starwife was to be inaugurated by her subjects. Eagerly, Vesper took the tidings to the new general, who sombrely granted him permission to attend.

The following morning Vesper flew out over the walled city—anxious to see his beloved again. The great river shone beneath him as he sped towards the blessed hill and as he drew nearer he could see that the squirrels had not been idle.

The wreckage of the Hallowed Oak had been completely removed and not a trace of the fierce burning which had so marred the land now remained. Saplings had been planted to replace the trees that had perished in the fury of the fire-eggs and already the hill was covered in new grass and spring flowers speckled the lush expanse of green.

Excitement charged the air as he fluttered round. The banners of the combined squirrel houses flew in the murmuring breeze above hundreds of brightly coloured tents and, not to be outdone, the woodlanders had hastily sewn a standard of their own to set flying alongside those of their allies.

Preparations for the approaching ceremony were nearing completion as Vesper set down, and though the squirrels and mice greeted him warmly, they were too busy to hear the tidings of the great siege. Only Fenny stayed with him and he sensed that the young bat was troubled and agitated about something.

Leading him from the bustling crowds, the mouse captain refrained from asking what ailed his winged friend and told him instead of the progress that they had made in his absence.

“Oh, aye,” he declared, “’twill be a beauteous realm again—though not as fair as it was afore. Still, the folk who remain will deem it pretty enough I’ll warrant.”

Vesper fidgeted and looked over his shoulder, but the mouse made no comment and continued mildly.

“As soon as we can, the woodlanders and me are setting off. This isn’t the place for us. Now the Hobbers are gone, a sweet meadow is what we’ll settle for and nothing else.” They had walked far from the excited noise and Fenny lay his paw on Vesper’s shoulder.

“You will be most welcome to join us,” he said, “you and—whomever you might want to bring.”

Vesper stared at him; it was as if the mouse had read his thoughts.

“Say nothing,” Fenny told him, “stay here and I shall send her to you. Best to speak away from that heady babble.”

The mouse turned and strode briskly back towards the tents. Standing amid the pale lilac flowers, Vesper took a deep breath and waited. He was terribly nervous and gazed at the wondrous display before him, knowing that what he was going to ask would be extremely difficult. Impulsively, he lowered his eyes so that he would not have to look at the merry scene and walked uneasily round in a tight circle.

“Vespertilio!” called a voice.

The bat jumped and his toothy grin lit his face as Ysabelle came regally through the grass towards him.

“I longed for thee to be here this day,” she said, “but dared not raise my hopes. So, the Knights of the Moon have released thee from thy duties—I am glad.”

“I would have come even if they had not!” he answered, running to meet her. “Nothing could keep me from your side.”

The maiden laughed as they embraced. “Oh, there is so much to tell,” she said. “A chamber has been dug beneath the earth by the woodland folk and there they have set the throne salvaged from the ruined oak. Look at the flowers around us, are they not beautiful? I believe the spirit of the Green has blessed this place anew. It is all so joyous that I doubt sometimes whether everything was as dark and grim as I remember. My heart has never been so light and free of care—Griselda is chiding me continuously.”

“But times were dark,” Vesper told her, “never forget that, we lost dear friends upon that desperate road.”

“I know!” she said. “I have not forgotten them. Have you seen thy mother—was she not proud of thee? I knew she would be. If only my parents were here today. Oh, but is it not glorious?”

“Ysabelle,” the bat interrupted, “I have something to say to you.”

“It will be a most wonderful ceremony—such pageantry and pomp. Our cousins, those of the Fir, have brought many fine minstrels and they play the grandest music.”

“Ysabelle!” he cried again.

The squirrel blinked at him in surprise. “What is the matter?” she asked.

“Do you not know?” he replied morosely. “Have you forgotten the time on the mound, and when we danced to humbler tunes than those thy cousins can play?”

The Starwife looked uncomfortable. “Of course not,” she said, “yet that seems long ago to me now.”

“Long ago?” Vesper repeated in misery, “Listen to me Ysabelle! My every breath is thine, you order my waking thoughts and tantalise my dreams. These past weeks without seeing you or hearing your voice have been a desolation to me!”

“Vespertilio,” she said with some reserve, “what game is this?”

“No game!” he wailed. “Hear me now, we must flee this place. Do not take part in the ceremony—relinquish thy high office! Come with me, let us begin a new life far from here! Our devotion can overcome all obstacles, I know it can!”

Ysabelle recoiled in astonishment. The emotions which came flooding from the young bat frightened her and she pulled away from his clinging embrace.

Vesper fell to his knees. “This is what I had hoped and dreamed for!” he wept. “It can be done—long and hard have I thought. If we can only find some lonely spot we can be truly happy. Never has there been a love like ours.”

“Oh, Vespertilio,” she said sorrowfully, “I did not realise how deep thy feelings were. Of course I have affection for thee, but do you not see? You have thrown my mind into confusion—I must have time to think.”

“There is no time—listen! The trumpets are sounding, summoning everyone to the ceremony. You must choose, my beloved—it is our only chance of joy!”

“But where would we go? We are of two different kinds, folk would spurn us at every turn!”

“What does that matter? We will have each other—Fenny has said we may go with him.”

Ysabelle glanced back at the tents and all the banners which flew above them. “But I am the Starwife,” she uttered feebly.

“Let them find another!”

“I cannot! Vespertilio you do not know the grave responsibilities which now burden me. From the day the falcon dropped the silver acorn and it fell into my paws my destiny has lain outside the natural world. It binds me tight and I can never escape it—I must not. Your proposal is rash and ill-considered, it would never succeed and we would grow to despise one another. Our cultures are far too different.”

“Ysabelle! You love me—I know you do, how can you deny the happiness which would be ours?”

“Enough!” she cried, refusing to hear any more. “I am now the Starwife, Handmaiden of Orion, and as such must act with wisdom.” Tears brimmed in her eyes as she stroked his hair, murmuring, “A squirrel of the royal blood and a Moonrider; it was a lovely dream, Vespertilio, but such fancies must melt in the harsh glare of day. The dream is ended now. I go to my inauguration and do not think I should see thee again. Come no more to this place. Do not seek me, for I shall not speak with thee again.”

“But we mean so much to one another!” he spluttered.

“I am not permitted to love any mortal,” she answered, “my duty comes above all things. Goodbye.”

With tears streaking down her face, she spun on her heel and raced over the hilltop, to where Griselda was waiting for her.

Vesper uttered an empty cry as she fled from him and he called her name unceasingly until Ysabelle had vanished from his sight.

Surrounded by the swaying flowers, which rustled in the breeze, Vesper wept—desolate and filled with despair.

“What is this?” came a velvet voice. “Sadness on such a glad day of rejoicing?”

Vesper looked sharply behind him. “Who are you?” he asked, wiping his streaming eyes upon his wing.

Through the salty blur of his tears, he saw a cloaked figure rising from the grasses and a mist of lilac petals floated about the folds of the dark material. A deep hood obscured the stranger’s face and no clue to his identity could Vesper glimpse.

“Why were you hiding there?” he sniffed. “Explain yourself.”

“It is a fine morning and the sun, she shines most richly—I am afraid that I was sleeping when thy voices awoke me.”

“What... what did you hear?”

“Enough to know how forlorn thou art. To go through one’s existence so discouraged is not good, my friend.”

The bat frowned and tried to look beneath the hood. “Do I know you?” he asked. “Your voice is vaguely familiar.”

“I am but a fleeting visitor, come to view the crowning of one so great. Is it not pleasing to be present on such a day as this? I am exceedingly grateful to be here.”

Vesper shook his head. “No,” he murmured, “I have nothing to be thankful for. My life is in ruins, no joys are left to me—only dark despair.” He turned to leave but the other called him back.

“Thou hast my sympathies, Moonrider. Yet do not let us part on so bitter a note. My time here is also brief; wilt thou not drink a toast with a passing wayfarer? If not to the future which you see so bleak—then to the past?”

All Vesper wanted to do was to leave Greenreach far behind him, yet the cloaked figure was so insistent that he grudgingly agreed.

“I have about me a certain mixture which is honey to the tongue,” said the stranger, “a fine mead from a distant realm—come drink.”

From a pocket in his cloak, he took a small bottle that flashed and winked in the bright sunshine as he pushed it into Vesper’s grasp.

Politely, he received it and put the phial to his lips.

Abruptly the figure let out a mocking laugh. “Did I not say my curse would hound thee?” hissed the scornful shade of Wendel Maculatum. “Taste now the full bitterness of thy doom!”

Vesper gasped in horror as the empty cloak sank amid the flowers and the malevolent spirit fled back to its cold tomb. Only then, as he stared helplessly around him, did the young bat understand and the curse was finally fulfilled.

Prattling constantly, Griselda led her mistress down to the chamber the woodlanders had prepared The route was lined with members of the squirrel houses and all bowed as their new Sovereign passed.

“Ooh, is it not a delight?” the mouse gabbled. “Such a day I never did see, M’lady, who would have ever thought it? You the queen over all—does my heart proud it does.”

Ysabelle said nothing, and her features seemed frozen. Inside, all was turmoil and she walked down the stairway as one in a trance.

“Oh look, M’lady!” squeaked the oblivious maid. “There is that bold fellow I told you of, the one who asked me to step out with him. The very idea! Still, mighty pleasant and well spoken he is—one of them woodland folk I believe. Says he is of the brownmice and he won’t be leaving with the others to search for that mythical land they are always speaking of. Intends to settle down by the Deep Ford yonder and might he come and visit me with a view to getting better acquainted? In all honesty I don’t know what to make of him.”

But Ysabelle was not listening. She was thinking only of Vesper and as the crowds cheered, it was his remote voice and that alone she could hear.

A host of memories shone in her mind when she stepped woodenly up to the throne and, blazing fiercely in them all, was the young Moonrider.

Solemnly, the minstrels began to play and the maiden sat mechanically upon the elaborately-carved chair.

From the throng that flanked the raised dais, the prince of the Ivy house came. In his paws he bore the silver amulet which had been entrusted to him for this most magnificent occasion and he bowed before the Starwife before ascending to stand in front of her.

Ysabelle hardly noticed him; an image of Vesper flickered before her eyes and she smiled faintly, remembering their times together. A delicious warmth kindled inside her and with it a tremendous ray of hope cleared all shadows from her heart and at last she listened and knew what she must do.

“Sovereign queen,” the prince gravely intoned, “in the might of the Starglass thou hast been tempered.” As he spoke, the squirrel raised his arms and held the amulet above Ysabelle’s head.

“Under the firmament thou wert tested and hath proven worthy, accept now, before we who are gathered here, the symbol of thy peerless office. May the Green bless thee.”

The minstrels grew silent as the prince began to lower the silver acorn, but even as it descended, Ysabelle threw up her paw and pushed it aside.

“No!” she cried. “I will not accept it.”

A startled murmur rippled around the chamber and Griselda’s cap fell from her head in her startled surprise.

“But, most noble monarch,” the prince began, “the acceptance is made, this is a mere formality.”

“I do not care!” Ysabelle replied, rising to her feet, “I have done my duty. What is there for me to look forward to now? A long dismal life stretches before me. I would rather live from day to uncertain day—happy with my beloved, than commit myself to such a cruel and lonely sentence!”

The court was scandalised and uttered shrieks of protest. Only one figure refrained from voicing his displeasure and a great, glad smile split his face from ear to ear.

“That’s right,” Fenny called, “you had me worried for a moment!”

Ysabelle stared at the mouse captain and laughed. “None of this matters now,” she declared, “I must go to him, I must speak with him!”

Pushing past the horrified prince, Ysabelle tore from the throne and raced through the chamber, with Fenny’s shouts ringing above all the clamour and her devotion to Vesper spurring her on.

“Green be with thee both!” the mouse called as she hurtled up the stairs.

Out into the fresh morning air, Ysabelle ran—her long raven hair streaming behind her.

Past the brightly-coloured tents she hurried, her true love’s name always on her lips.

“Vesper!” she sang. “Vesper—forgive me. I did not know what I was doing. Of course I love you. Don’t leave without me, wait! Vesper!”

Up to the place where she had left him, Ysabelle fled and her heart nearly burst with the emotion that swelled inside her.

“Vesper!” she called urgently, scampering through the lilac flowers. “Vesper!”

Then the squirrel maiden juddered to a halt and stared aghast at the terrible sight which met her eyes.

“No,” she whimpered, “oh, please no!”

A slight breeze ruffled through the flowers and upon it she thought she could hear a faint, victorious chuckle. Ysabelle’s knees buckled under her and it was as if a bitter knife had pierced her heart.

There, with the tiny phial of blue glass still in his grasp, and the traces of its contents glistening upon his lips—her one and only love lay dead.

“Vesper,” she wept desperately, “Oh Vesper, forgive me!”

But the only answer came from the delicate bluebells which rustled and swayed around them.

Book 3: Thomas

First published in the UK in 1995

Old Wounds

Gwen Triton put down the little square of cotton which she was attempting to embroider and passed a weary paw over her tired eyes. At her side a stubby candle flickered, painting the small snug space with rich, golden hues. Sighing, the mouse tidied away her reels of coloured thread and gazed wistfully around as she waited for her husband to return.

Situated within a hollow figurehead on board the Cutty Sark, the midshipmouse’s quarters were certainly a great deal more homely than when she had first moved into them. A curtain of lace had been draped across the entrance and with the few odds and ends she had rescued from the wreck of the Skirtings she had virtually transformed the place.

Flowers now garlanded her husband’s model ship and his rough blankets were replaced by a quilt of patchwork; his lead anchor charm hung alongside Albert Brown’s mousebrass and next to all the maps and charts of exotic places, Gwen had put up a few pictures that her children had drawn when they were very young.

She thought of them now with a mixture of sorrow and pride—how grown up they both were!

Her daughter, Audrey, had occupied the august office of the Starwife for some time and ruled the squirrel colony of Greenwich with as much tenacity as her predecessor ever did, and thinking of this, Gwen could not help but smile. She saw Audrey quite often, when official duties allowed, and it was comforting to be so close to her realm. Arthur, however, was another matter.

Gwen’s son, Arthur Brown, had quickly grown impatient with life on board the Cutty Sark. From the start it was obvious that there was not enough room upon the sailing ship for all those who had fled the old empty house. The lack of space got on everyone’s nerves and tempers had smouldered with the shortest of fuses. Generally it was the younger mice who resented the new life, for they had seen a tiny glimpse of the world outside and were aching to view more.

Finally it had all come to a head one day when Arthur got into a bloody fight with one of the old Landings boys. That was enough for the plump Master Brown; the very next day he bade his mother and stepfather farewell and left the Cutty Sark for good.

Arthur did not go alone however, for the large group of discontented youngsters decided to accompany him and elected him as their leader.

For the first three weeks after his sad departure, or ‘the great abandonment’ as it eventually came to be called, Gwen Triton had very little sleep and spent many troubled nights worrying about her son. Then one evening a water vole crept aboard the ship with a message for her. Arthur was now the new Thane of the city. He had led the others through the sewers to the old mouse tunnels of Holeborn that his late friend Piccadilly once spoke of with so much affection.

Suddenly Gwen snapped out of her thoughts.

The lace curtain was roughly pushed aside and into the cosy, candlelit room strode her husband. The fragrant coolness of the midsummer night airs flowed after him and, with a shudder, Gwen recognised the foul humour that had overwhelmed him.

“Plague take it!” Thomas roared, stomping over to the shelf that housed his pipe and tobacco. “A body can’t get a minute’s peace—not nowhere any more. Always some danged fool a-yammerin’ or a-cluckin’ somewhere.”

The midshipmouse slipped the end of the wooden pipe into his mouth but made no attempt to light it. Instead he began to pace about the room, his white, wiry eyebrows twitching and tangling together as a sombre frown settled over his face.

“Thomas,” his wife began in a gentle voice, “come and sit down, please, dear.”

“Your Arthur was right!” he bellowed. “This place is too crowded. Each way you turn there’s some blasted fool getting in the way. There are times when I almost wish...”

He glowered at the mouse sitting forlornly upon the bunk but could not meet her sympathetic gaze for long. Spinning on his heel he lunged for a leather flask and poured its contents into a bowl.

Watching him, Gwen shook her head. “You said you weren’t going to touch that any more,” she reminded him gently.

Thomas raised the bowl to his lips but paused before drinking the rum it contained. “What else am I to do?” he cried. “It’s my only release—the only way to dull the bite of that old wound.”

“It seems to have been gnawing you rather a lot of late,” she observed a trifle wearily. “Thomas my love—you’re drinking far too much.”

The midshipmouse glared at her for a moment then in one rebellious tilt of his whiskery head, drained the bowl of its heady contents.

“Let me be,” he uttered huskily after wiping his mouth upon the back of his paw. “There’s nowt I can do.”

“It might help if you talked about it instead,” she answered, “instead of drinking yourself into a stupor every night. After all this time together you still won’t let me help you. Why do you continually keep that part of yourself closed to me?”

Thomas dragged the blue woollen hat from his head and hurled it to the floor in exasperation. “ENOUGH!” he yelled. “Belay that badgering—can’t you see how it is? I can’t tell you—I can’t tell no one!”

Gwen rose from the bunk and put her arms around him. “You must do something, my darling,” she comforted. “You’re destroying yourself and building a wall between us.”

The midshipmouse hugged her desperately, scrunching up his eyes and bitterly repenting of his harsh words. “Oh Gwennie,” he murmured, “forgive me. When this mood takes a hold there ain’t nothing I can do. Why do you put up with this scurvy old rogue?”

“You know why,” she told him, “but I was thinking, dear, if you can’t tell me—why don’t you write it down? I know we’ve spoken of it before but perhaps if you began your memoirs and put to paper all that torments you, the pain might ease. You never know, it could exorcise your demons for good.”

Thomas looked into her soft brown eyes and the anguish that burned his soul eased a little.

“Aye,” he mumbled, “maybe you’re right. There ain’t no harm in tryin’—though I don’t want no one to read it when I’ve done.”

Gwen gave his paw a gentle squeeze to reassure him. “They shan’t,” she said, moving across the small room and taking a sheaf of papers from the shelf. “I promise.”

Thomas sat himself down and gingerly took up a quill which he dipped into a pot of black ink.

Quietly, Gwen tiptoed away so as not to disturb him and threw a shawl over her shoulders before stepping from the figurehead to visit the Chitters—leaving the midshipmouse alone with his troubled memories.

With the candlelight playing over his frowning face and flaring in his fine white hair, Thomas Triton began to scratch his firm, well-ordered script over the first page.

For the first time in many grim years he summoned to the fore those thoughts which he had so desperately attempted to forget.

It was long ago, when he was a young mouse eager to see the world, that it first began. How easily he remembered walking down that country path, the narrow stony road that wound down to the harbour where his adventures were sure to start and the humdrum life of the landlubber would be left behind forever.

Yet Thomas had made the mistake of setting out upon his journey just before one of the worst winters was about to seize hold of the country, and even as his light footsteps carried him ever nearer to the coast the first flakes of snow had started to fall.

A far-off look settled over Thomas’s face when he recalled how he scampered for the nearest shelter and found it in a quaint and ramshackle farmhouse where a community of field mice took him in and made him welcome.

The quill trembled in the midshipmouse’s fingers as the images and feelings which he had locked away and sealed in the rum-drowned bilges of his mind bubbled to the surface. Faces swarmed before his vacant eyes. Visions of those friendly mice all beckoning him into their winter quarters and offering him hot food from their tables.

And then, one grinning face appeared before him as he knew it would and the sturdy seafarer’s heart quailed within his breast.

Try as he might he could not bring himself to look upon that small, trusting face for long and he threw his paws in front of his eyes in an effort to dispel it.

Wailing, Thomas pushed himself away from the small desk, knocking over the ink and flinging the papers to the floor as he reeled away from his own guilt.

“I can’t do it!” he called. “There’s no going back fer me. I can’t dwell on what I did—I can’t never bring myself to relive it.”

Wretchedly, the midshipmouse lurched for the leather flask and great tears rolled down his hoary whiskers as he gulped the warming, numbing liquid down.

When the flask was empty, Thomas cast his eyes about the room and stared at the pool of ink that oozed over the floor. Its glimmering surface was like a mirror of black glass and he peered down at his reflection in an agony of turmoil.

Then his liquor-stained lips parted and, in his distress, a name formed upon them.

“Woodget,” he whispered softly, “forgive me.”

1 - A Bowl of Berrybrew

Before the sun had edged over the blossom-laden trees which massed on the horizon like a dense bank of snowy clouds, the preparations for this special day were already complete.

It was the morning of the Great Spring Celebration and the field mice who had taken refuge within the farmhouse over the harsh winter months were at last ready to move out.

In those half-remembered days, Betony Bank Farm was small, having only one large barley field and a meadow in which four fat dairy cows grazed contentedly. Across the yard were two outbuildings: the stable where a shire horse resided, snug in his straw-filled stall, and next to that a shabby-looking barn.

As the first weak rays of the climbing sun flickered over the distant trees, a group of yawning but excited figures emerged from the farmhouse.

Across the dusty yard the field mice scurried, each laden with carefully prepared decorations. The hawthorn girl and oak-leaf boy were carried proudly into the meadow and set down in the centre of a small clearing where two mousewives immediately began to sew the special favour ribbons upon them.

The foraging parties were dispatched to find sprays of fragrant blossom whilst the others toiled within the nearby hedgerow to construct the chambers of Winter and Summer.

When two hours had passed and the sun was higher in the sky, the clearing was filled with the heady sweetness of hawthorn and a delicious feast had been spread upon the ground. All was now ready and those youngsters who were to come of age were marched with great solemnity up to a leafy entrance fashioned in the dense and gloomy hedge.

Everyone loved this time of year and though their stomachs were growling, they waited patiently until the ceremony of the mousebrass giving was over before they tucked into the food.

Standing a little apart from the main group, a lovely young mouse maiden with curling tresses of chestnut-coloured hair closed her soft brown eyes and lifted her face to the warm sunshine.

Bess Sandibrook was a kindly creature, whose sweet nature had made her a favourite amongst those who dwelt on the farm. With a smile traced upon her comely features she idly fingered her own mousebrass which she had been given the previous year. It was the sign of the fieldmouse, as good and as worthy a symbol as any, and she followed the shape of the gleaming metal with her fingertips. Tilting her head to one side, she listened to the squeals of joy and gasps of mock horror that floated out from the hedgerow and smiled happily.

Few events in a mouse’s life were as important as today’s festivities and everyone threw themselves into the merrymaking. A ghostly moan issued out over the meadow and the assembly giggled, knowing that it was only someone in the chamber of Winter trying to scare the youngster passing through.

Bess grinned and sat herself down upon a heap of soft, sun-warmed moss. She recognised that hollow voice—it belonged to her lifelong friend, Woodget Pipple and she laughed softly, thinking of her small companion’s delight at the prospect of taking part in the ceremony this year.

So eager had Woodget been to participate that he had spent several evenings making a ghost costume, chuckling incessantly at the fun he would have leaping out at those unsuspecting youngsters or appearing suddenly above them—emitting ghastly and woeful shrieks.

Bess was very fond of Woodget but she forgot about him for an instant when a second voice, deeper this time, came echoing from the hedge.

Undoubtedly that was Thomas and the mouse maid hugged her knees and nibbled a length of grass as she took time to consider this handsome outsider.

Thomas Stubbs had been with them for nearly five months now. He had first stumbled upon their little community on the night of that terrible blizzard. Were it not for Woodget’s large and sensitive ears his pitiful cries would have been lost forever on the gale, but the little fieldmouse had bravely faced the storm and found Thomas in the yard, close to death.

With the aid of the others, Master Pipple brought Thomas indoors and placed him near the fire. The stranger had been an alarming sight for he was covered in snow and the frost had made his whiskers so brittle that most of them had snapped off. With tender concern, the field mice saw to his needs, and it was Bess who gave the freezing newcomer a bowl of hot soup to thaw him.

A few days of recuperation followed in which Bess and Woodget became Thomas’s closest friends and now the trio were inseparable.

Bess liked Thomas enormously. Not being a fieldmouse, he was taller and stockier than the others and had already proven how brave he was. Once he had courageously ventured into the haunted barn in the dead of night and returned with a chilling and ghostly tale of what had happened there.

Suddenly a jaunty tune was struck upon a whisker fiddle and a reed pipe and the mouse maid stirred from her thoughts. The ceremony was over; all the youngsters had received their brasses and the proud families were eagerly pressing around them to see what symbols they had been given.

Then a giggling cry was heard as, from the entrance, stumbled two outlandish figures and a ripple of mirth spread through the field mice as they roared and pointed.

First came a small, black, flapping spectre, whose billowing body was a mass of carefully sewn cloth. The face of this apparition consisted of a large mouth painted into a toothy grimace and two round holes which served as eyes.

Unfortunately, the outfit was rather too long and the ghost came tripping into the clearing uttering little squeaks and grunts of annoyance when the ample skirt was stepped upon from within.

Behind this clown-like phantom appeared an even more startling creature. Out of the entrance lumbered a completely white and deathly-looking mouse whose dark eyes seemed sunken and empty by contrast.

In the crowd a tiny mousechild let out a doubtful whimper as the two horrors staggered and reeled around in a wobbly circle until the black-shrouded one lost its footing and flew headlong into his pale comrade. Onto the grass the gruesome pair collapsed and writhed in a confused tangle as swathes of the thrashing material became utterly twisted and snarled around them both.

“Ooer!” chirped a high gurgling voice from behind the painted cloth face. “I got me frock in a muddle! I can’t get up—I’m all in a knot, where’s me feet got to? Now the hood’s shifted—the peepholes have moved round—I can’t see nowt!”

Beside this wriggling spectre, Thomas Stubbs finally managed to extricate himself from the ensnaring costume but was powerless to help his friend—for every time he caught a glimpse of him squirming in that ridiculous outfit he burst into fresh laughter.

Most of the flour that Thomas had covered himself in before the festivities had started was now gone, either brushed off on the grass, rubbed onto the black cloth or washed away by the tears that streamed down his chuckling cheeks.

He was a fine young mouse, with a proud and defiant air about him that demanded respect, and in the brief time he had been at Betony Bank had made many friends. None however were as close to him as the one presently endeavouring to disengage himself from the ghost costume and with a hearty laugh, Thomas reached across and tore the hood away.

Blinking, and with a wide grin that split his little face in two, Woodget Pipple let out a grateful sigh.

“Thank’ee, Tom,” he cried. “I did think I were lost fer good in there.”

With his russet-gold head poking out of his ghost outfit and his paws lost inside the voluminous sleeves, Woodget was a comical sight.

Master Pipple, eldest son of Herbert and Marigold and brother to Burdock, Cudweed and little Throgfittle, was small even for a fieldmouse. His ears were larger than his head and his long whiskers were continually trembling, for his senses were extremely acute and it was said amongst the others that he could smell the weather changing and always knew at what hour the rain would come.

“We really put the frighteners on them younguns, din’t we, Tom?” he cried, staring up at his friend with wide, glittering eyes. “Our Cudweed didn’t half yowl when I popped out from them leaves and did that horrid moanin’. Did you see how she went a scamperin’ out o’ there into the other chamber? She’m plain daft!”

Thomas smiled and offered a paw to help him up. “Well, I’d be careful if I were you,” he said. “Here’s your sister now and she don’t look well pleased with us at all.”

“Green save us!” Woodget yelped as he turned to behold a plump mouse girl with straggly pigtails and a grim expression fixed upon her round face come barging through the crowd towards them. “Let’s scarper, Tom! She’s got that same look as when I pushed her into the brook. Awful hard paws has our Cudweed.”

“You come back here, Woodget Pipple!” the girl’s outraged voice shrieked when she saw her brother making a dash for it. “I‘ll teach you to scare me. You too, Master Thomas—I’ll learn you both.”

Out of the clearing ran Thomas, laughing all the way until he realised that Woodget was not following him and he knew that his friend had fallen victim to the treacherous costume once more.

Chortling, he made his way back and heard Cudweed’s scolding voice berating her brother.

“You’re a wicked pair,” said another by his side.

Thomas turned and there was Bess.

“Scaring them half to death! Don’t you have nothin’ better to do?”

“Was only Cudweed who didn’t like it,” he protested. “Mind you, Woodget did go a bit far with her. Chased her right out of the chamber, he did.”

“Well, he’s paying for it now,” Bess observed. “Listen to that girl; just imagine what she’ll be like in a few years.”

“I pity the one she marries,” Thomas added. “His ears won’t never stop ringing.”

Bess flicked her hair over her shoulders and gazed mischievously at him. “I heard that she likes you,” she said. “Set her sights, she has.”

“I’d feed myself to an owl before I’d let that happen,” he shuddered. “That Cudweed really is summat to be scared of and no mistake.”

“Maybe, but once a mousemaid has made up her mind who she wants, it’s as good as settled.”

Thomas gazed at her and saw in her eyes a strange light that he had not noticed before and wondered what it could mean. But he could not discover the answer, for at that moment Woodget ambled towards them, with his outfit now bundled under his arm and his left ear glowing a bright crimson.

“Oaks and ivy!” the fieldmouse exclaimed. “That were lucky! Only cuffed me lughole that time. I reckon Cuddy’s got soft now she’s growed up.”

For the rest of that day the three friends laughed and chatted lightly with one another. When they had tucked into the food and stuffed themselves until their stomachs ached, they found a cool shady spot and watched the games and entertainments unfold in the clearing. Eventually the afternoon stretched by and a group of five musicians prepared for the long night of dancing that lay ahead.

“Come on Bess, lass!” Woodget squeaked, jumping to his feet as The Green Revels commenced. “Let’s you and me go show Tom how we country folk can frolic.”

Propped upon his elbows, Thomas watched them skip into the midst of the other gathering dancers, but a furrow creased his young brow as a strange and unexpected idea occurred to him. Although he loved both of those happy mice dearly, he almost resented them being together and enjoying themselves without him.

Surprised and mildly alarmed by these dreadful stirrings of jealousy, Thomas shook himself to dispel them and drew a paw over his eyes.

“You’re tired, Tom lad,” he told himself, “that’s all. No wonder, you were up early and have eaten more in one sitting than most folk do the entire week.”

Yet he could not take his eyes off his two friends whirling in time to the sprightly music and, more often than not, his gaze was fixed upon Bess.

Two more tunes and dances passed before the others returned, hot and breathless but bearing a jug of berrybrew from the feast which was now spread with dainty biscuits and little cakes.

“Here y’are, Tom,” Woodget said, passing him a bowl, “right good stuff this is. Old Vetch makes it hisself and only brings it out for the Spring ceremonies. In the autumn we all go a-brambling for him—daresay I picked some of this ’ere brew meself, two year back.”

Thomas took the bowl and sniffed the dark purple liquid his friend poured into it. “Smells like over-ripe fruit,” he commented. “Daresay it’s good for wasps but I don’t want any. We didn’t have none o’ this where I come from.”

“Why, Tommy Stubbs!” Bess chided, sipping at her own bowl and shivering slightly at the drink’s potency. “I do believe you’re afraid. See, it’s perfectly delicious. Go on—you must try it at least.”

Stung by her gentle teasing, Thomas lifted the bowl to his lips once more and took a great swig.

Woodget and Bess stared at him expectantly as the mouse held the liquid in his mouth for several moments and swilled it around his tongue, wondering whether to spit it out or not.

“’Tain’t poison, Tom,” Woodget chuckled. “Old Vetch makes the best brew hereabouts.”

Thomas gulped it down then opened his mouth and gasped loudly as the powerful drink tingled on his tongue and his eyes began to water.

“Poor Tommy!” Bess cried, throwing her arms about him. “It’s a strong brew to sup as your first. P’raps we should put some water in it for you next time.”

Spluttering, Thomas shook his head then clicked his tongue a few times before a stupid grin appeared on his face.

“It weren’t that bad after all,” he announced. “Tasted quite nice really. Is there any more?”

“Not for the moment, Tommy Stubbs,” Bess laughed, taking the bowl from him. “I’ll have this next dance if you don’t mind—a couple more of them and you won’t be able to stand up straight.”

With Woodget waving them into the clearing, the two mice took hold of each other’s paws but the music changed before they could begin and when the musicians struck up the next tune it was a slow, romantic waltz.

With his berrybrew in his little pink paws, Woodget regarded them contentedly. They were the two friends he loved more than anything in the world and it was strange to reflect that before the winter he had never known Thomas.

“Don’t know what I’ll do when he decides the time’s come for him to pack up and set off on that voyage he’s always speaking of,” the fieldmouse mused into his bowl. “Me an’ Bess’ll miss him real bad.”

Into the evening the music played and the two mice continued to take it in turns to dance with the comely maiden. The first jug of berrybrew was emptied and when the second was only half full and Masters Stubbs and Pipple were momentarily alone under the leaves of the hawthorn tree, Thomas began the conversation which was to alter their lives forever more.

The scent of the blossom laced the darkling air as strongly as Old Vetch’s intoxicating beverage and, staring up at the first pale stars which glimmered in the dusky heavens, Thomas said, “I like that Bess girl.”

Twirling a spray of flowers under his twitching nose, Woodget nodded drunkenly. “Bessh’s a goodun,” he slurred. “I knowed her all my life you know, Tom. Did... did you know that? All my lickle life I knowed her. She... she’sh a goodun, I tell ’ee.”

“’At’s true enough,” his friend agreed. “I never did think to find a mousemaid like her, not ever. You know, Woodj—she just might be the sort a body might give up his dreams for.”

Woodget planted the spray in the ground and kissed it benignly. “Now you grow into a luvverly big tree,” he said with all the seriousness he could muster. “Can’t have too much hawthorn—oh no, that we can’t. Green’sh own tree it ish, ain’t that right, Tom?”

Thomas rubbed his chin thoughtfully and the resolve mounted in his heart. “I think I’ve decided, Woodj,” he said finally. “It’s the right thing for us both, I see that now.”

“That’sh nice,” the fieldmouse tittered, his blurred interest now taken with a beautiful silver moth which was fluttering close. “I agree—oh mosht defin... deff... oh yesh!”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Thomas muttered. “Forgo those idiotic dreams of seeing far-off lands. Why go all the way to find summat that ain’t there? This is where my heart’ll be the whole time—I know that now.”

“You shtayin’ then, Tom?” Woodget sighed happily. “That’sh wunnerful.”

His friend nodded and stared at the other mice gathered in the clearing. Small glass jars containing candle stumps were twinkling in the thickening gloom, paper lanterns were strung across the hedgerow and standing in the light of them, with her hair catching the glints and flickers of the flames, was the object of his devotion.

“I love her, Woodj,” Thomas muttered. “She’s the loveliest maid on the good Green’s earth.”

The moth spiralled directly over Woodget’s head but the fieldmouse was suddenly blind to it and gazed across at his friend with a look of disbelief and sorrow written upon his face.

“What... what was that, Tom?” he whispered, sobering quickly.

Thomas drained the rest of his bowl and took a deep, determined breath. “Tonight,” he said firmly, “I’ll ask for her paw in marriage.”

Woodget’s eyes opened wide and his large ears drooped mournfully. “You... you sure, Tom?” he stammered. “What if’n she says no?”

“Oh, she’ll not do that,” came the awful reply. “I know what’s in her heart same as I do what’s in mine. That maid’s right for me and me for her—we were meant. Why else was I brought to this place if not for that? I always reckoned it was fate what drove me out last winter; it weren’t to set forth on no voyage, but to find her.”

Woodget said nothing, but his world had crashed in around him and his spirit grieved bitterly. He had never said anything but he too had thought that one day he and Bess might wed—it seemed the most natural thing in the world—yet now that dream was shattered.

Oblivious to his friend’s despair, Thomas scrambled to his feet and straightened the red kerchief he wore about his neck. “Right,” he said flatly, “this is it, now or never—I’m going to ask her.”

In a moment he was gone and the small fieldmouse was left alone feeling wretched while dismal tears welled up in his eyes. How could he bear to remain here? How could he stay and watch them begin their life together? Woodget’s despairing heart fluttered in his breast and he sniffed desolately. There was only one thing he could do and bleakly he stumbled away into the night.

“Hello, Master Thomas,” Cudweed cooed as the mouse strode determinedly by. “T’ve forgiven you for frighting me this mornin’. Won’t you dance with me? Thomas?”

Not hearing the plump girl’s call he pushed onto where Bess was chatting to a group of her friends. Hearing the cries of Woodget’s frightful sister they turned and saw him approaching.

“Ahem,” Thomas began, clearing his throat to ensure his voice came out level and did not betray the nerves which were jiggling inside him.

“What is it, Tommy?” Bess asked. “No more dancing for a while—I swear you and Woody are trying to wear my feet out between the pair of you.”

Thomas caught hold of her arm. “It isn’t about the dancing,” he said with urgency in his voice.

Bess stared at him puzzled for a moment then gripped his paw tightly. “Nothing’s happened to him, has it?” she cried. “Where is he?”

“Woodget’s fine,” Thomas hissed back. “Look, can we walk a little? Just over there out of this crowd. I got me something to say.”

Bess raised her eyebrows questioningly but allowed him to lead her away from the main gathering and they strolled through the wild grasses, each wondering what the other was thinking.

“What is it, Tommy?” she asked eventually. “You can tell me now, there bain’t no one here to mark what you say.”

Thomas stared at the ground, and fumbled with his kerchief before answering—then it all tumbled out in a great rush of words.

“It’s like this, see,” he spluttered, “there ain’t nowt for it but to tell you and mebbe it’s Vetch’s brew made my tongue loose or mebbe it’s give me the pluck to ask you what’s been on my mind but didn’t have the nous to recognise. One fact I do know is that what I feel is true and ain’t no giddiness caused by that stuff so don’t you go a-thinking it is.”

Bess stared at him, taken aback by his outburst and wondering what he could be talking about.

“Let me finish,” he declared, seeing that she was about to interrupt. “It’s like this, Bess, and I can’t say it no plainer, though I’ll wager others might be able to say it prettier and p’raps choose better moments but I ain’t them and so this is it.”

He paused to catch a breath before continuing and Bess was even more perplexed although a shadow of doubt was forming at the back of her mind.

“What I say is this then,” he jabbered. “I likes you and I thinks you like me so what you say we get hitched, us two?”

Bess merely stared at him in bewilderment.

“I said, will you be my wife?” he cried, squeezing her paws desperately.

“Thomas,” she finally managed to utter, “I had no idea—I never reckoned.”

“I’ll be a good husband,” he promised. “The sea won’t never tempt me—that were just a boyish fancy. You’re the strongest anchor a mouse could have—I never want to see another place if it means being away from you.”

Bess’s expression changed from confusion to sorrow and she bit her lip anxiously. “Oh Thomas,” she wept, “I’m so sorry, I never meant to give you the wrong notion. I thought we were just having a good time, we three. I’m so very sorry, but I don’t love you—I likes you but that’s all there is. My heart belongs to another.”

The mouse pulled away from her and a horrible cold feeling washed over him. “A... another?” he mumbled, turning aside so that she could not see the pain upon his face.

“Did you not see?” she asked softly. “Could you not guess? I love Woodget, we have always been together and always will. That is the way of it.”

“He... he never mentioned it,” Thomas said thickly.

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? I’ve been waitin’ and a-waitin’ but still no word—I know what he feels better’n him but he’s shy when it comes to matters like that. If he don’t speak soon I’ll have to do the asking myself—don’t know why I haven’t already.”

There was an awkward silence broken only by a miserable sniff from Thomas’s nose and he wiped it on the back of his paw.

“Don’t take it so hard, Tommy,” Bess said. “We can still be friends, can’t we?”

The mouse shuffled uncomfortably and when he next looked up at her she could see how she had hurt him. “Course,” he muttered, “but I won’t be stoppin’ round here for much longer. I’ve done decided now—there’s nowt to keep me, so come tomorrow I’ll be settin’ off on that voyage.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said honestly, “and so will Woodget.”

Thomas glanced back at the dancers, across to the hawthorn tree where he had left the little fieldmouse. “He’s mighty lucky to have you, Bess,” he managed to say. “I... I think you’d best get back to him. I got to get my bits an’ pieces ready if’n I’m to leave first light.”

Bess nodded and began walking back the way they had come, then turned and said softly, “You don’t have to leave, Tommy.”

“Yes, I do,” came his regretful reply.

The mousemaid gave a sad, understanding smile and left him standing alone in the tall grasses.

Thomas’s head was swimming, partly from the effects of the berrybrew but mainly because of Bess’s rejection. How could he have been so wrong? Morosely, he stared up at the stars and wondered what his future held—what would become of him now? The sea journeys he had once yearned to embark upon now seemed uninteresting and contained no hope of joy.

“A right Tomfool you are,” he rebuked himself aloud. “What did you have to go and open your big stupid mouth for?”

At that moment his wallowing thoughts were interrupted by a heartfelt cry which rang out over the glimmering meadow, and at once the music ceased.

“Bess!” he shouted.

In a trice, Thomas bounded back to the clearing. The assembled mice were already scurrying back over the yard to the farmhouse to discover the source of the commotion and he jostled past them impatiently.

“Thomas!” Bess cried. “Thomas!”

As the mice hurried to the building, Bess came racing towards them clutching a scrap of paper in her paw and searching for the tall mouse amongst the crowd.

Then he was before her and to his dismay he saw the anguish in her face.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

“He’s gone!” Bess replied, thrusting the paper into his grasp, “Look!”

With trembling fingers, Thomas uncrumpled the note and his brow grew stern when he read the unhappy message.

To Tom and Bess,

This is just so as you don’t think I’ve done owt daft, tho I doesn’t blame no one for thinking I would.

My dad allus said I couldn’t see wat was under my nose and it looks as if he were right. I never reckoned you were keen on each other, now I feel as though I’ve been gettin in the way all this time. Must have been real narksome for you to have me tag along wheresoever you went and whatsoever you did. But as my dad also says, a body can’t trip over a thing and not know it’s there.

I know how things are twixt you now. Oaks and ivy—I sure does feel right gormless for not twigging sooner but there you are—I didn’t and so I don’t fancy staying in Betony Bank no more. That’s as plain as I can make it. I ain’t much good at my letters so I’ll say goodbye here and have done.

Woodget

PS Tell our Cudweed to look after our folks and tell them I wish them nowt but the bestest cos they were real good to me and I’ll think of them allus.

Thomas raised his eyes from the paper and his face was set and grave.

“This is my fault,” he cursed himself. “That poor lad’s head is stuffed with the nonsense I was spouting.”

Around him the field mice shook their heads and Woodget’s parents held onto each other for support.

“We must find him,” Bess said. “He can’t have gone far.”

“But he could be anywhere!” came the flustered replies. “There aren’t enough of us to search—he’s sure to be lost forever.”

“Well, he can’t have gone through the meadow,” she told them, “we’d have seen him. We must split into groups and try the other ways.”

“Hold!” shouted Thomas unexpectedly. “I know where he’s bound. There’s only one place he’d go.”

Bess gazed at him fearfully as the truth dawned on her. “The harbour!” she gasped. “He’s gone to catch a ship!”

“That’s how I read it,” Thomas nodded. “He thinks I’ve taken his place so he’s gone and took mine—the moonkissed ninny.”

“Then we must hurry!” she urged. “He might be halfway there by now and if he should find a ship before we get to him...”

“Wait!” Thomas said. “This is all my doing and mine alone. I’ll go after him and bring him safe home. No need for anyone else, this is my task.”

Bess gazed at him imploringly. “Bring him back to me, Tommy,” she whispered. “Bring him safe home.”

The mouse took her paws in his and looked steadily into her tearful eyes. “I swear, Bess,” he told her, “I swear he’ll be in your arms before long, as the Green is my witness. I’ll atone for the mess I’ve made.”

And with that, Thomas ran from the yard, darted under the hedge and out onto the narrow stony path beyond where the wild darkness claimed him.

In the long despairing years that followed, he never once set eyes on Bess Sandibrook again, and in those after-times the generosity of the Betony Bankers was diminished and they never again trusted outsiders nor welcomed them into their homes.

2 - Mulligan

A peaceful calm lay over the small harbour and with a contented, graceful motion the fishing boats rose and fell upon the gently lapping waves. Mooring ropes were softly creaking, sloshing abstractly in the sluggish seawater and trailing up to the quayside where they were lost amidst the creels and lobster pots which were stacked into mountainous and unsteady wicker steeples.

The buildings that rose, stark and threatening, beyond the old harbour road were silent and those who dwelt there at rest. No one marked the goings-on upon the quayside, no one was witness to the steady traffic of small creatures who frequented that place in the dark, moonless hours.

Shadowy shapes, intent on their own pressing business and paying no heed to any other, were flitting over the wide, salt-scrubbed stones. It was an unusual and unsettling location to be for one unaccustomed to the bustle of harbour life and there were always some who endeavoured to exploit the gullible traveller as best they could.

As the night deepened and the gulls sleepily rode the waves, a small and solitary figure wended his sorry way down the path from the grassy hills and stood stock-still when the vast expanse of the great midnight sea ranged into view.

With a blue woollen hat that Bess had knitted for him last winter pulled down just above his ears and a cloth bag containing his personal treasures slung over his shoulder, Woodget gazed at the limitless waters and held his breath. Straining his bright eyes, he tried to see the edge of the briny realm, but it merged with the night and the only indication of its immeasurable size was when the shimmering reflection of the starlight was caught in the foaming waves far from shore.

Never had he imagined anything could be so immense and unbounded. The sky didn’t count because you could never touch that, whereas the water was actually there—you could feel it; and as he breathed once more, the little fieldmouse’s sensitive nose thrilled at the rich salty reek that spoke of waving weeds and cold fathomless depths.

“Oaks and ivy!” he murmured. “I did think the barley field were big—but that was as an acorn is to a forest. T’would take a lifetime and more to cross that and no mistake. Ain’t no ship ever built could sail from here to yonder.”

Amazed at this wonderful spectacle and doubting if Thomas’s stories about sea-going vessels were not just a fanciful make-believe, Woodget ambled down the path and made for the harbour.

Presently the steep road became a gentle slope which gradually levelled out. The gravel was replaced by smooth flat stones and the fieldmouse found himself upon the quayside.

Timidly, he looked about him and swallowed nervously. To his left and rearing high above him was the shape of a fishing boat. To Woodget the craft was huge and he stared warily up at the mast and the rigging that radiated from it like the web of a gigantic spider.

“I doesn’t know if’n I likes this ’ere place,” his whimpering voice murmured. “Just look at that there girt contraption—and see, there’s more and bigger too!”

After some minutes of doubt and indecision, wondering if he ought to retrace his steps and go anywhere else but here, the fieldmouse finally concluded that to have a quick scout about would bring him to no harm.

Cautiously, he picked his way over the quay and soon forgot his fear of the ships, marvelling instead at their shapely beauty. It was as if the strong smell of the sea had affected him more potently than any batch of Old Vetch’s berrybrew, for he found himself trying to imagine what it might be like to sail upon one of these lovely vessels.

As his tiny feet pattered over coiling ropes which smelled of pitch and tar, he suddenly became aware that he was not alone.

Scampering around the screening crates and barrel towers, to his surprise Woodget discovered a number of stalls set out in the middle of the thoroughfare as if it were a kind of market.

The proprietors were mainly mice, but here and there he noticed other creatures fussing over the carefully laid-out trestles and vying for the attention of the passers-by.

As far as Woodget could see and from the information assailing his nostrils, they sold everything—from simple maps of the surrounding country to hot shrimps toasted over a candle flame. There were stands full of souvenirs for the outgoing traveller to remind him of home, and gifts for the returning wanderer to purchase as last-minute presents he may have forgotten to buy for the family whilst abroad. There were painted shells, dried starfish tied on strings, useful items like small bottles and leather flasks, all manner of hats and scarves to keep out the cold ocean breezes, packets of dried orange and lemon rind to keep away scurvy, and decoctions of herbs guaranteed to ward off the dreaded sea-sickness.

With his eyes growing rounder every moment he drew closer, Woodget drank in the lively scene.

Many of the stalls were covered with colourful canopies, and within each of these swung a lantern that shone through the fabric and illuminated the market with a cosy, cheery glow of countless warm and friendly hues.

Tentatively, the fieldmouse approached the first of the stalls and at once every vendor was aware of him.

“Hoy there!” cried a blousy shrew with a pronounced squint who beckoned him madly with her stunted arms. “If you’re setting off tonight, you can’t afford to miss these, my lovely. I’ll bet you’re doing some worrying right now—am I right, sir? My, but he’s a handsome fellow—such ears he has! Worrying about all that plaguey water out there and what happens—stars forbid!—if the boat is wrecked and in you tip.”

“Oh dear,” Woodget muttered, “I hadn’t thought ’bout that.”

“And neither you should, my brave little captain,” she tutted, smiling beneath her prodigious nose and fanning her paws over her wares for his inspection. “Can you swim? I thought not. Well, fear no more! Just one of these around your neck will keep your head above water—three and you can sail home all on your ownsome.”

Woodget looked at the objects laid out on her stall and considered them dubiously. They seemed to consist of a loop of string onto which had been threaded a lump of cork no bigger than his own tiny fist.

“What... what are they?” he asked, a little embarrassed to convey his ignorance.

The shrew clasped her paws to her breast and sucked the air through her teeth in mock horror. “And there was you all ready to board ship and not know that these here little miracles existed. Why, you’re not safe to be let out on your own, are you, my delicious duck egg? These charming and, if I might say so, fashionable items are invaluable to the mariner. Why, I don’t know no one who sets sail without one round his neck. Must’ve saved hundreds of lives in their time, these beauties, and here’s you without one. Why, you’re just not prepared properly, are you—the poor unfortunate.”

Woodget felt very foolish, especially when he caught her giving the vole in the next stall a knowing wink. He really must appear to be untutored in the ways of the sea and privately thanked the Green that he had been shown his error before it was too late.

“I’d better have one then,” he told the shrew. “How much are they?”

“A piece of silver for one—three pieces for two.”

The fieldmouse furrowed his brow and fumbled inside his bag. “Oh,” he mumbled, “I don’t believe I’ve got no silver. Fact I’m certain sure I bain’t never had any.”

“Hortichuke Sciatica!” the shrew scolded herself with a gleaming crossed eye fixed upon the tantalizing contents of her victim’s bag. “You always were a soft touch and that’s the honest to allblimey truth of the matter. See here, young master, I can’t let you go a-roaming on no ship without the protection of one of these.”

“But I don’t have no coin,” Woodget informed her.

The stallholder gave a gracious and understanding nod then reached out her stubby, grasping paw. “I know that, my dewy cowslip, but there might be another way. You just hand over that there bag of yourn and we’ll see if there ain’t something worth trading.”

Woodget wavered, but she really was so very kind and putting herself to so much trouble. “Here y’are,” he said, passing it over. “Is there owt worth a piece of silver in there?”

Hortichuke fell on the bag as though it were a worm and she a starving crow. With greedy fingers she tore at the opening and delved inside.

“A little knife,” she trilled to herself, flourishing the blade and hunting for more trinkets, “a brass buckle, a waistcoat, nothing in the pockets except a loose button—hmm, not bad quality, a small wooden figure, poorly carved...”

“That’s Bess,” the fieldmouse piped up. “I never did get round to finishing it.”

“A pewter bowl, a tin pot—you are a collector aren’t you? A few more worthless bits and pieces and what’s this—a brooch?”

“My mum’s, that is.”

The shrew held the ornament up to the candlelight and tried to hide the delight she felt on seeing the coloured glass wink and flash in her fingers.

“Well...” she began with a half-hearted drawl, “I don’t know if it’s worth my trouble after all. There isn’t much here, is there? I’d turn back and go home if I were you.”

Woodget shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I got to get me one of these here danglers. Is there nowt you’d take fer one?”

The shrew’s black eyes glittered almost as much as the brooch she still held in her paw. “I suppose I could trade you one for this,” she shrugged.

“Oh, I dunno,” he breathed, “I did so want summat to remind me of my dear old mum. I didn’t tell her I was takin’ it neither.”

“If it’s stolen then I won’t touch the wretched bauble!” Hortichuke snapped, still clutching the brooch tightly and showing no sign of letting go. “Mind you, if you were to throw in the buttons off that waistcoat as well, I might consider it this once.”

“Done!” Woodget cried before she could change her mind, and quickly defaced his Greenday best.

With a triumphant smirk upon her face, the shrew received her booty and handed him one of her worthless pendants.

“Oh, thank ee!” Woodget declared, feeling ever so pleased with himself and displaying the lump of cork with the utmost pride.

“Excuse me!” smarmed a treacly voice as the neighbouring stallholder, who was a fat vole, saw that Hortichuke had finished with the fieldmouse. “I couldn’t help but noticing that you don’t appear to be wearing any lucky shells in your hat; perhaps you would care to peruse my humble stock...”

By the time Woodget came through the far side of the market he had lost not only his mother’s brooch and waistcoat buttons but also his knife, the brass buckle, a handkerchief, the pewter bowl and tin pot as well as the waistcoat itself. In their place he had obtained the ridiculous cork pendant, a sprig of dried but immensely (so the vole told him) magical seaweed, two crudely painted shells which would keep storms at bay, a piece of sea-polished glass that everyone knew ensured a safe return home and a bag of orange and lemon rind.

The last item had been given to Woodget free of charge by a couple of kindly mice who took pity on him and managed to prevent him trading his bag for a fish bone which always pointed north, but only once it was out on the open sea.

With his purchases either around his neck, worn upon his hat or tucked safely into his bag, the fieldmouse sauntered further along the quayside to take a look at the other vessels moored there.

Away from the cheerfully lit stalls, this part of the harbour was lost in gloom, and presently Woodget began to grow nervous again as lakes of shadow spread out before him and he gave his sprig of seaweed a hasty pat.

Then his keen ears heard a peculiar tapping noise coming from directly in front of him and he hesitated as the sound grew steadily louder.

“What in the barley can that be?” he whispered.

“TAP, TAP, TAP.”

With unswerving purpose the steady rhythm came ringing from the darkness, chiming off the flagstones and getting closer with every second.

Woodget peered into the gloom, but whoever it was remained invisible in the murk and the fieldmouse took an apprehensive step backwards. Even in the secluded haven of the farm he had heard rumours of cruel and hideous creatures which existed in the wide world. What if this was one of those monstrous beasts? Perhaps it was a nightmare of horn and shell that had crawled out from the muddy deeps in search of prey; perhaps even now it was hunting him and its crab-like pincers were wide open, ready to snap shut about his little body. Woodget pressed his paws to his mouth as his panic increased and he hopped about wondering what to do.

Then the muttering began.

Amid the clamour of the staccato drumming a harsh, gruff voice was mumbling to itself, but not even Woodget’s sharp ears could make out all that was said. His trembling nostrils could not tell him anything either, for the breeze was against him and he suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable and alone upon the quayside. All the fieldmouse wanted to do was find somewhere to hide and let the unseen mutterer and maker of mysterious noises clatter past.

Hastily, he scurried to the side, where a mass of fishing nets was draped across two tall iron posts, and he dived smartly into the deepest depths, burying himself beneath the loosely woven mesh.

“Over half the journey done,” rasped the burbling voice which came floating on the salty airs, “over half an’ yet it ain’t right. To be sure, there’s a bad feelin’ out tonight, so there is...”

The stranger lapsed into a more subdued and unintelligible babble which the fieldmouse could not catch and still the tapping advanced.

Cautiously, Woodget raised his nose from the netting; the sound was very close now and he was anxious to see who would emerge from the gloom...

“Spies everywhere,” he heard the voice grumble. “It shouldn’t be like this, so it shouldn’t. None were to know, not a one—so keep it close and peel them gogglers.”

From his hiding place the fieldmouse held his breath and shrank back a little further as, from the concealing darkness, came the source of the unsettling sounds.

To his surprise, out of the shadows there hobbled a large and solid-looking mouse. His fur was a deep slate grey, the colour of an angry sea and brindled around the jowls like foam crested waves. Faded tattoos adorned his brawny features and in one of his strong, calloused paws he grasped a gnarled stout stick.

In fearful silence Woodget stared as the stranger laboured tetchily along, leaning heavily upon the stick and cursing continually under his breath. A large leather bag was fastened securely about his broad shoulders, and with his free paw he clutched at the straps, almost as if he expected to be waylaid at every turn. The mouse’s eyes roved from side to side, mistrusting the concealing shadows, and one corner of his mouth was drawn into a challenging snarl—fierce enough to scare away the most heinous of footpads.

“Just let ’em try,” he growled. “I know they’re here. I can smell out one o’ them weasly, venom-hearted snake scum at a hundred leagues, that I can.”

As the figure lumbered further along the quay, Woodget dared to raise his head a little more from the netting, greatly intrigued.

Then he noticed for the first time that in place of the mouse’s left leg there was a thick stump of wood, and it was this that thumped and tapped its way over the flagstones. A stifled chirp of understanding issued from Woodget’s mouth before he was able to stop himself, and at once the peg-legged mouse whirled around and glared harshly at the swathe of netting.

“Come out!” the imposing figure bawled, yet in his voice there was a deadly and overwhelming sense of dread. “Crawl out of there, you scaly heathen!”

Woodget froze, not knowing what to do.

“I’ll flush you out if I have to!” thundered the other, brandishing the stick like a cudgel and taking a menacing step closer. “Won’t grieve me none to dash out your sly cunning and feed your giblets to the fish. I’ve done it afore now and sure enough I’d do it a thousand-fold more without turning a whisker!”

The mouse’s face was twisted with fury, yet as he went pounding towards Woodget’s hiding place there was also a wild glimmer of terror dancing in his eyes and he thrashed the stick before him, bellowing for all he was worth.

“You’ll not strike me down with your foul venom, you fork-tailed slime! I’ll not be seeing Fiddler’s Green this night! By the Holy One, I swear I won’t!”

The sight of this enraged creature so horrified the petrified fieldmouse that he leapt up and gave a shrill squeal of fright, then hid his face and waited for the violence to reach him.

Rampaging into the nets, the attacker threw back his powerful arm to strike, but the blow never came, for just in time he beheld Woodget’s stricken and trembling form and he cast his aim wide.

“By the Green’s beard!” he barked, huffing from his exertions. “What have I here?” and he gave the terrified Woodget an inquisitive prod with the end of the stick.

“Ho, ho! A fieldmouse, so it is—and a minnow of a one at that! What brings him to this brigand-crowded shore? Think yourself lucky, me lad—you nearly ended up as a gull’s supper.”

Woodget peered up at the figure from between his fingers and gave a thankful but shuddering nod.

The mouse scowled at him. “To be sure I didn’t lay into you, but I’m still wanting to know what you was doing spying on me. Did someone put you up to it? For it’s plain you’re not one of them foul pagan crew—though ever artful in disguises and deceit they are. Stop dithering, for glory’s sake! Did a cat get your tongue?”

“P-p-please, sir!” Woodget finally managed to stammer. “I weren’t a-sp... spying on you—honestly, I truly weren’t. I don’t know nobody roundabouts. I got meself all afeared out here on me ownsome, and what with the peculiar noise an’ all I plum darted for cover, not meaning no harm nor offence.”

“Peculiar noise?” the stranger repeated, but his tone was warmer now for he found himself liking the fieldmouse and was greatly relieved that it was not who he had been expecting.

“Your leg, sir,” Woodget replied, “beggin your pardon like. I din’t know what it were a-stompin’ and a-tappin’.”

When he heard this, the mouse threw back his head and gave a hearty roar of laughter. “Here’s fretful!” he cried. “To flinch at the sound of the timber toe—ain’t you never come across one afore, lad?”

“Not ever, sir.”

“Then you’ve had a sheltered life and that’s the truth, so it is. But stow all that ‘sir’ calling—Mulligan’s the name and that’s how all folk hail me, plain and simple like.”

“How do, Mister Mulligan,” the fieldmouse said, feeling a little braver and holding out his paw in greeting. “I be Woodget Pipple, from Betony Bank.”

“Glad to know you, matey,” Mulligan replied, shaking the paw and grinning widely. “Tell me of yourself. I been traipsing round this country too long with no company ’cept mine own, and mighty weary I’ve grown of the sound of my voice. Now let us away from this troublesome netting and jaw awhile till I reach my ship.”

“Where you headed?” Woodget asked, clambering out of his cover and making certain his lucky seaweed was still in place on his hat.

“To the Greek isles, lad. A lovelier necklace of gems you won’t never clap eyes on. Too long have I been in this chill clime—it’s water clear as diamonds I’m hankerin’ for and a sun that burns your ears to a crisp in the noon hour. Don’t sit well on this one to stay ashore for long—too much brine in my veins. No, the open waters for me it is; them were the days when I could roam where I wished, with no obligations nor yokes imposed.”

With a faint smile upon his grizzled face Mulligan gazed out across the harbour to where the dark sea stretched into the dim night and he gave vent to a sigh of longing. “Soon it’ll be over,” he breathed, “aye, soon it’ll be done and you can rest, Mulligan.”

Woodget looked up at the old seamouse and wondered if he dared to make the request which had hatched within him. Finally he could stand it no more and cried urgently, “Would it... could it... might I..? Please, Mister Mulligan, can I come with you? I got to get me away from this place and I doesn’t know what to do nor what boat to take. I won’t be no trouble, I swears.”

Disturbed from his thoughts. Mulligan looked at his new friend, and although he had been forbidden to take anyone with him on the journey in case they proved false, he was sore at heart and needed companionship. The burden he had been entrusted with was too great to bear alone and the buoyant enthusiasm of the little fieldmouse touched him deeply.

“I’d be honoured, matey,” he said at length. “Let’s you an’ me go find our ship an’ clamber aboard; she’ll be setting sail before long. Ho, ho! Did you see them cutpurse stallholders yonder? What limp kippers do they take folk for? Why, last time I was ’ere one of them scoundrels had the gall to try and sell me some magic seaweed! Whoever heard of such witless tripe?”

The fieldmouse said nothing but pattered happily beside him. His eyes were glittering with excitement and it was impossible to guess what new adventures lay ahead. His old life was over now, and although his feelings for Bess pained him still, he tried to think only of the future.

As they made their way along the quayside, skulking in the dismal shadows behind them a pair of watchful eyes narrowed and a low hiss escaped into the darkness.

Wrapped in a long cloak of deep green with a great cowl obscuring its face, a single figure stole along the path as silently as a melting shred of grey mist. About the concealing garment’s heavy folds the chill night seemed to gather and collect, clinging to the dank fabric like a thick cloud of flies swarming about something dead and decaying. So complete and concealing was the shrouding raiment that no clue as to the nature of the creature beneath could even be guessed at, but deep in the hood’s blank void the eyes blazed with hatred and a vile curse issued from invisible lips.

“Greater allies than that shall you need, seafarer,” the dry, evil voice needled, “for now your wandering is complete, you are far from help and guidance. The charm that has saved you till now has ended, for the plots and contriving schemes of the Green Council are laid bare unto me.”

Turning, the cloaked figure raised an arm and in the gloom two bitter points glinted coldly. Fixed upon the creatures claws were a pair of curved talons wrought in burnished gold and they flashed through the night like razors through a dark curtain.

The instant this signal was given there came a cackling and a slobbering as a pack of five young rats bounded up. Their eyes shone a burning crimson, for the sinister figure had introduced the bloodlust into their craven hearts and inspired them to murder.

Pigsniff, Clunker, Mouldtoes and Licemagnet were all brown rats, but their sprightly and eager leader, Spots—who got his nickname from his piebald colouring—had been nurtured in malice for longer by the cloaked creature and into him more than the others had been instilled the love of slaughter.

“Is it time, master?” the rat begged. “We been awful good like what you said, keepin’ a safe distance and not making too much din—all ’cept Clunker; I had to crack him one.”

“You filthy tell-all!” snapped Clunker.

His piebald leader ignored him and stared fawningly up at the deep cowl. “Is you sure now?” he implored. “Is it the one yer after?”

“I am certain,” came the hissing voice and the rats shivered at the sound of it.

“What’s the plan then? Does we creep up an’ slit his mizribble throat?”

“I bags first guzzle!” piped up one of the others.

“You snick yer own gash, Mouldtoes!” Spots rapped back. “Tell us, master—what is your wish?”

The hooded one glanced back at the two mice ambling along, chatting lightly to one another.

“Your prey has found a companion,” hissed the voice. “Hear now my decree and obey me to the full.”

The rats sniggered and their tongues lolled from their dribbling jaws.

“You may do what you will to the fieldmouse,” came the hideous instruction, “he is of no matter, yet before you slay the other, bring him to me and all that he bears.”

“Cwoorrr!” gurgled Clunker, smacking his lips. “That littl’un looks a tasty tidbit—be the work of an instant to peel that squirt!”

“Make haste,” their master commanded, “lest they draw too near those stalls and aid. Be swift and deadly, let no hint of your attack warn them. Twice has that Irish fool evaded me, but no more. Now—begone!”

With a slap of their tails, the rats leaped away, their murderous eyes fixed upon the unsuspecting mice a little distance ahead, and their throats burned to taste their succulent life blood.

“That be our goodly ship,” Mulligan told Woodget, pointing his stick at a large cargo vessel.

The fieldmouse stared up at the beautiful curving lines of the craft. A light shone out from one of the portholes and he wondered where on board they would be staying.

“It’s the hold for the likes of you an’ me, matey,” Mulligan said, “providing the bosun lets us aboard. You can’t be too careful these days—a lot of weird and roguish characters about. I’ve heard some right rum tales of late, so I have. A ship is no place to find yourself if there’s a villain on the loose—out on the open ocean there ain’t nowhere you can hide nor escape to, save the hungry deeps.”

“How does we get aboard?” Woodget asked, thrilled at the prospect of this new life and all it had to offer.

“See that mooring rope there? Well, it’s up that we’ll be climbing, and even with old Peggy here I’ll warrant I’ll do it in double-quick time afore you.”

But even as they headed for the edge of the harbour wall, from out of nowhere, or so it appeared to the two astounded mice, there came a crow of delight and the gang of rats was upon them.

Clunker’s claws came sweeping around Woodget’s neck and the fieldmouse let out a horrified scream until the powerful talons squeezed about his throat and his voice was choked into a gasping silence.

“This way, my little mouthful,” Clunker spat. “There’s a peeling blade I’d like you to see,” and he hauled the struggling Woodget back into the shadows.

Mulligan, however, was not so easily overcome. Like a wild beast, cornered and beset by scavenging jackals, he bellowed at the top of his lungs and struck out with his stick.

CRACK!

The weapon smashed into Pigsniff’s snout and a shattered fang went clattering over the flags, leaving the rat howling and clasping his bleeding jaws. But Mouldtoes took his place and, with his fist, dealt the seafarer a dreadful blow across the head, sending him reeling backwards—straight into the clutches of the piebald, who wrenched him completely off balance and threw him to the ground.

At once the others leapt on top of Mulligan and scrabbled at his throat, each trying to lunge down and snap at the exposed fur.

“Oi!” Spots screeched at them. “No killin’—not yet. You heard what the master said. Take his bag, then drag him back there to account.”

“Accursed filth!” Mulligan raged as they tore the pack from his shoulders, biting the straps with their teeth. “Scum of the Scales! You cannot have that! No! Never!”

The mouse lashed out as the bag was wrenched from him and his protests were answered by a savage kick in the ribs.

“Give it back!” he cried, gritting his teeth against the pain. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“On yer feet,” Spots ordered. “Shift yerself, there’s a personage back there wants a word with you.”

But Mulligan was not cowed yet, he was made of doughtier stuff than they had realised. In a final, desperate act, he jerked back onto his feet then charged head-down at the rat stealing his belongings. A startled yowl blasted across the harbour as the mouse rammed Licemagnet right in the stomach. Doubling over in shock and battling for breath, the villain let go of the broken straps and Mulligan snatched at them frantically.

Incensed at the mouse’s stubbornness. Spots hurtled forward and sank his teeth into Mulligan’s shoulder.

The weight of the piebald rat, combined with the searing agony of his bitten flesh, proved too much for the seafarer. At last his strength and courage failed. With a whine, he felt his legs buckle and he collapsed, helpless, on top of his bag.

“Get him to the hooded one!” Spots snapped, sucking his filthy whiskers clean of the mouse’s blood. “Mouldtoes, you take his arms, Pigsniff the legs.”

“Pigger’s run off,” Mouldtoes answered. “Lost a fang he did, and Licey ain’t in no fit state—I’m not luggin’ this fat beggar on me own.”

“Where’s Clunker got to?”

“He carted that midge off, leavin’ us all the hard work.”

The piebald rat bared his teeth. “Did he now?” he rumbled. “Well, I’ll not be standin’ fer that.”

Behind a row of packing crates, the squirming Woodget had been pulled and dragged. Clunker had no intention of sharing this dainty; the flesh was tender on the bone and already his belly was growling fiercely. Cackling softly to himself, he listened to the others struggle with Mulligan, making sure they were thoroughly occupied before focusing his full and deadly attention upon the morsel in his grasp.

“It’s a rare treat this is,” the rat grinned unpleasantly. “I usually have to make do with their left-overs but not this time, oh no; you’re gonna be mine and taste the sweeter fer it.”

Woodget stared up at the hideous rat’s face and screwed up his own as the grip tightened about his throat and the dribbling lips of his captor curled back to reveal sharp and yellow fangs.

Rejoicing in his excellent fortune. Clunker gave the fieldmouse a customary sniff to savour the shivering portion’s terror, then bore down for the kill.

Yet the lethal snap of his jaws never came. Suddenly Clunker was yanked backwards and the harsh voice of Spots rang in Woodget’s trembling ears.

“You thieving lump of dirt!” he snarled. “Keep him fer yerself, would yer? The lads won’t like that; them’ll be right displeasured, in fact.”

Clunker glared at him for a smouldering instant until he thought better of it and hastily tried to explain.

“Spots!” he exclaimed with injured innocence. “I would never do that. This little gobbit slipped by me. I’d only just caught him and was about to bring his stinkin’ hide back to you—honest I was.”

“Get you gone and help Mouldtoes,” the piebald muttered, his beady eyes twinkling in a most horrible manner in Woodget’s direction. “I’ll deal with this one.”

Clunker’s face fell; he knew what Spots was going to do. The little delicacy was going to be all his—Clunker and the others would be lucky to get a finger to chew. Spots always got his own way, especially recently. He had become peculiar of late, ever since they took up with that cloaked devil. Clunker didn’t like that one—oh no, he did what he was told but it weren’t natural and downright frightened him and the others. They had no idea what this business was about, and if truth be known they didn’t want to. Let Spots bow and scrape to him, they’d just about had enough.

“Probl’y stringy anyway,” he said sourly but, just as he was about to pass Woodget over, a malicious notion flared in his mutinous mind and he let the fieldmouse slip from his claws.

Squealing loudly, Woodget bounded away, nipping under the piebald’s swiping grasp and fleeing back to the quayside.

“HELP! HELP!” he shrieked, but for all his fear he did not run to the safety of the little market. Upon the ground he saw Mulligan’s stricken form and Mouldtoes poring over him, dabbing a sampling claw into the scarlet wound and lifting the dripping talon to his impatient lips.

Wretchedly, Woodget knew that he was too small to be of much use to the fallen mouse but he had to do something.

“Get away from him!” he yelled at the rat, taking a flying leap at Mouldtoes and beating him with his tiny fists.

The fieldmouse’s efforts merely made Mouldtoes laugh and he threw him off with a casual flick of his claw.

“Mulligan!” Woodget cried. “Get up—get help.”

Groggily, Mulligan tried to stand but it was too late, for Spots was already tearing onto the path with Clunker close behind.

“Licey,” the rat yelled, “don’t just sit there—stop the grey one! You two—help me catch the runt.”

The entire operation was going horribly wrong and the piebald was aware that some of the stallholders were already staring in their direction, alerted by the fieldmouse’s cries. His master would not be pleased with him at all.

In a moment Woodget was caught and Spots drew out a glittering knife.

“That’s enough trouble from you,” he said, pressing the blade against the fieldmouse’s chest.

“Mouldtoes, Clunker, Licey, take that one to his lordship. I’ll gut thissun here an’ now.”

“Stop!” Mulligan called, as the others lifted him to his feet. “Let him go—he’s nothing to do with this. He knows nothing.”

“I don’t care if he does or not,” Spots snapped. “He’s less bother dead.”

Suddenly there came a ferocious roar and before the rats knew what was happening, a vicious and brutish maniac came barging into them.

All they saw was a blur of soft brown fur, a flash of red about the nightmare’s neck and a long wooden staff clasped in its paws. Shouting terrible challenges, the horrendous fiend immediately set about the gang like a vengeful whirlwind.

The first blow fell upon Spots’ claw and the knife went spinning through the air. The piebald howled but clung onto Woodget, who cheered the attacker gleefully—chirruping with delight to see him.

Held firmly between Mouldtoes and Clunker, Mulligan realised with amazement that their saviour was in fact another mouse, and he tensed his aching muscles preparing himself for the struggle ahead.

Then the strange mouse’s second blow was dealt. This time it smashed across Mouldtoes’ back and the rat staggered sideways, teetering perilously close to the edge of the harbour wall. With a determined shove. Mulligan sent him flying down into the dark water where the rat landed with a loud splash and a high-pitched wail.

While the unknown but courageous mouse dealt with Licemagnet, Mulligan threw off Clunker’s faltering grasp and punched him on the chin. That was enough for Clunker; squawking in fear he raced off—leaving Spots and Licey to cope on their own.

Wrathfully the piebald spun around. Woodget remained trapped in his claws and the rat’s talons dug into his skin until the fieldmouse whimpered piteously.

“Leave it!” Licey snapped. “We’ve been worsted!” and he hurried after Clunker, disappearing into the surrounding gloom.

Deserted by his comrades and alone with the three mice. Spots snarled and gnashed his teeth. He wouldn’t go down without a fight; besides, he still held Woodget.

“One move and the puny radish gets squeezed till his eyes pop out,” he threatened. “Drop the pole, me boy, and I’ll set him loose.”

Before him, the mouse with the staff looked at Woodget’s scared face and knew he dared not risk it. Reluctantly, he threw the weapon out of reach and waited.

But Mulligan had no faith in the words of a rat; he knew that Spots would murder his little friend just out of spite and he took a sidling step to the left, stooping in one quick movement to snatch something from the floor.

“You maggot-brained fool!” Spots chuckled at the newcomer and he gripped Woodget’s head in his claws ready to tear it from his body.

“No you don’t!” Mulligan roared, bringing the piebald’s own dagger slicing down.

A tremendous scream echoed out over the sea as the rat’s tail was hacked in two. Casting Woodget away from him. Spots stared down at the truncated and bleeding stump and the agony of his wound consumed him utterly. Leaving a trail of blood behind him, he fled along the quayside, screeching vilely.

Breathless from fear, the fieldmouse stared across at the one who had saved them and rushed forward to embrace him.

“Thomas!” he cried. “You came after me—we’d have been dead if it weren’t for you!”

“Course I came after you,” Thomas Stubbs replied, still shaking from the fierce encounter, “but what’s going on here? Rats is usually stupid and scared—what got into them?”

Woodget shrugged but could not reply, for he was so happy to see a familiar face after all the horror that he burst into tears.

“The poor lad’s had a sore time of it, so he has,” Mulligan declared, holding out his paw for Thomas to shake. “There’s bad folk in these parts—get some nasty pieces a-coming in from outside. A good job you saw us when you did—my thanks.”

Thomas looked around for the staff he had used as a weapon. “I ought to take that back,” he said. “It was holding up the canopy of one of those stalls. You all right now, Woodj?”

The fieldmouse wagged his head and wiped his eyes.

“I’m glad you came, Tom,” he sniffed, “but I won’t go back to Betony Bank.”

“You got it all wrong,” Thomas told him, “it was all my fault. Listen Woodj, it isn’t me she loves—it’s you.” The fieldmouse looked at him in disbelief. “Honest,” Thomas assured him, “you’re the one. Turned me down flat she did.”

All the recent traumas were forgotten and a smile of the purest joy widened in the fieldmouse’s face.

“Is it true?” he gasped. “Oh, is it really? Oh Tom, you don’t know how unhappy I was. Mister Mulligan, did you hear? She loves me, Bess loves me.”

The fieldmouse turned to his newest friend and blinked, then he stared back at Thomas, but neither of them could guess what the seafarer was up to.

Kneeling upon the flags, the one-legged mouse was examining the severed length of the piebald’s tail.

Gingerly he prodded the gruesome object and muttered under his breath. Obviously whatever he was looking for was not there and a look of concern crossed his face.

“Then he was just local riff-raff after all,” he breathed. “So the adept is still out there, watching me right now, no doubt. Well, you managed this time Mulligan, old lad, but only by a whisker—who knows about the next?”

Abruptly he became aware that the others were staring at him and Mulligan rose stiffly.

“A grisly trophy of tonight’s trouble,” he said, grimacing at the bloody tail and trying to sound cheerful.

“What were you doing?” Thomas asked.

“Doing? Why, nothing—just taking a gander at it, as I said. Make a rare proof of this yarn when it’s told.” Thomas eyed him doubtfully. It was plain that the mouse was not telling the complete truth but he was in no mood to enquire further.

“Well,” he said, clapping Woodget on the shoulder, “I promised her I’d get you home so we’d best set off.”

The fieldmouse nodded and pattered over to Mulligan to make his farewells.

“Don’t look like I’ll be voyaging with ’ee after all,” he said. “I reckons that I’ll miss out on more excitin’ times but it’s by Bess’s side where I belong. Goodbye, Mister Mulligan—it were nice to know you even if it were just a short while.”

Mulligan looked at Woodget keenly then glanced over to where Thomas was standing and an anxious idea born of doubt and necessity formed in his mind.

“Oh aye!” he agreed quickly. “To be sure it’s missing your company I’ll be doing, but before you trot along homeward could you and your friend there not see your way to helping me one last time? I wouldn’t ask but that scurvy knave done took a bite out of my shoulder and I doesn’t think I can clamber aboard my ship without assistance.”

Woodget took a look at the wound. It certainly looked vicious and he marvelled that Mulligan had not fainted from the pain and distress it must be causing him.

“We don’t mind, do we, Tom?” he answered. “Come on, you lay your arm on me and Tom’ll take the other.”

“Wait,” Mulligan insisted. “I must have my bag.”

“I’ll fetch it after we’ve put you on board,” Thomas told him.

But Mulligan would not hear of it. “No,” he demanded, “I’ll take it with me now... I wouldn’t leave anything for them scoundrels to find if they come back.”

Woodget thought this very sensible and paused to go hunting for his own bag which he had lost in the initial struggle with Clunker. Then, with himself and Thomas supporting the wounded seafarer, they made their way to the ship and began to help him up the rope.

A little distance away the cloaked figure uttered a repugnant hiss and gazed down at the piebald rat who had fallen in a swoon before him.

“Mistaken was I to put my trust in one so unworthy,” his cruel voice spiked in the dark. “The fool was yours and yet you allowed a mouse to rout you.”

Upon the creature’s claws the two golden blades winked and flashed as it crouched down and drew them menacingly across Spots’ throat.

The red-rimmed eyes rolled in Spots’ sockets as he slipped out of the dark sleep that had engulfed him. Yet the first sight he saw when his vision cleared was the sinister shadow-filled hood, and with a quiver he felt the chill gold touch his skin.

“Master?” he whined. “I tried, but it were them others—they skedaddled and left me. Oh my tail—it hurts so bad. Don’t kill me. My Lord, I begs you. I know what them blades can do.”

Spots shivered uncontrollably and hot tears streamed down his hatchet face.

Stooping over him a repellent chuckle floated from the dark cowl.

“Thrice now have you failed me,” came the accusing hiss. “All I have to do is break your rancid flesh and you shall be condemned to a hundred agonies before death takes you.”

“Noooo,” implored the rat.

The glittering blades pressed a fraction closer to the piebald’s neck then, with a dismissive snarl, the cloaked figure rose.

“Begone!” it hissed. “Death shall find you in his own way. Yet slink away under the restraint of these ruinous words and may they torment you until the end. For failing me, you shall never find rest; always and forever will your mottled skin be in the service of another, and grant that he is less merciful than I. Go now to that pitiless destiny, loathsome stump-tail! It will pursue you down the years until you despair of your very existence; then alone shall you wish I had dispatched you now.”

Spots wiped the sweat and tears from his face, and although blood was still pouring from his severed tail and his soul was screaming inside him, he somehow managed to scrabble to his feet and, without glancing back at his former master, sped from the harbour.

“You’re well out of that,” he moaned. “If you can heal this nasty mess then you’ve really gotta get out of this stinking hold. Go to some big and crowded city where the scum and slime are ripe for the picking. Who knows, there might even be some mousies to peel, if I’m lucky.”

So it was that Spots, or Morgan as was his real name, vanished from that place and the curse laid upon him was roused—its unswerving malevolence bearing down and hounding him for the rest of his miserable days.

Yet upon the gloom-laden quayside, the hooded figure staring at the Greek ship in the distance came to a solemn conclusion. It was useless entrusting such urgent and vital matters to witless and profane underlings. No, to ensure he accomplished his mission he would have to execute it personally.

Carefully, the two golden blades were slipped from the creature’s claws and stowed securely within a small travelling bag, then the hood was thrown back and the dark green cloak cast aside. Once this too was safely put away, the figure stole towards the ship and quietly climbed aboard.

3 - Aboard the Calliope

“Not much further mates,” Mulligan told the two mice who were helping him clamber up the mooring rope, “then you can leave me. Real grateful I am for this kindness, aiding a poor old wretch to his bunk. Princes, the pair of you.”

When they finally stepped aboard the Calliope, the trio were met by a burly mouse with dark brown fur, whose chin was covered by a neatly clipped and pointed beard. This was the bosun—one of the few mouse crew. His main duty for this watch was to ensure that no undesirables boarded the vessel and, to aid him in this, a short but lethal-looking sword was fastened at his waist.

All ships, whether their official crews know it or not, are utilised by other creatures. Since the first galleon was launched into the uncharted waters there has been a secondary crew. Their task it was to oversee all who journeyed below decks, ensuring that they were kept in order and that the true cargo remained untouched.

Throughout long nautical history the ranks of this secret, ancillary navy were in the main, and by vigorous tradition, made up of stout-hearted mice. Of all creatures they had proven the most loyal and trustworthy, for although rats voyaged often, their craven, ever-greedy spirits were unsuited for such duties.

The size of each vessel dictated the number of the crew; small fishing boats were generally left unmoused for there was nowhere for any unauthorised passengers to hide and the craft never travelled to another port anyway. A ship the size of the Calliope, however, required a captain and three officers to make sure that the goods stored in the hold were not tampered with, and one of these redoubtable characters was the bosun who now stood before Thomas and his friends.

The armed mouse’s name was Able Ruddaway and it had been a long, tiresome night. He had grunted and growled audibly when he had first seen the three figures labouring up the rope and flexed his fingers near the hilt of his sword in readiness. Through long years of experience the bosun had learned not to trust anyone and lately his mettle had been tested by the increasingly rough folk who wished to traverse the seas.

“Name yourselves!” he had called out as the struggling trio wobbled and toiled towards him and he uncovered a lantern to get a sharper glimpse of these indistinct arrivals.

A look of recognition gleamed in the bosun’s eyes when he saw Mulligan and he muttered under his breath before consulting a much-thumbed notebook and adding the Irish mouse’s name to a long list.

“Cutting it fine, Mulligan,” he sniffed once all three were safely on board and he eyed Thomas and Woodget suspiciously.

“These two are friends of mine,” the one-legged mouse answered. “Master Woodget Pipple and Thomas... I didn’t catch your last name, lad.”

“Stubbs,” Thomas replied.

“Aye, Stubbs. As I said, mates of mine they are so don’t you go askin’ them none of your infernal questions, Mr Ruddaway. Is it a full hold you’ll be having on this voyage?”

Still scrutinizing Mulligan’s companions, the bosun nodded. “Aye,” he said, “the Calliope’s not carried so many for a fair while—seems everyone’s a-travelling. It’s the time of year, I suppose; always busy in the spring but we can’t be too cautious, lot of scum swilling about.”

“You don’t have to tell us that,” Thomas broke in. “We’ve already met some real nasty villains.”

Mr Ruddaway glanced at him but did not respond, instead he pointed at Mulligan’s shoulder and jerked his head to one side.

“You’d best get that seen to,” he said. “There’s a physician down below—go seek him out. He’ll be by the cotton bales with the better sort.”

“It’s obliged I am to you,” Mulligan replied. “When you can spare a moment or five, come find me and we’ll share a sup of my own special medicine.”

The bosun chuckled and returned his attention to the notebook, adding Thomas and Woodget’s names to his list.

“Here we go, lads,” Mulligan told them, “just get me to the hold and I’ll manage from there.”

As they ventured down into the ship descending a steep and narrow passage, Woodget turned back and peered behind them.

“Why for was he puttin’ our names down?” he asked.

Mulligan coughed and raised his eyebrows as though he hadn’t noticed. “Did he?” he muttered with feigned innocence. “Well, always been one for order and setting things down proper has that Ruddaway. Likes to know exactly who’s who and where they are—a real stickler for them bits of paper he is and that’s the truth sure enough.”

“Not as if we’ll be on this ’ere ship for long though,” Woodget added thoughtfully, “I mean, I got Bess a-waitin’ on me back home.”

At that moment Mulligan winced and uttered a cry of pain as if his wound had grown abruptly worse.

The fieldmouse forgot his doubts immediately. “Don’t you worry now,” he told his ailing friend, “we’ll see you to where you want to go and make sure you can manage afore we leave—won’t we, Tom?”

A grim smile twitched over Mulligan’s face, but in the dim gloom of the passage neither of his companions noticed it. Besides, Woodget’s whiskers were already trembling, for a slight draught was issuing up the cramped way and with it the slightly stuffy air brought other, more fascinating insights as to what lay ahead.

A myriad of opposing scents laced the fusty atmosphere. Beneath the pungency of the by now familiar pitch, Woodget could smell a score of suppers being cooked over small and carefully tended fires. There were vegetable stews, delicious mouth-watering soups, roasted parsnips and, from some remote corner, his delicate senses caught the sweet aroma of fried elderflowers.

Presently the narrow way came to an end and, with the feel of rough timber boards under their feet, the three mice found themselves in the hold of the Calliope.

Thomas and Woodget came to a halt and they stared around them in wonder.

The hold was enormous; to their right, the curved hull of the ship reared into the high darkness above, whilst the far, port side could not be seen at all. Filling the great space, enormous crates towered over them like square and wooden mountains and in the murky distance they could just make out the vague outline of other cargo peaks. Yet at the foot of these lofty ranges, in the valleys and within the cramped channels and canyons, was a multitude of varied creatures all preparing bunks for themselves and trying to make their allotted berths as comfortable as possible.

Many of those closest to the new arrivals were rats. These idle, dirty specimens had made no attempt to find a cosy corner to curl up in and were simply sprawled across one another. Evidently they had just enjoyed a late meal of raw and, to Woodget’s shrinking nose, rather putrid fish.

Most of them were belching and licking their dirty snouts free of grease and salty, dribbling ooze. In lazy contentment they perched upon every available space, stupidly sucking their teeth and swinging their great, bunion-covered and scaly feet in a childish fashion as they ruminated and rocked slowly back and forward.

Upon the crowded deck the remains of the supper that they had enjoyed was being picked at in a disinterested and bored way by several of the older rats. Humming ridiculous and mindless ditties to themselves, they played with the left-overs, flicking a fish scale at one of their lolling neighbours or fanning themselves with a half-chewed fin.

Mingled amongst them were other slovenly vagrants. A group of four weasels and two sour-faced shrews were playing dice in a rare clearing, a drunken hedgehog who had celebrated the coming of spring with too much enthusiasm was hiccuping uncontrollably and, sitting all alone in the middle of an alley-way formed by the gap between the crates, a glum-looking mole shook his head as he heaved a regretful sigh—remembering the folk he had left behind.

But Woodget’s attention was fixed solely upon the rats; the sight of them and the stink of their grimy, unwashed fur brought an immediate fear to his heart and he drew back instinctively.

“Don’t you fret none,” Mulligan reassured him. “These motley cringers ain’t gonna harm you. Look at their ugly faces; they’ve more to dread from us than we of them.”

As if to prove the point, he took a hobbling step forward and glared at a group of dishevelled and woeful-looking rats who were picking their brown and yellow teeth with old fishbones. When they saw Mulligan raise his stick and shake it at them they threw their claws before their snouts and their bottom lips quivered as they flinched, expecting him to strike their bony heads.

“That’s the normal way of things,” Mulligan grunted with satisfaction as he lowered the stick and chuckled at the whinging rats. “A more skittish and yellow-spined breed I ain’t never chanced upon.”

“Then what made those outside so wicked?” the fieldmouse asked, recalling the hatred that had burned in Spots’ red-rimmed eyes.

But the seafarer did not seem to hear him and touched his wounded shoulder gingerly.

“Let’s away from this place,” Mulligan muttered hastily; “the dregs are always to be found on the outskirts. A little further in and we’ll meet fairer company than this mixed jumble and sorry-looking crew.”

And so Thomas and Woodget helped him to limp his way deeper into the hold. As they progressed, the rats who lounged in their path crawled swiftly aside, with many a grovelling apology for causing any inconvenience. But the fieldmouse remained wary and his flesh crawled if he accidentally brushed against them.

Passing into a wide space that separated the two halves of the packed cargo, they found themselves in what was obviously the main thoroughfare of this strange community; the numbers of snivelling rat folk grew fewer and this part of the hold possessed a more wholesome air.

Genial mouse faces were to be seen sitting in snug berths with small lanterns glimmering above their bunks and, in the narrow alleys that radiated from this central road, other habitations could be glimpsed, for the glowing and sporadic trail of candlelight stretched in all directions.

“This is more like it,” Mulligan announced with a wave of his stick. “Here’s where the decent ones are quartered. ’Tis a strange life aboard ship, lads; like a village in miniature it is and when we’re afloat there ain’t nothing you can do to change the neighbours. Like it or lump it.”

Woodget was mildly astonished to find that there were numerous families aboard the Calliope. Here and there groups of mouse children who were too excited to sleep could be heard giggling as they listened to their father’s amusing stories. Other youngsters were dozing peacefully but at least one was determined not to go to bed and almost ran straight into Thomas on his scampering flight from an irate and scolding mother.

“You’ll have plenty of folk to speak to, Mulligan,” Woodget said. “I never did see such a gathering. I reckons you could talk to someone new every day of this voyage and still not know all of them by the time it’s done.”

A peculiar glint shone in Mulligan’s eyes but he said nothing and hobbled on in pensive silence.

Thomas gazed around them and nodded smilingly at the sleepy faces who glanced in his direction. But a heaviness was stealing over his heart and he was beginning to worry about the time. “Where do you think the physician will be?” he asked.

“Oh, he’ll not be far,” the seafarer replied, stirring from his thoughts. “Look yonder; those bales will make a fine soft bunk for me if there’s any room left and that’s where the bosun said I should find him. Let us head over there and I can get settled.”

The cotton bales were great square bags of bulging sacking, stuffed to near-bursting with countless soft and fluffy wads. Although most of them had been stacked so high as to make any attempt at sleeping upon them a momentous and dangerous climb, four spare bales were ranged in a line at the base of this unwieldy peak and it was these that a host of mice had claimed and made their own.

A number of smaller wooden boxes and sawn-off blocks had been hauled to one end of the row and organised into an irregular stairway leading to the top of the four bales, and when Mulligan and the others arrived they found that all the space was fully occupied.

Countless disdainful faces stared imperiously down at them. Apparently this was where those who considered themselves to be above the rest of the common sort had congregated in a select gathering, and Woodget nearly surrendered to the powerful urge to blow a raspberry at them.

Thomas also disliked the arrogant scorn that flowed down from above, but his mind was too preoccupied to care. All he wanted to do was return to the quayside and he wished Mulligan would settle somewhere soon.

Whether Mulligan himself was aware of the hostile contempt their presence was causing to the finer sensibilities of the uppish and supercilious residents, neither Thomas or Woodget could guess. Apparently deaf to the huffs of marked intolerance and blind to the pursed lips of displeasure, he began to clamber up the steps.

“Make way there,” he said gruffly when he reached the top. “Must be a space where I can plant my weary hindquarters.”

This base remark caused all the prim females to gasp and fan themselves as if they were going to faint. Then they saw the blood oozing from Mulligan’s shoulder and two of them really did wilt into their dithering husbands’ arms.

“If you want the physician,” a bony-faced mouse with a long thin nose began, “he isn’t here.”

“Thank you, matey!” Mulligan replied jovially. “Then I’ll just wait till he returns.” To the chagrin of his fellow snobbish travellers he manoeuvred himself down, sighing with pleasure as his bottom sank into the yielding hessian of the bale.

“There’s uncommon comfort,” he grinned, pummelling the soft bunk with his fists. “I could get used to this. It’s like an emperor I’ll be feeling when this is over.”

Thomas and Woodget were standing at his side and he looked up at them gratefully. “However can an old salt like me begin to thank you two fine fellows?” he asked.

“Just you get well,” Woodget told him, “and next time you find yourself in these parts, come visit me.”

“Who knows,” Thomas added, fidgeting with his red kerchief and impatiently shifting the weight from foot to foot, “you and Bess might be wed by then, if you ever get round to asking her.”

The fieldmouse chortled shyly and Thomas held out his paw to bid Mulligan farewell.

“’Fraid we can’t tarry,” he told him. “Already we’ve been longer than we ought.”

But the grey mouse was strangely anxious that they should not leave him just yet and became most insistent. “I can’t let you pair disappear without sharing a sup of rum with me,” he declared. “I’ve a flask put away someplace; I’ll just take it out.”

“We really ought to be headin’ home,” Woodget began.

“What nonsense are you talking?” Mulligan muttered, carefully unbuckling his pack and rummaging inside. “A fine lad like you wouldn’t decline a drink with a mate.”

Thomas glanced at Woodget and gave him a look that told him they had no time for this.

“It’s already very late,” he said, “and there’s still a tidy walk we’ve got in front of us.”

“All the more reason you should take a tot to set you on your road,” Mulligan answered, blithely disregarding their polite refusals and removing a large leather flask from his bag which he carefully fastened again and kept close by him.

“Not for me, thanks,” Thomas said as the seafarer pulled out the cork with his teeth. “I had my first taste of something similar this night and I’ve no wish to try any more. We really have to go!”

With the flask in his outstretched paws. Mulligan stared from Thomas to Woodget and a hurt expression crossed his whiskered face.

“It’s real offended I’ll be if you don’t accept what’s offered,” he breathed. “Is that your intent—to give me a second wound this night? To be sure this pains me more sorely than any rat bite could.”

Confronted by this, Thomas and Woodget had no choice but to accept the mouse’s invitation.

“There’s my fine young mateys,” Mulligan cheered and he could not disguise the relief in his voice. “I knew you wouldn’t fail me and be so harsh.”

Thomas took the flask from him and lifted it to his lips. He had the uneasy feeling that Mulligan was deliberately trying to prolong their stay, but he was determined that as soon as they had taken one drink then he and Woodget would most certainly depart. As he tilted back his head, a rich exotic smell rose up from the flask—filling and burning his nostrils—then Thomas drank.

Almost immediately he was coughing and spluttering. The rum was nothing like Old Vetch’s brew; it was far stronger and he leaned against the bale wheezing and gasping.

“I’ll bet that warmed your innards,” Mulligan laughed, “and set a fire raging in your veins.”

By this time Thomas had given the flask to Woodget and now it was the fieldmouse’s turn to squeak and choke.

Mulligan regarded them happily as he took his turn at the rum and gulped down a great swig.

“What I still don’t understand”, Thomas began when the breath returned to his lungs and he found his voice once more, “is why those villains out there were after you in the first place—I mean, what did they want?”

Mulligan paused in wiping his mouth and he wavered for a moment before answering. “Isn’t that the strangest occurrence?” he replied. “For here’s me with only my few worthless bits an’ pieces, and look how those bloodthirsty devils were set on cutting my throat. I tell you, lad, the world is growing stranger every day. Mind you—no one can fathom the workings of a rat’s worm-eaten brains. Like as not it was with someone else they’d muddled me.”

Thomas was still not convinced but he let it pass and declared that now they really had to leave.

“What?” Mulligan asked. “Not stay for just one more tot?”

“It’s very kind,” Thomas answered, but his anxiety to return to the quayside had mounted to near panic, “but no, this time we really must go. Come on, Woodj.”

Mulligan looked at them squarely and he cocked his head as if he was listening for something, then a broad grin lit his face. “Well, go with my blessings on you,” he told them. “You’ve made a true friend this night, so you have.”

Woodget held out his paw in farewell but at that moment, without warning, the deck lurched under him and he stared wildly at Thomas.

“Oaks and ivy!” he cried. “What is it?”

Thomas scowled as the ship tilted again and in horror he realised that what he had feared had indeed come to pass.

“She’s set sail!” he yelled. “Quick, Woodj—before it’s too late!”

Frantically, the two mice pelted from the cotton bales, too filled with anguish and urgency to take their leave of Mulligan.

Sitting upon the soft hessian, the seafarer chuckled mildly to himself as they scurried down the steps, and gave his belongings a thoughtful pat.

“Weren’t nothing else I could do,” he murmured severely to himself. “There’s more at stake here than some paltry romance, so there is. The poor young lad’ll get over it—if he comes through this perilous business.”

Recorking the flask, the grey mouse was at last able to consider all that had happened that night and his face grew extremely grave and stern.

“The road ahead will be hard and deadly,” he breathed. “All that matters is to keep the fragment from the enemy’s grasp.”

Over the slumbering bodies of mice—young and old—Thomas and Woodget leapt until they were in the central road once more. Blundering past those creatures foolish enough to get in their way, they knocked them to the deck—heedless of the yelps and angry cries which rang out in their wake.

“Hurry!” Thomas bawled over his shoulder when the fieldmouse began to lag behind.

Woodget was running as fast as he could and when they reached the edge of the cargo crates where the rats were gathered, their sprawled filthy figures no longer held any fear for him. Even when he accidentally stomped on one of the tails which snaked over the dusty boards and the rat let out a deafening yowl, he did not pause in his flight.

The thought of Bess was filling his mind—nothing else mattered. He had to see her. Yet even as he followed Thomas up the narrow sloping passage which led to the upper decks his spirits were sinking. The gentle rocking movements of the ship and Thomas’s ominous words struck a miserable chord in his heart and a chill dread was creeping over him.

“Hoy there!” roared the bosun when they stormed by him as he trotted down. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Desperately, Thomas scrambled onto the upper deck where he darted to the side of the ship and stumbled to a halt.

In a few moments Woodget joined him and they both stared out across the dark water in utter dismay.

The Calliope had left the harbour and was already sailing over the open ocean. To the mice’s distress, the little Cornish town was now only a glittering hoard of amber jewels shining in the distance and Woodget shivered violently.

“Bess,” he whimpered. “Tom, what’ll we do? I can’t stay here—I got to get back. This is terrible!”

Thomas hung his head. “Even if you could swim,” he began sorrowfully, “it’s too late. You’d never reach the shore—we’re too far out.”

“Then, what will become of us?” the fieldmouse breathed in a small and defeated voice. “Won’t we never get home?”

Thomas gazed at him and knew how crushed his little friend was. “Course we will,” he answered, rousing a little. “Ships don’t go sailing round and never stop. As soon as this vessel puts into a port we’ll hop off and find another to ferry us back.”

“Really?” Woodget asked, putting his paw to his eyes to check the brimming tears. “Is you telling the truth, Tom?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Woodj,” came the sincere reply. “You just remember this—it was me who got you into this fix so I’ll not be easy till I deliver you safe and sound to your Bess. Rely on Thomas Stubbs, Master Pipple, he’ll never let you down—ever.”

The fieldmouse smiled faintly then rested his chin on his paws as he stared bleakly out at the dwindling lights in the distance.

“Hope it don’t take long,” he muttered. “She’ll get so worried—not a good worrier, Bess ain’t.”

Thomas put his arm about his friend and let his eyes drift upwards, up to where the stars blazed with a cold, white fire.

He had never seen them burn so brilliantly before and despite the predicament he was in, found himself dazzled and rendered speechless by their beauty.

At his side Woodget remained unmoved, for his thoughts were elsewhere. The enveloping darkness was but a mirror of his own feelings and he wondered how many days or weeks would pass before he found himself treading familiar paths with the mouse maiden at his side.

Under the great awning of night the Calliope journeyed, further from the coast until the craft was lost from sight altogether and a complete blackness closed about it. Only the silver-flamed splendour of the springtime stars punctuated the devouring dark and to Thomas it seemed as if the sea fell away beneath them and the ship rose silently, with a noble and dignified grace, up into the heavens—to sail amid the celestial and everlasting lamps.

Thomas’s first voyage had begun.

Yet in the hold of the Calliope, amidst the weary travellers and masquerading as one of their number, something evil was stalking. With watchful eyes and a black soul consumed with malice, the figure passed between bunks and berths, seeking out the one who had thwarted his followers upon the quayside.

A lust for death and slaughter boiled behind those unwavering eyes. Somewhere in that labyrinth of wood and bale, the object of his hatred was resting, no doubt congratulating himself on his escape. But from the nightmare which prowled stealthily through that meandering, unsuspecting warren there could be no deliverance. An end was coming, the final throe in the unrelenting agonies of the world was close at hand and no one, certainly not an ageing mariner, could prevent that. The time of the usurping Green was nearly over and the ancient shadows were already lying heavy over eastern shores. The terror of the Dark Time was rising, that which had been cast out in ages past was nigh.

The night deepened and, unaware of the black fate which lay ahead, the Calliope journeyed on—towards the awaiting doom.

4 - Steeped in Venom

In the days that followed, Thomas saw little more of the watery world outside, for that first night when his wonder at the beauty surrounding him had waned, he had begun to feel queasy.

With an almost green pallor, he had spent three days down in the hold, groaning at the slightest movement of the ship and feeling thoroughly miserable.

“It’s the sea-sickness all right,” a hearty Mulligan had told Woodget. “Nowt for it but to let him squirm and suffer with it; seen the condition a hundred times afore—the malady’ll right itself as soon as he finds his sea legs. Mind you, some folk never do. A fine mariner he’s proving to be.”

The fieldmouse had stayed by his friend’s side for all of the first day but by the evening he had grown restless and, when Thomas had fallen into an uncomfortable slumber, he decided to investigate the hold a little more.

There was no more room by the cotton bales so he and Thomas had been forced to take what quarters they could find and eventually discovered a warm berth amongst a veritable hill of large wooden barrels bound about with hoops of iron.

From the midst of these, Woodget crept and stretched his arms wide. Before him wound an alleyway walled by great oaken chests, intersected by many tapering ravines that were too narrow and cramped to sleep in but which served as handy back routes to other parts of the hold.

Woodget did not dare attempt to explore any of those just yet for he was certain he would get lost in the connecting canyons; they were still like one gigantic maze to him. So, keeping to the familiar path, he set off and his heart was light.

Gone was the misery of the previous night. The fieldmouse was not one to wallow in self-pity and, since there was nothing he could do to speed up his return home, he had resolved to learn as much as he could about his fellow travellers—looking forward to the day when he could recount their tales and histories for Bess’s delight.

“First off I’ll have another word with Mulligan,” he told himself, “see if’n that physician who tended his shoulder hasn’t got summat to ease poor Tom’s tum.”

Wandering through the alley, Woodget headed for the hold’s central trackway. Passing beneath a wide pillar that reached all the way to the dark heights of the ceiling, he was astonished to discover that a family of dormice had built a neat nest around a series of pipes that ran the length of the towering column.

Three timid faces were poking out of the twiggy entrance and regarded him meekly. Woodget tried to remember the correct way to greet these distant cousins and nodded his head three times.

“How do up there!” he called. “That looks like a cosy home—a bit like the ones we make in my field. Did you lug them sticks an’ straw all this...” but the dormice had already disappeared inside and the nest trembled as they shivered within.

On the timbers below, the fieldmouse chuckled and shrugged. No doubt he would get acquainted before the journey was over. There were still many hundreds of other folk to meet.

“Wouldn’t bother with them if I was you, Titch,” came a croaking voice. The sound was so unexpected that Woodget jumped and looked about him.

“Dormice ain’t good fer anythin’,” the voice continued. “All they ever talks about is the state of their sweaty old nests and if you’re real unlucky they’ll recite the roll of their ancestors at you. Bore the prickles off a hedgepig, that would.”

Woodget squinted into the darkness that obscured the entrance to one of the narrow ravines and, amongst the shadows a little distance away, he thought he could just make out the tall silhouette of a rat.

Woodget’s throat dried and he caught his breath as he began to edge away. From somewhere inside of him he knew that here was another of that foul race who would not be cowed by mere angry words and shaking fists.

“And where might you be a-going?” the cracked voice flowed from the darkness. “Off to see that peg-leg chum o’ youm? I’d be careful if I were you, Titch. I done heard odd tales about that one. More to him than meets the eye or I’m no judge, and what do you suppose he keeps in that bag of his, the one he guards and binds so close to him the whole time?”

With that the rat shape stirred and took several steps closer to the opening but still remained hidden in the dim gloom, immersed in the concealing shade.

Woodget glanced back nervously, wondering if the creature would suddenly rush out at him, and he bit his lips as he tensed himself, preparing to run.

“Don’t you be afeared of old Jophet now,” the voice drawled at him. “He never does no one no harm, not unless they threaten him first, o’ course.”

“Why are you lurkin’, an a-hidin’—creepin’ up on folk?” Woodget demanded in a frail voice. “Why aren’t you with the rest of your kind? Go... go pick at the slime and stink of your wormy fish gruel.”

“Happen I got tired of their company,” came the hissed reply. “That’s not to be amazed at, for they don’t have an ounce of sense betwixt ’em. Jophet wanders where he will and won’t be quartered nor shown no boundary. “’Tweren’t my intent to scare you though, my tiny friend.”

“I ain’t scared!” Woodget rallied, not very convincingly. “And I ain’t your friend!”

“Then you ought to be,” the dark shape uttered softly. “A green-eared fellow like you don’t have the first notion about the wild world. There’s terrors out there to wither your tail and staunch the blood in your veins. Were I to tell you half the yams I heard or the foes I seen, you’d jump straight into the gurgling deep and drown yourself stone dead rather than face them. Be warned, Titch, and put your faith in no one—’specially not that soused old peg-leg. Lead you in a deadly dance, the halt-footed one would.”

Even as he spoke, there came the sound of footsteps and the lamplight in the alleyway where the fieldmouse stood flickered. The croaking voice was silenced and Woodget turned from the dark ravine to see who was approaching. With a smack of his tail against the crates, the shadowy rat turned about in the cramped passage and scooted off into the distance—vanishing into the dark.

Woodget rubbed his eyes, unsettled by the things the unpleasant creature had said, but he did not dwell on them for long.

“Broken biscuits!” cried a much lighter voice which, compared to the croaking tones of the rat, seemed to Woodget like the sound of clean spring water trickling through a parched and stony ditch.

“You’d best find them what knows, Dimmy,” it went on. “Find ’em quick an’ tell ’em like. How come they aren’t a doing summink about it? Oh deary dear! We’ll never be getting nowhere if it goes on. Aunty was right—as sure as birds got beaks and slugs is stickier ’n lickrish.”

Shuffling down the alleyway, with his sloping shoulders bowed and his slightly flat-shaped head slowly shaking from side to side as he stared with solemn intensity at something held in his paws, came the figure of a young mouse.

His fur was a pale grey colour, but as he shambled past the lanterns their radiance scintillated around his slight form, bestowing upon him a halo of gold.

Woodget watched the newcomer cautiously before making a move, for as yet the mouse was unaware of him. A satchel with a letter ‘D’ painted large and red upon the front flap was slung over one of the drooping shoulders and his heavy-lidded but wide brown eyes were still fixed upon the mysterious object dangling in his paws.

“Thistles and nettles!” the grey mouse continued woefully. “Round and round we’re goin’, round and round without a stop. I don’t think I feel so good, spinnin’ like a sycamore key. It’s giddy I’ll be.”

The stranger was quite close to Woodget now and at last the fieldmouse was able to see the baffling object twirling from the other’s fingers.

It was a fishbone attached to a piece of string and Woodget let out a gurgle of laughter when he recognised the ludicrous compass he had almost bought from the quayside market. Then he saw that around the newcomer’s neck there was not one cork talisman but three.

At once the stranger looked up and his large eyes blinked in surprise. “Who’s that?” he gasped, his large head bobbing upon his thin neck. “What’s so far-fangled funny?”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” Woodget declared, “I was just so relieved you weren’t another o’ them awful rats. There was one here a moment ago, down that snicket there.”

The grey mouse regarded him for a moment then grinned stupidly. “I done seed nothin’ and I aren’t no rattybigfootsnottynosescabtail!” he affirmed, running the words together so that he had to take a great gulp of air before continuing. “Them’s no family of mine, least my Aunty Lily never said so, but one of my cussins was a mucky scamp, she always said.”

Woodget smiled and introduced himself, but the mouse shook his head sadly, causing his ears to flap as he did so.

“Isn’t no use a-telling you my name’s Dimlon, nor that Aunty always calls me Dimmy, for what’s the good in that if we’re all a’ squirlin’ around and around? Come a cropper we will and what’s the use of gettin’ hintroducted and parlourmanneredbestcrocksout then?”

Taking another deep breath, he held up the suspended fishbone and pointed to it glumly while his eyes rolled in their sockets as they followed its slowly spinning progress.

“There now,” he breathed emphatically, “see how we’re all fixed and lumbered. Always to the north this here hamulot points, but you just mark how it turns and twists, never stopping still. Can only mean one thing. In a circle, that’s where this big daft boat’s goin’. I reckon I ought to have words with someone, an’ I will too if I knew who to tell.”

Woodget chortled and found himself wondering if he would have been taken in by the absurd compass if he had gone ahead and purchased one.

“I’m sure we ain’t going round in circles,” he told Dimlon tactfully. “P’raps you haven’t got the hang of that gadget yet. Maybe you ain’t holdin’ it proper.”

Dimmy’s face clouded as his dull wits struggled with this new thought, then he brightened and he tucked the fishbone into a pocket of his satchel.

“Pickle me!” he groaned, tutting at his previous fears. “Aunty said I weren’t no good at anythin’, ‘Dimmylackwitdunderhead’—she was right there. ’Course, she didn’t think I’d ever find the harbour, let alone get on a boaty. Just wait till I sees her face when I come back with summink rare an’ forrin to put on her table, poshdustcollectin’whatnot. A statyoo of an effylump I’m hopin’ for—she’d fair flip for that, she would. Always told me tales of far shores, she has, tales she’d heard from when she was little. Scary some of them were, some nights I never slept a wink, but I’d dearly like to see a munkie and hear a lie-on. Not the other way round o’ course—’case it saw me too and ett me for a snack then be pickin’ bits of me out of his teeth all week.”

Woodget laughed at his idiotic talk. “Well, I’m pleased to have met you anyways,” he said. “I was just off to find my friend Mister Mulligan. I’d be glad of the company and I’m sure he’d be glad to meet you if you’re willin’ to join me.”

Dimlon consented and trudged happily alongside the fieldmouse, telling him of his former life with his aunt. This embittered old spinster had taken him in as an infant when his parents had died, and from that day to this had crushed and ridiculed him at every opportunity until he was the butt of every joke where they lived and she treated him like an unpaid servant.

The more Woodget learned about this formidable-sounding old battleaxe the more he felt sorry for his companion, yet Dimlon would not hear a word against her.

“A real grand lady she is,” he said in her defence. “Not nobody with nicer knick-knacks than what she has. So patient too, always watches me when I does the dustin’, givin’ me careful advice on how to do it proper and reminds me when I do it wrong or miss a bit. That’s why I told her, “Aunty,” I said, “you got all these lovely trinkets an’ you’re so kind to let me clean them every day after I done my chores, “tain’t fair that I done gave you none of them.” Oh, how she laughed at that—always laughing at my funny ways, she was; did my heart good to hear her ’cos I knew how much she cared for me, see.”

By now they had reached the main thoroughfare but the grey mouse continued to chatter as they strolled along. The evening meal had taken its toll on the rest of the passengers for the wider way was almost deserted. In their berths the families were either dozing or trying to keep the youngsters from raiding the rest of the precious provisions. Two of the more rebellious infants were chasing one another in and out of the narrow alleyways and their fraught parents had given up any hope of keeping them under control.

Woodget eyed them with a measure of concern, remembering that the rat who called himself Jophet might be lurking down one of those dimly-lit channels. But the screams of the youngsters were cries of giggling mischief, and under the bewildering spell of Dimlon’s inane blather he gave the croaking creature no further thought.

“The look on Aunty’s face,” Dimlon babbled, childishly avoiding the cracks between the timbers as he ambled along, the three cork pendants swinging like clumsy pendulums. “Didn’t reckon I’d akshually do it, she never. Just wait till I bring her a gloryorse treasure. Make the others sit up, that will.”

Suddenly the two mouse children came running back onto the main thoroughfare, their faces drawn and their merry voices changed to whimpers of dread.

Woodget stared at them in dismay as they tore back to their parents and he shifted his gaze to a dark opening between the huge packing crates.

“Mother! Mother!” the youngsters cried. “It’s following us, look—look!”

A furious scowl appeared on Woodget’s face. How dare that rat pick on children and frighten them?

But then the object of the youngsters’ fear stepped into the lantern light. It was not Jophet, but a creature far more outlandish and the fieldmouse gaped in astonishment.

“A wizard! A wizard!” the children sang, pointing at the bizarre stranger with a mixture of awe and excitement.

Woodget had never seen anything so peculiar before. The ‘wizard’ was almost as short as himself, but what manner of creature he was he could not tell. The enigma was swathed in a cloak of blood-red velvet, richly embroidered with golden images of suns and moons and weird, plainly magical symbols. A large hood edged with a silken fringe concealed the unknown’s face but from the deep shade sprouted many pale whiskers and for a brief moment two dim points glittered out in Woodget and Dimlon’s direction.

In one of the stranger’s small, gloved paws was a slender staff painted with a spiral of silver and black, topped by a carving of three rayed stars. With his free paw he traced a curious snaking pattern in the air.

A thrilled, expectant murmur rippled through the gathered families.

“A travelling magician!” they whispered. “Will he perform for us, do you think? That’ll keep the young ones entertained. They think of everything on these trips, don’t they?”

All eyes were trained on the hooded figure and their whiskers trembled with glee as he raised the staff and waited for quiet to descend.

Suddenly from the fringed hood a sonorous, clear voice called out and all marvelled that such a booming sound could have its origins in such a diminutive creature.

“Hearken to me, voyagers all!” the mysterious stranger cried. “Know now that Simoon—wanderer of the ancient pathways, obeah pilgrim, far seer, chanter of spellcraft, mage and prophet, diviner of fortunes, treader of the forgotten track and guardian of the old rituals—is amongst you.”

A murmur of approval swept through the onlookers; so far this was just what they anticipated and some even cheered, only to be hushed by their neighbours who were eager to hear what else the magician had to say.

“Many days shall we journey together,” Simoon called, “and in that time thy hearts will grow weary. When you tire of this airless place and the dull company of those colourless folk about you, come seek me out and you shall learn all that you are able to bear.”

A sense of disappointment welled up in everyone, as well as a twinge of resentment for being pronounced ‘dull’.

“He’s only touting for business,” grumbled a disillusioned mousewife. “Well, that prophet won’t profit from me. Agnes, Pip, come away—there’ll be no free show from that one.”

Feeling cheated, the mice slowly went back to their bunks until only Woodget and Dimlon were left looking at the hooded creature.

Within the cloak the one called Simoon shrugged his shoulders then, with a parting glance at the two who were still watching him, fished inside a pocket of the red velvet and cast a pinch of grey powder to the ground.

At once there was a bang and a flash of yellow flame which instantly turned into a cloud of thick blue smoke shot through with fizzing orange sparks.

When the swirling, glittering mist cleared the magician was nowhere to be seen and Dimlon let out a whoop of delight.

“Plop me in a jam pot!” he declared. “That’s a gogglin’ good trick and no mistake! Real mighty witcherypocus that is—wouldn’t like him to aim his spells and curses on me. Purplebelliedpinkspottednatterjacker, that’s what he’d turn me into.”

Woodget did not like to tell him that Simoon had simply ducked back into the dark opening under cover of the smoke screen. “Come on,” he said, “Mulligan ain’t far off now.”

Leaving the central road, they ventured through the crate canyons to where the cotton bales reared high and bulging into the towering darkness, and made for the stairway.

Past the pompous faces and snooty upturned noses of those who dwelt there they went until they heard a loud, raucous voice raised in lusty laughter.

“Then we trussed him up and locked him in a creel for the rest of the night,” Mulligan’s unashamed tones seared through the refined berths, “so drunk he couldn’t remember his name that stoat was, and sang such a lewd ballad that the beadle came bowling over and washed out his mouth with carbolic.”

Dimlon’s eyes shone as he listened and he quickened his pace in his urgency to meet the owner of this brash voice.

When they reached him. Mulligan was sitting with his wooden leg resting upon his pack. The wounded shoulder was bandaged and his whiskered cheeks buckled with mirth as he waved the leather flask beneath his nose.

But the seafarer was not alone, for sitting beside him, dangling his toes over the bale’s edge was Able Ruddaway, the bosun, and it was obvious that he too had been drinking. The crew member’s head was lolling to one side, his eyes were strangely glazed and his usually neat beard glistened with spilt rum.

“Ahoy there!” Mulligan boomed when he noticed the two mice approaching. “And how’s young Pipple? Making friends by the looks of things.”

Woodget grinned and introduced him to Dimlon.

“Sure, I’m pleased to meet you,” Mulligan declared with a nod.

“You got a leg missing!” Dimlon exclaimed.

Mulligan peered down at his peg-leg and affected a look of horror. “Keelhaul me if that ain’t so!” he bawled. “To be sure the real one was there a minute ago! Oh Master Dimlon, help me find it! The wilful wretch is always hopping off on its own, so it is.”

Dimlon stared at him incredulously, until the mariner winked back impishly. “Why, you were a-pullin’ my leg,” he guffawed. “Legs don’t go off on their own. But you must call me Dimmy, Mister Mulligan—my Aunty Lily does an’ everyone else too.”

“It’s not a bit surprised I am to hear it,” Mulligan chuckled. “Well, Dimmy, let me present an old mate of mine to you. This sorry swab is the bosun of this fine ship.” He jabbed Mr Ruddaway in the ribs with his elbow and the mouse jerked his head up, startled.

“All’s safe below decks, Captain, sir!” he yelped drunkenly. “No scum allowed, throw ’em in the brig or overboard, we runs a smart ship on the Calliope.”

“Now then,” Mulligan began, turning back to Woodget, “tell me, how’s that chum of yours? Has the sickness passed?”

The fieldmouse shook his head.

“That it hasn’t,” he replied. “Poor Tom is still bad. I was hopin’ you could ask the physician for somethin’ to help him. I’d have come sooner but I met a rat on the way. He weren’t no cringer, more like them what attacked us.”

Mulligan’s face changed immediately. Every trace of humour melted and his twinkling eyes dimmed to two flinty points that were both anxious and severe.

“You sure of that now?” he snapped, recorking the flask and laying it by his side.

“As I’m standing here,” the fieldmouse asserted. “Said you were a-pretendin’ to be something you aren’t—I didn’t like him at all.”

“What did he look like?”

“I... I couldn’t tell,” Woodget stuttered, taken aback by the unnerving transformation. “He kept in the shadows... but he said his name was Jophet.”

Mulligan repeated the name under his breath but it was clear that it meant nothing to him. Turning from Woodget, he lifted his stick and pointed it accusingly at Dimlon.

“Did you see this rogue?” he barked. “What of his tail? Did you notice any disfigurement?”

The pale grey mouse shook his head, shaken by the severity of the question. “I didn’t see him, no!” he said hastily. “Nor his flyflickermuddraggerscabwiggler. All I saw was the magicwitchyspellthrowertoadymaker, but he made a crash and a bang and was gone.”

“He means the magician,” Woodget explained, seeing Mulligan’s confusion.

“A magician?” the Irish mouse breathed gravely. “Tell me of him.”

“Well, we didn’t see much of him either,” Woodget explained. “All swaddled up in a cloak he was, with a big hood an’ all.”

“Then it could well be,” Mulligan whispered to himself. “Either of those two sound right, unless they’re working together of course.”

Shifting around, he shook the bosun by the shoulders and the bearded mouse spluttered indignantly.

“Able!” Mulligan demanded. “Do you remember what happened after I came aboard with my two young mates—did ought else follow us? How many other passengers joined before the ship left harbour?”

Mr Ruddaway rubbed his eyes and peered hard at his old friend as he struggled to remember.

“Yes...” he said eventually, “there were some later than you, can’t remember how many... but let me see... was it one or two? Might have been five—busy night that was. No, hang on... no, I can’t recall who they were. That medicine of yours is a real brain-wiper.”

Mulligan grasped him tighter than ever. “Your book!” he demanded. “You’ll have entered all their names in there. Where is it?”

The bosun groped at his belt where he normally stowed the well-thumbed notebook, then gave a silly titter. “I left it in my quarters up on deck,” he laughed.

“I have to know!” the Irish mouse insisted forcefully. “Get on your feet, you stupid oaf! We’ll both go see!”

Woodget was alarmed and almost afraid by Mulligan’s behaviour and he recalled the panic he had first heard in his voice upon the quayside. Perhaps there was some truth in what the unseen Jophet had told him after all, and this unwelcome thought sent a shiver down the fieldmouse’s tail.

Around them the other passengers stared at the scene with distaste on their haughty faces. In spite of the fact that they considered Mulligan coarse and vulgar and that he ought not to be permitted to remain with them, they were all listening with interest to what was said.

“No, no,” the bosun blurted, “you stay here and see to your company. I’ll go fetch my register and bring it down. Though by rights you oughtn’t to clap eyes on it, old mate, crew use only—but just this once, eh? Can’t do no harm. If you don’t tell the skipper then I won’t.”

Staggering to his unsteady feet, the bosun saluted them with his sword, then tottered down the steps and out of sight.

An awkward silence followed his departure, broken only by the disapproving tuts of the disdainful onlookers.

Woodget felt uncomfortable and Dimlon looked scared. Mulligan’s face was terrible to see; a tempest of emotions was ravaging his features and his paws reached for his pack which he dragged from under his stump and clutched tightly to his chest as though he expected it to be torn from him.

“I... I better go see how Tom’s gettin’ on then,” Woodget mumbled as he watched him. “Happen that physician wouldn’t be no use nohow. See you later, Mister Mulligan.”

No reply came and Woodget beckoned Dimlon to follow him as he picked his way between the sniffing, snooty spectators.

Alone with his bag. Mulligan stared into space, ignoring the pert mutterings that rustled about him. From the beginning he had known that his was a dangerous road, beset by perils. But unexpected hazards had waylaid his quest far too early. The trust the council had put in him was proving to be unfounded and his spirits ebbed to their lowest point thus far.

Lowering his gaze, he was suddenly acutely aware of the many curious eyes turned in his direction and he flinched from their unwanted attention. Any of those seemingly innocent passengers could be the one, he thought. Behind their fair masks, what horrors lay hidden? Kindly words poured easily off sharpened tongues. Even the youngest were to be suspected, for his enemies were born into their hellish cause and dedicated to that foulness with their first breath. Coldly he reflected that even the weakest paw could hold a poisoned knife.

Mulligan trembled and he snapped his eyes tight shut. In his troubled mind he had turned all the merry faces into a mob of snarling fiends with lidless eyes and he felt utterly besieged—helpless and without any hope of aid.

In his heart he knew he could no longer go on alone; he would have to share the terrible burden or be driven insane. What manner of mouse was he becoming, when he was forced to question even the motives of children?

“A poor choice I was,” he murmured, ”Aye, it’s well I’ve done what I have.”

His face settled into an expression of stone, like an image hewn by chisel and hammer from solid rock. In his pack, hidden and wound about with yards of cloth, resided the most fearful secret entrusted to any living creature—and its very presence terrified the mouse to the core of his being. It was a perilous charge, ever it gnawed at him and he yearned to be rid of it. But he had sworn many solemn oaths and vowed to surrender his very life before yielding up the ninth and most precious fragment.

Bowing his head, he prayed that his courage would not falter; though the vile forces of his foe’s legions march against him, he begged that he might remain true. The fate of the world was in his keeping and if he stumbled, then endless night would fall.

Able Ruddaway stumbled to the upper deck and reeled backwards as the keen salt air gusted into his lungs. It was already dark but that night no stars glimmered above, for the heavens were hidden by a suffocating expanse of black rolling cloud.

Only the lights of the Calliope shone over the open sea and from where he stood, leaning against a rail, the bosun was lit by the bright yellow rays which streamed from the small bridge of the official crew.

For many minutes he stayed there, waiting for his head to clear, listening to the water washing against the ship as it ploughed unnerringly on and, thoughtfully, he groomed the rum from his beard.

It had been pleasant sharing a tot with Mulligan, and to speak of old times. Strange, he reflected, that of late his mind often lingered in the past, treasuring dusty memories with more fondness than the present, or the future that was left to him.

For all of his adult life, Able had been at sea—having left home on the very day he had come of age. Many trials he had been through, but as he stood there, breathing deeply of the sea air and savouring the beloved briny tang which formed upon his tongue, he longed for those youthful, reckless days.

“The world’s changing,” he sighed regretfully. “Who’d have thought I’d end up stuck on a cargo ship ferrying passengers to an’ fro? What happened to that early madness? Where has the ocean-haunted youngster gone—that lad enamoured of the shifting tides? Lost forever he is now and there’s no reclaiming him; he began to perish the very day you wrote in the first of those accursed logs. When you accepted this post your joy of the deep was ended. How long has it been since you caroused like tonight or gazed down at the waves and set your mind free to watch them and wonder what marvels lay beneath?”

A corner of the bosun’s face twitched and he gave a wry smile. “Wouldn’t be doing to tell that scoundrel Mulligan how much I envy him, now would it?” he mused. “But he’s a strange one for all his bluff talk; never says much about where he goes when he’s ashore. And the travels he’s made in recent months! Like a gull without a roost he’s been. Not like him, that isn’t. Still, we all got to steer our own course.”

Able shuddered, for the night was chill and he moved away from the rail, briskly rubbing his goosepimpling arms with his paws.

“Better get that passenger list for the rogue,” he said, striding a little more surely now that the rum-induced haze about his brain was lifting.

Over the deserted deck he went, crossing to the bow where he entered the livid green glow radiating from the starboard lantern, and ducked beneath a low wooden shelf.

Under this, great coils of rope were stored alongside huge rolls of coarse tarpaulin, and the bosun deftly hurried past them to where a triangular hole lay open in the timbers.

In a trice he disappeared within—down to a well-ordered though humble space which served as his quarters.

Once inside, Mr Ruddaway fumbled in the darkness, reaching out for the tinder box he always left just below the entrance. When he found it a spark crackled and flared and the ember of a candlewick kindled into flame.

The modest room contained everything that he owned and that was not much, for a wanderer such as he had been put down few roots and needed little in the way of belongings.

Most of the small space was filled by a hammock that was stretched clean across two opposing corners. Upon the walls such meagre mementoes that he did possess were regimentedly displayed; two pictures, one of his mother, the other of his father, hung side by side as souvenirs from his former, landlubbing youth. Under them, a tobacco pouch was suspended by a silken cord and finally, on the adjoining wall, there was an oilskin coat and hat.

Beneath the hammock and classified into ascending years was a prodigious row of books. Every passenger that had ever journeyed or even boarded the Calliope during Mr Ruddaway’s time was entered in their correct and balanced pages and it comforted him at times to peruse some of the older volumes and remember those early voyages. Most of the faces that leaped from those yellowing pages were no longer to be seen roaming the wide world. Many had been regular travellers but now only a few die-hard rovers were left. Mulligan was one and, remembering his request, the bosun took up the most recent notebook and turned the pages.

“Mulligan, Mulligan,” he muttered, searching the final entries. “Ah, Mulligan and two comrades boarded, being a Master Woodget Pipple and Master Thomas Stubbs.”

Holding the book a little closer to the candle flame he peered at the names entered beneath and fingered his beard.

“There were three more then,” he mused. “Seems he was nosing the right scent for a change—though that last one’s a surprise! How could I have forgotten him? Well, let’s hope this’ll ease the old rogue’s mind when he sees it.”

Tucking the book into his belt, he snuffed out the light and clambered through the opening once more.

Upon the deck, bathed in the green glow of the lantern, someone was waiting for him. Two eyes watched the bosun’s burly form emerge from the shadows and a low hiss issued into the cold sea breeze.

Leaving the low shelf behind, Mr Ruddaway straightened then, with a jolt, saw that he was not alone.

“Hoy!” he said sternly. “You shouldn’t be up here. Early evening and at dawn—that’s when passengers are allowed on deck—no other times.”

The eyes that watched him narrowed and a soft, sibilant whisper flowed from tight lips.

“I was seeking you,” it said.

“Aye, well you’ve found me now,” the bosun said. “You can go back down and speak to me there if you must.”

“Verily I shall return to that place,” came the answering hiss, “yet those words I must share with you now, there cannot be any delaying of them.”

Mr Ruddaway stared at the glowing green figure and tapped the notebook with his paw.

“Just been reminded when you joined us,” he said, but his voice faltered when he looked on that face whose fur was shining like sun-drenched grass. Was it an illusion caused by the lurid light or were those eyes truly changing? Golden they appeared now and their pupils shrivelled into dark slits.

“Your... your eyes,” Able stammered, “you... you look... unwell...”

“I am indeed most hale,” the figure replied, “more so now, for my task is drawing to its conclusion.”

The bosun shivered, for the voice had become dreadful to hear and his paw strayed to the hilt of his sword.

Before him, the sinister shape gave a flick of its tail and Mr Ruddaway choked back a cry when he beheld the hideous sight before his eyes.

“Green save us!” he gasped. “Then it’s true—the stories from the East.”

“Assuredly so,” the watcher laughed hollowly. “The Scales do exist, but too late have you learned the truth, woebegotten and forsaken mariner. That knowledge shall die with you.”

With that the creature leaped forward and upon his claws two golden blades glittered like slivers of emerald in the ghastly light.

Mr Ruddaway drew out his sword and sprang back, slicing at the air and hacking wildly. Expertly, his attacker dodged aside and whipped smartly around—the gleaming razors raking twin lines across the bosun’s cheek.

The mouse howled with pain and the blood streamed into his beard but he parried the next blow and with a fierce shove pushed his assailant back.

Snarling, the figure fell against the deck rail but his cruel eyes blazed with fury and, with his bared fangs snapping, he lunged a second time.

Valiantly the bosun fought, yet the wounds in his face burned and the blood which now poured from the ribboned flesh was black and frothed—giving off a putrid stink of mouldering decay.

“Why spend your last strength?” the figure mocked him as his golden blades clashed against the sword and the hideous notes of their desperate striking rang over the deck, chiming like the toneless bells of Death.

“Already you have lost!” he crowed. “Did you not know that our claws are dipped in venom? Can you not feel the dark fires raging in your veins? They are eating you alive, Master Bosun—an agonizing torment now awaits you! It would be better for you if I were to dispatch you swiftly!”

Mr Ruddaway balked at these words, for he could feel a blistering heat scorch his cheek and his teeth ground together as every nerve began to scream.

“If I die—then I’ll take you with me!” he bawled through the pain.

Only hissing laughter was his reply, for the bosun’s strokes were losing their might and the sword no longer flashed with a blur of steel.

Cackling, the enemy drew away from him, waving the golden knives before his face, taunting the dying seamouse and revelling in the racking agony that consumed him.

Able stumbled after him, but a black mist was closing over his eyes and his sword thrusts became ever weaker.

“Much would I enjoy to view your death,” that evil voice needled, as finally Mr Ruddaway’s vision faded and he was plunged into a gulf of absolute dark. “Yet no time have I for that amusing diversion. I must not be missed below.”

The sword fell from the bosun’s paw, for now he was too weak to grasp it and with a wail he fell to his knees.

“HELP!” he yelled. “HELP!”

But he had thought to cry too late. His voice was thin and strangled by pain—in his throat black blood was boiling and the venom burned down into his rasping lungs.

With a callous leer, his attacker came forward and Mr Ruddaway felt the notebook wrenched from his belt.

“Too soon is it for the peg-leg to suspect me,” the bosun heard above the screeching of his own blood in his ears.

Fiercely, the book was hurled over the side of the ship and was at once lost amid the churning waters far below.

Scornfully, the creature turned back to his victim and a contemptuous sneer split his face.

“Of you there shall be no trace,” he spat and with a high, frightful laugh he hoisted the mouse to his feet and dragged him to the side.

But Mr Ruddaway was too consumed with despair and torment to know what was happening. The vicious black froth had welled around his eyes and was already devouring them.

Shaking with pleasure, the foul creature perched him upon the rail and allowed him to teeter there for a moment.

“To the fish you go,” he sang, “but to show how merciful the Scales can be, I shall speed your end and draw those cold breathless mouths all the more readily to you.”

Sniggering, he placed the glittering knives at the bosun’s throat and plunged them deep into his bubbling flesh.

With a triumphant shriek, the monster sliced the mouse in two and a steaming fount of poisonous blood gushed into the sea beneath.

Able Ruddaway’s torment was over and with a violent shove his killer cast the gored and butchered body out over the side.

Malignantly, the creature stared as the limp corpse tumbled down, plummeting into the lathering waves.

“Yet no fish shall venture near,” the fiend spoke. “None shall come within a league of him; the bitter juice of the Serpent now claims those fathoms. All hail him, all abase themselves before him—for he will come amongst us once more. The exile is nearly over.”

And so the evil creature left that place and carefully removed the knives from his claws before returning to the hold where his true victim sat and waited in vain for Mr Ruddaway’s return.

5 - Simoon

“He’ll be nursing his head someplace no doubt,” the skipper had said when Mr Ruddaway failed to turn up for his next watch duty. “Well I’ll not be treating him too tender when he finally shows his bilious face. Go rout him out of his quarters and bring him here at the double.”

Captain Gabriel Hewer, a tall, stern-looking mouse with many furrows creasing his forehead sent the first officer to fetch the errant bosun but even when he returned without him the skipper was not unduly alarmed. There had been several other occasions when Able had not surfaced promptly from whatever hole he had collapsed into after drinking bouts with old friends.

“There’s work to be done and I won’t have my crew carousing if it affects their duties,” he bawled. “Get you below and scour every dark corner till you unearth the old sot!”

Yet the search yielded no clue as to the bosun’s whereabouts and, when the day crept into the afternoon, the hunt became more serious and the captain was compelled to ask the passengers for their assistance.

Leaving Thomas to suffer with the seasickness alone for a while, Woodget found Dimlon and together they helped in the great endeavour to locate the missing bosun. At first the mouse families who took part did so in an amused fashion, not understanding the grave implications of the mystery and viewing the entire affair as a type of entertainment. Yet when evening came and there was still no sign, their seeking became more frantic and spurred by grim desperation.

Never had the ship been so thoroughly searched; every possible niche was pried and poked into, but eventually after much exhaustive labouring, the disturbing conclusion had to be drawn—Able Ruddaway was no longer on board.

Speculation crackled through the hold like a fever; the troubled imaginations of the passengers invented a hundred different reasons for the bosun’s disappearance and each of them was darker and more frightening than the last. Finally the captain was forced to quell the rising panic by declaring his own opinion of what had happened. He had arrived at the regrettable conclusion that whilst in a stupefied state. Able Ruddaway had no doubt stumbled and fallen into the sea. A tragic and ignominious end to a worthy and much respected member of his crew—but to suspect treachery and murder was absurd.

As the captain addressed them with this version of events. Mulligan muttered to himself and knew that the skipper could not be more wrong. He had suspected at once that some wicked cruelty or act of malice had befallen his friend, knowing that the search was in vain and making no attempt to assist in it.

“They can turn the ship upside down and back again,” he mumbled darkly to himself, “but Able won’t never be found—not alive anyway.”

Mulligan’s fears doubled, for now he was certain that his enemies had followed him. No doubt the demise of the bosun was to ensure that the identity of those who boarded the Calliope after Woodget, Thomas and himself would remain unknown—but there was possibly another reason.

“’Twas a signal to myself—old Abie’s death. Sure, the black-souled devil who committed the hellish deed is gloating now. Somewhere here, possibly helping in the hunt himself, he’s laughing at me, knowing that I’m aware of what he’s done. And I must do nothing, I cannot go to the skipper and open my mind to him, for the fewer who know my business the safer it is. Alas for Able, I ought to have gone with him as first I offered.”

The failure to find the bosun had a marked effect upon the mood of the other travellers. Once the initial shock at his unaccountable loss had faded, a disquieting sense of foreboding settled to burden everyone’s hearts. The former, expectant atmosphere of those voyaging in the hold curdled and soured into an unpleasant feeling of dread that no song or story could lift.

When the children snuggled into their bunks that night they went without protest and, although sleep was slow in gathering them into its soft deep pockets, their small plaintive whimperings could be heard throughout the hold.

Here and there, by the corner of a large crate or at the intersection of a narrow way, dismal gatherings of unnerved passengers collected. In subdued voices they murmured their anxieties and whispered their fears. Whatever pleasure the journey once held for them was now crushed beyond recall and many began to doubt the innocence of their all too near neighbours, the rats, in this chilling matter.

But even those unwholesome chewers of slime and gnawers of gristle were ill at ease, for they knew that if any dirty work was suspected then they would be prime candidates for the fingers of doubt and distrust. Tetchily they argued with one another and became sullen and withdrawn, unwilling to talk with their scabby-nosed fellows, preferring instead to watch the comings and goings of the remaining crew and listen for any new developments. Not a sign was seen of Jophet. The owner of the croaking voice in the shadows kept well out of sight, forever dodging the searchers and keeping his own thoughts to himself.

The air in the hold became charged with a bristling tension and when Thomas finally crawled out from his bunk, the discord almost took his breath away.

With his back against one of the barrels, he propped himself up and rubbed life into his stiff, aching legs. He felt as though he had been asleep for a fortnight, but it had been a disturbed slumber and one that brought no rest. During his unpleasant ordeal, Thomas had eaten very little. Woodget had tried to make certain that his friend ate something, but whatever Master Stubbs managed to swallow it did not stay down for very long.

Now his limbs were weak and he patted his shrunken, growling stomach ruefully.

“’Tis a woeful time, Tom,” Woodget said, emerging from the gap between the barrels behind him. “You won’t know the place now, it’s changed so much. Folk are all on edge—I doesn’t like it.”

“Even here I can sense the tension,” Thomas murmured. “Why, it might be an entirely different ship we’re on. What did happen to the bosun? Do you think it was an accident?”

Woodget shook his head. “If the captain says it was then it must’ve been,” was all he could utter, “but it’s a bad end whichever way. I wouldn’t fancy gettin’ drowned—an ’orrible finish that is.”

Thomas breathed deeply, but the air was stuffy and stale. “Wish we could go up on deck,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of this dank place already.”

“We’re only allowed up at dawn and dusk,” Woodget told him, “and then only in small groups for a few measly minutes. Well, we done missed the first go. Let’s find Dimmy while we wait for the next and see what we can do in the meantimes. I haven’t been up myself yet, what with one thing and another, mind you—poor Dimmy’s afraid to try, in case the wind whisks him over the side or a wave washes across and does the same. You’ll like him, Tom—he’s dafter than me. Kept me company the whole time you was sick he has and popped in to see you once, but you was fast in a doze and we didn’t like to wake you.”

The glimmer of a smile appeared on Thomas’s face. “You like this new friend of yours don’t you?”

“He makes me laugh,” Woodget nodded, “and that’s not been easy of late.”

“So how’s Mulligan? What’s he been up to?”

Woodget shrugged but said nothing.

“What’s the matter?” Thomas asked.

The fieldmouse twisted his mouth to the side and Thomas recognised that expression as the sign which meant his friend was troubled and thinking deeply.

Patiently he waited until Woodget was ready to answer.

“I haven’t seen much of Mister Mulligan,” he said. “Not since that night when the bosun upped and vanished. Fact, I been avoidin’ him. There’s summat not right there, Tom. I dunno what it is but I ain’t easy no more in his company. He’s so edgy and glaring, I doesn’t know which way his mood’ll swing from one moment to another.

“Not once, to my reckoning at any rate, has he left them cotton bales the whole time he’s been aboard. And always he keeps his bag with him; must be precious whatever’s in there but I wonders how he came by it. He’s not actin’ like an honest mouse should. P’raps it’s treasure an’ jewels. That’s what I’m thinking, though Dimmy thought it might be a stash of ‘choklittybiskitts’. Whatever it is I don’t want to know, nor have nowt to do with it.”

Thomas grimaced. “I’ll wager it’s three more flasks of rum,” he said, “but if you like we’ll steer clear of the cotton bales today. Come on—you can take me to meet this Dimmy.”

With his friend at his side once more, Woodget felt happier than he had done since leaving the harbour and chattered freely of the characters he and Dimlon had met in the past few days.

Thomas listened in mild amusement and was glad that Woodget had found such a good friend so quickly, although at times he did suffer the slightest twinges of jealousy whilst hearing of their rambling explorations of the ship and wished that he had been there.

“There’s still a mighty pile of stuff we haven’t seen yet,” the fieldmouse added hastily, perceiving his friend’s feelings. “There’s a travelling magician on board—a sort of wizard who can look into the future from what I heard him say. We’ll have to go find him, he might do a trick or two fer us if we’re lucky. Looked a real tail-tingler he did—bet he could make your whiskers pop out if’n he really tried.”

“I wonder if anyone’s tried asking him if he knows what happened to that bosun,” Thomas said gravely. “Surely if he’s as good as you think he is he must have some idea.”

Through the alleys they went, passing beneath the nest of the dormice, but that morning no inquisitive, timid heads appeared—yet still the nest trembled.

Out to the main thoroughfare their steps took them and again Thomas was astonished to view the change that had stricken the other passengers.

The families were huddled in groups, and the eyes that turned to him were no longer friendly but seemed to fix upon him with suspicion. When he and Woodget drew near, the infants who were mournfully playing in the sawdust were briskly pulled away and scolded for venturing in the paths of strangers.

“No telling who they are,” they overheard the terse tones of one mother’s reprimand.

Turning to stare at her, Thomas was dismayed to see that the poor mousewife was shaking and she wrapped her protective arms tight about her children—kissing them anxiously.

“They’re all terrified,” he said to Woodget.

“Take a long while for these folk to settle again,” the fieldmouse replied. “They got doubts a-nagging at them. There’s not much cheer roundabouts.”

In silence they pressed on, and Woodget quickened his pace when they came near to the cotton bales, slowing only when they were left far behind.

“This is where Dimmy lives,” he chirped when they finally reached a dingy, neglected corner at the rear of the hold where heaps of wool sacks rose to form a ragged and shadowy mass. Situated this close to the ship’s engines, a rhythmic pulse throbbed through the air like the beating of an enormous heart.

Woodget never liked this place, for the vibrations thrummed through the floor and jarred his bones.

“I always think it’s as if I’ve been gobbled down by a great big horror made of iron and driven by clawed wheels and spinning cogs,” he said, “and here we are in its ginormous metal belly. I doesn’t know how Dimmy can bear it here but he says it’s comfortin’—I told ’ee he were daft.”

Thomas looked long at the undulating landscape of mounds which rose to the right of them. The wool sacks were not stowed as neatly or as securely as the cotton bales, nor any other of the cargo, and he guessed that they were probably not as valuable. Like great rounded hills they reared and rolled, stuffed between a towering precipice of wood on one side and the bulkhead on the other.

“If it wasn’t for that racket it’d be very cosy here,” he observed. “Maybe you could get used to the noise. Least it’s nice and private, hardly anyone bunked on there at all.”

Scattered in the gentle valleys and hollow dales, he saw that only a few mice and shrews had managed to endure the ceaseless chugging of the engines, but they were rough-looking characters whose mangy and travel-weary aspect suggested that they had slept in far worse places than this.

“It pongs here too,” Woodget added, wrinkling his nose.

Thomas sniffed but could smell nothing, then he moved a little closer and quickly backed away.

A bitter reek had assaulted his nose, a stink that flowed out from the unwashed and oily wool and as he stared more keenly at the scant, dishevelled residents he saw that they were constantly twitching and scratching themselves as though a million ants were marching through their fur.

“There’s fleas in the wool,” Thomas muttered, his skin already beginning to creep and itch. “How can your friend camp over there? What possessed him? That’s not just being daft, it’s downright barmy!”

At the sound of this incredulous voice, a lage-eared head popped up from a shadow-filled vale and there came a delighted shout.

“Ho there!” cried the voice of Dimlon. “Hello Woody! What we a-doin’ today then?”

Clumsily, the pale grey mouse sped down the spongy sacking slopes with his arms out wide, his satchel slung over one shoulder and a stupid grin fixed firmly in place.

“And your friend Tommy is all better!” he trilled, gazing at Thomas with excitement. “I saw you when you was asleep, friend Tom—real happy I am to see you on your legs this merry morning.”

Thomas returned the greeting, but kept a close watch on him to see how often he scratched, but not once did Dimlon so much as fidget. Perhaps his blood isn’t to the fleas’ liking, Thomas thought to himself.

Before setting off to visit Simoon the prophet, Woodget shared the last of the rations he had brought with him from the Spring Celebrations of Betony Bank and Thomas scoffed them hungrily. Presently all three mice were talking as if they had known each other all their lives. Ignoring the bleak and despondent atmosphere that hung heavily over the hold, or perhaps obstinately challenging it, they laughed at the slightest joke and once they were away from that dismal wool sack hillscape, Thomas found Dimlon’s absurd notions were enough to make him forget even the lingering queasiness of his seasickness.

Chewing on a dry crust fished from his satchel, and with crumbs falling from his lips, Dimlon gabbled on about his beloved Aunty Lily and the other inhabitants of his small village.

“Down by where the stream goes a babblinwetansplashy,” he spluttered with a spray of bread, “there’s the stuck-up Old Widow Froot with her two strapping daughters Maudy and Floss. Them’s got the biggest feet and the meanest heads of anyone I knows. It was them who chased me down the blackberry lane and threw me in the goosegog bushes. I were scared half to death when they ran after me a-whoopin’ and a-callin’. Right nasty them girls can be. Bashed me good an’ proper they have loads of times, fatlipthickearkickedshinsmackedbehindsmartin’awfulredcheeks I’ve had from them. Still, my Aunty Lily always makes me feel better. When I’m a-snivelling she won’t have none of it. “Stop that snotty-nosed moping, you shiftless juggins!” she shouts to snap me out of it before giving me a little job to keep my mind off of them ’orrid pair and keep me happy.”

“Those girls sound like Woodget’s sister,” laughed Thomas. “Cudweed was frightening too.”

Woodget had to agree, but the thought of his family distressed him. His departure must have been a terrible shock to them and he heaved a regretful sigh.

Thomas could have kicked himself for mentioning it, and he desperately tried to change the subject.

“I think it’s time we called on this magician of yours,” he said briskly.

“Simoon!” Dimlon exclaimed. “Oh yes, we was waiting till you were well again, Tom. Woody thinks we should govisitseekhimout but I ain’t sure. Real eyepoppin’starrycrackler he looked.”

Looking at the fieldmouse, Thomas tried to draw him from his forlorn thoughts. “I’ve missed everything else you two have done,” he said. “I’ll not flinch from this. Let’s see if that wizard can shed any light on the mystery of the missing crew member. Who knows what he might have to say?”

“I’ve a feelin’ that there’ll be only darkness if any shedding’s to be done,” Dimlon murmured softly. “I doesn’t think there’ll ever be no light at all.”

With that they ventured from the central road and passed into the twilight, twisting realm of shadow that ran between the cargo—and were soon hopelessly lost.

Down a labyrinth of narrow alleyways and ravines, beyond the populated areas of the ship—away from the snug berths and comfortable bunks, where the crates butted against the hull—Simoon the prophet had fashioned suitable quarters for himself.

Across the cramped space, two poles were wedged into the towering wooden sides at varying angles and over them was draped a length of red cloth, faded in parts by bleaching desert suns to a soft peach. Outside this primitive, variegated tent, six tiny brass lanterns were suspended from wires that spanned the alley. The shapes of moons, stars and suns had been cut into their sides, so that their glowing images were thrown upon the walls and formed a tunnel of glimmering, golden light, whose mystical patterns flickered and danced at the slightest pitch or yaw of the ship.

A highly perfumed, cloying scent hung in the air and from the tent’s gloomy entrance, a faint thread of blue smoke was curling. Yet it did not rise up to the invisible ceiling of the hold, like the heats that climbed from the small fires of the other passengers. Instead, this misty strand wound slowly from the canopy with an almost purposeful stealth and crept down the alley-way, its foggy fingers catching the lantern rays as it snaked to and fro—reaching ever further along the passage.

Carefully it steered itself this way and that, never wavering nor taking an incorrect route. Out it journeyed, to find the senses of those it sought and to lead them back—to where Simoon was waiting, like a spider in a fog-woven web.

With their hearts in their mouths, and clutching hold of one another, Thomas, Woodget and Dimlon crept forward. They had spent nearly an hour roaming the empty, meandering pathways of the hold and had begun to doubt if they would ever find their way out again. But finally they had chanced upon the peculiar incense and excitedly followed its trail.

Around a blind corner they stumbled—and immediately the three friends froze as they beheld the glorious sight which shimmered eerily before them.

The tunnel appeared to be made of fiery starlight and the magical symbols were mirrored in Woodget’s wide, marvelling eyes as he groped for something to say.

“Oh my!” was all he could manage to utter.

At his side, Thomas grinned, captivated by the beauty that stretched ahead, and was glad that the others had not ventured here before without him. This was a delight to be shared together and he peered through the golden haze of shifting symbols at the shelter beyond.

Behind his new friends, for it was too narrow for three to walk abreast, Dimlon peered over the top of the fieldmouse’s head, his long neck swaying from side to side as he gawped idiotically at the wondrous lamps.

“Fairygrottopiskydelving,” he murmured in a half-frightened whisper.

“Come on,” Thomas urged. “Let’s go a bit further.”

Woodget nodded breathlessly but Dimlon was not certain.

“Don’t disturb him in there,” he whined, squinting doubtfully at the faded canopy and dithering so much that his ears shivered and shook. “He mightn’t like us a-trampin’ up to his door. There ain’t no knowing what he might do. I don’t want to have to eat bluebottles all day and sit by gnat-buzzin’, damp ponds for the rest of my unnatural.”

Thomas smiled at him. “All right,” he said kindly, seeing how afraid Dimlon was. “We won’t disturb him what lives in that there tent. But I’d like to get a little bit closer, just to peek at what’s inside it. I’d like to know what he’s burning to give off that flowery smell at any rate.”

Dimlon stuffed his fingers into his mouth in fright as Thomas moved away, nearer to the glimmering tunnel.

“You are scared,” Woodget whispered. “Poor Dimmy! Why don’t you go back—we’ll catch you up in a little while.”

“What?” Dimlon asked. “Me go down them darksome alleys on my own! I can’t do that—I’d be real lost and wobblefrittedjellyjumpy then.”

By now, Thomas had moved close to where the first lantern swung gently overhead. A field of burning, softly focused stars trembled upon the floor by his feet and fanned out, up over the narrow way’s walls.

Thomas wondered what it would be like to be covered in the light of those lanterns, to have the symbols of heaven play over his fur and shine into his eyes. Gingerly, he raised a paw and reached into the glimmering beams.

“Will you dawdle out there all day?” called a sudden, deep voice.

Thomas leapt back and Dimlon let out a woeful shriek. The voice had come from inside the tent and he clutched at Woodget’s paw in terror.

“He knows we’re here!” he yammered. “Let’s go—let’s go!”

With that, the pale grey mouse turned tail and scampered back around the corner, his present fear of the alarming voice driving out his horror of venturing down those dim, twisting alleyways alone.

“Dimmy!” Woodget shouted. “Wait!”

But it was too late; Dimlon would not return and the fieldmouse knew he should go after him.

“Woodget Pipple!” commanded the strange voice. “Let the fool go. I desire no speech with him.”

Woodget stared across at Thomas. “He... he knows my name,” he muttered.

“Both of you are known unto me,” the resonant voice interrupted. “Long have I awaited this moment. Come, join me.”

The two mice hesitated for a moment then Thomas stepped into the glimmering tunnel and, not wanting to be left on his own, Woodget followed.

Over the fieldmouse’s russet fur, the golden lights sparkled and flashed but as he looked nervously about him, his gaze was eventually drawn to the tent as ever-nearer it loomed, with every cautious step.

When the shining stars were behind them, their radiance and splendour now playing only over the backs of their ears and the tips of their tails, the expectant mice eyed the dusky canopy uncertainly.

A small gap at the front of the shelter where two seams could be laced together was hanging open and from its dark depths the thread of incense still streamed. But however much they strained their eyes to see what lay beyond that flimsy threshold neither Thomas or Woodget could tell, for all was dark and hidden.

“Do not loiter like beggars at the door,” they were commanded. “I bid you enter.”

Thomas moved forward but Woodget caught his arm and shook his head fearfully.

A faint, almost pitying laugh floated out, mingling with the curling smoke.

“Does the dark so inspire you with dread, Master Pipple?” the gloom asked. “The time of such illusionary fancies is past. There are terrors real enough to fear in this world. But I forget, you are ignorant of them—not all folk enjoy the company and solitude which the darkness may house. Allow me to illuminate my home if it will put you at your ease.”

Within the tent a flame spluttered into life and in an instant a lamp was lighted.

“There now,” the occupant stated. “May you find this more to your liking. For myself I prefer the cloaking night and the many mysteries it conceals from the harsh glare of day. Now, enter—I insist.”

A warm glow emanated from the faded shelter’s entrance and Thomas stole forward.

Beyond the unlaced opening, the floor was covered by many soft and amply padded cushions. Richly embroidered fabrics festooned the bare wooden crates on either side and ponderous, brocaded tassles of the most sumptuous purples dripped luxuriantly from above. A black and silver spiralled staff was propped against one exotic, tapestry-adorned wall and at its foot were three large bags, filled and overflowing to give tantalizing glimpses of bizarre instruments to view the stars, glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, pouches stuffed with powders for potions and leather bound books crammed with secret lore.

Upon a low block of wood a lantern that was studded with pieces of coloured glass gleamed and winked, dappling everything in rainbow hues. At its side, within a metal bowl, a cone of incense was burning and, although its scented fumes filled all of the canopy, in one corner they were gathered more thickly and had collected into a dense pall of obscuring blue smoke.

Staring at this ever-moving, writhing cloud, Thomas thought he could just discern a squat figure in its choking depths and he fidgeted with his neckerchief, not knowing what to do.

Like some phantom sentinel, wreathed about by an ethereal mist and conjured from the elemental haunted, mountain regions of the air, the dim, indistinct shape appeared—but for the moment it remained motionless.

With his eyes trying to pierce the enshrouding fogs, Thomas felt sure that whatever lurked in there was able to see him quite clearly and the fur on his neck prickled at the thought of such intense scrutiny from so mysterious a source.

Only when Woodget had entered and was standing at his friend’s side did the wraith-like form stir. Remembering his manners, the fieldmouse swiftly pulled the woollen hat from his head and clasped it before him—the tent might be the abode of a wizard or magician but he was still visiting and knew what was and wasn’t polite.

“How their hearts are thumping,” that same ringing voice came to them from the centre of the turgid smoke. “What harm have I done them—or what rumour of harm do they fear it is my nature to perform?”

There was a silence, broken only by a loud self-conscious swallow from Woodget.

Again the laughter flowed out to them and the blurred figure raised what Thomas assumed were its arms.

“Forgive this fug and vapour,” it said. “I find the profound fumes sharpen and hone the blades of my thought, though maybe it is not to your liking.”

Neither mouse said anything but the nebulous creature clapped its paws together and to their amazement the smoke began to lift.

Like a crashing wave, the mists fell away, dissipating from the shadowy corner and scudding out through the entrance, swirling around Thomas’s and Woodget’s legs until only a single filament of smoke remained rising from the burner.

With his long legs crossed but still just as enigmatically swaddled in a robe of ruby velvet and his face hidden by a great, silken fringed hood—was Simoon. Rings of silver and gold adorned his mitten-clothed fingers and bangles set with semiprecious stones jangled over his wrists as he raised his paw in greeting.

“You are most welcome, my guests,” the prophet said. “Nay, do not stand. Pray sit before me.”

Woodget glanced apprehensively at Thomas, but the other mouse was mesmerised by this uncanny personage and obeyed at once, plopping himself smartly down.

Timidly, the fieldmouse did the same and within the dark recess of the hood two points of light glinted.

“At last you have sought me out,” Simoon said. “Yet still I sense that you are troubled by doubt and distrust. Maybe if I were to cast back my cowl and you could look on my face, your misgivings would be calmed.”

The two mittened paws rose up and at once the tent was filled with the clinking of his bracelets. The long sleeves of the velvet robe fell down about his elbows and the two mice caught a glimpse of pale, sandy-coloured fur.

In anxious anticipation, they watched Simoon take hold of the fringed hood and in a slow, careful movement he pushed it back over his head.

Thomas blinked and Woodget rubbed his eyes. Neither of them had seen a face like the one that was suddenly revealed and the prophet smiled to see their bewildered expressions.

His head was small and covered in the same sandy fur as his puny arms, but the first feature which struck them about Simoon was the creature’s eyes. Never had they seen any so large or dark. Like orbs of polished black glass they were, and each glittered like a lens that was trained heavenward and filled with all the wintry burning of those penetrating, celestial fires. Knowledge and wisdom founded upon long years of studious learning shone from those deep wells of night. They were at once both comforting and unsettling, having the power to either kindle hope or instill despair at the core of any they wished and, as he gazed into them, Woodget found that his fears subsided.

Above the sparkling eyes, the brows of Simoon were hoary white and spiked far over his wrinkled nose like a thicket of frost-covered briar. Great age and weariness rested upon them, yet both mice felt that the care and grief which marked that face could melt in an instant and the vigour of youth could again be his to wield if he so wished it.

Below the slightly pointed nose, a small mouth was still curled into a smile and upon the chin bristled a great many more white, wiry whiskers.

“What... who are you?” Woodget managed to utter when the glance of those eyes had thawed most of his trepidations.

Simoon clasped his paws together and the brambling eyebrows twitched upwards.

“My common name you already know,” he said. “But that which I was first called in the great desert long ago I tell to none. Simoon will serve for now and I am content—for it is also the term my people give to the hot dry wind which rages over the dunes, like the fury of angry jinns. Yes, Simoon will do.”

The smile widened to a grin and the eyes shone brighter than ever.

“As to what manner of creature I am, I do not doubt you have never seen the like of me before. A jerboa am I—hopper of the parched baking wastes, burrower of the dry shifting hills—he who shuns the fiery day. But not for an age or more have I journeyed in the burning heats of my own land. My paths have led me elsewhere, to places cold and chill. Often have I walked in your green land and how my bones ache from the damp that creeps up my tail. That is why I clothe myself in vestments heavy and swaddling, and why I huddle in the darkness of smoke-filled corners.”

He paused and untwined his fingers, reaching out with his paw to point at each of his guests in turn.

“But you did not come here to learn of my histories,” he told them. “For one reason only do the curious venture into the tent of Simoon. You have come to ask that which only I can know. Of he who is no longer aboard this vessel I can tell you little, save that his part in this world has ended. But that is not the only reason for your coming. Do not deny it. Did you not come hither to learn also what I can see of your futures? Is this not the truth?”

Thomas leaned forward. “Can you really do that?” he breathed uncertainly. “Do you know if I’ll ever be a captain?”

“Tom!” Woodget hushed. “We ain’t got no coins.”

“The price is not always set on silver alone,” Simoon answered. “For the wisdom I now impart, the reckoning will be accounted later. Do you still wish for foreknowledge, Master Stubbs?”

Thomas glanced at Woodget’s concerned face then nodded quickly.

“Couldn’t you just tell us a tale or two?” Woodget interrupted as the jerboa began searching inside one of the bags.

Thomas pouted but Simoon eyed the fieldmouse shrewdly.

“And which of the hundred score narratives that are locked within my tongue would you have me recount?” he asked. “Many fables and legends have I heard and countless dark and deadly histories. Which of those would sound sweet to your large ears, Master Barleyclimber?”

Woodget shrugged his shoulders. “I’m willin’ to listen to anything I ain’t heard afore.”

The prophet turned to stare at the incense burner and his eyes became fixed upon the constantly winding smoke.

“Of stories great and horrible I have great store,” he uttered, his voice dropping to a bewitching whisper. “Of the great war between the messengers of the moon and the treefolk of the wood I know much. Grievous was the sorrow of that dark time, when the young Ysabelle gained the throne through misery and despair. Many grim tales stem from your green lands and still deeds both noble and evil shall yet unfold there.”

“Don’t tell us something from our country,” Woodget broke in. “I’ll be heading back there soon enough. What I want to hear is something strange about places I’ll never see—of foreign shores and distant lands.”

“Yes,” agreed Thomas. “What about a yarn from out of the East? I’ve always wanted to travel there.”

“’From out of the East?” ” Simoon repeated and his low voice grew cold and solemn. “In that region there are many legends, yet mightiest and most terrible of all concerns that which is not a matter of idle talk and though it stretches far back to the youth of the world, its horror does not have its roots in myth nor fancy.”

Thomas beamed and he shivered with pleasure. He loved scary stories. “Please,” he encouraged, “can’t you tell us a bit of it?”

The jerboa stared more intently at the smoke and Woodget blinked, for the ravelling wisps took shape in the air until the ghostly outline of a rearing serpent hung above their heads.

Simoon made a peculiar sign with his paws and the shape dwindled until they saw only a strand of blue smoke again.

“Now shall I speak of Suruth Scarophion,” he muttered and at the mention of that name he closed his eyes and Thomas thought the blood drained from the prophet’s lips.

“He whom others call Gorscarrigern,” he continued. “The Coiled One. Sarpedon, others cursed him—the Dark Despoiler. All titles are just, yet none do justice.”

The expression faded from the jerboa’s face and his murmuring voice was barely audible above the soft sizzling of the incense and the faint, muffled sound of the waves sluicing around the outside of the ship.

“Long, long ago when the mountains were but hills and the ungirdled oceans were pools and meres, a vast darkness lay over eastern lands. Whilst on western shores the foundations of the three thrones were still part of the living rock and the Raith Sidhe had not grown to an eighth of their later strength, in the East a foulness reigned.

“Words describe him not, nor laments bewail his cruelty. But a devil he was, spawned in the freezing dark beyond the beginning of all things and clad in the form of a serpent, the like of which had never been equalled and with the Green’s grace never shall.

“The length of many leagues was his full measure and high over the tops of giant trees he towered. Black were the scales that shielded him and their strength was that of iron. Whole jungles could his venomous bile wither and kill and none could withstand him. A power as old as the earth and strong as its bones was in him and for many ages he reigned with horror and without mercy.

“Storm clouds made up his crown and those whom he had poisoned into his service with the terror of his being, worshipped him as their god. Death and despair were their creed and ever were they at war. Mightier than ever did Scarophion become, his hellish eyes revelling in the torment that ravaged the lands. Unmatched was his peerless tyranny and far did his empire reach.

“Devoted to him were his followers, but their loyalty was born of madness. All instructions they obeyed, questioning never, though it might be to cast themselves from great heights, plunge into murderous rapids or shrivel in perishing flame. Further his cruel dominion spread, his savage priests gathering more into his dark service.

“Only the newborn did they accept into the black following. The parents of those tender offspring were viciously put to death, then the evil tutelage and odious instruction began at once. So were the innocents taken to the loathsome temples and upon bloodstained altars were they committed to that most infernal of fiends.”

Simoon paused and he dragged his eyes from the smoke. “Know now the signs of The Scale,” he told the two mice. “For when a newborn is taken into the dark fold, its tail is butchered, slit and hewn into a mockery of their monstrous lord’s forked tongue. Beware any so mutilated—shun them and fear them.

“Only an adept, or one of higher rank may cleave the halves of its tail together to pass unmarked amongst his enemies. If so then look to him whilst he sleeps, for only in waking can this deceit be accomplished and in slumber it returns to its cleft state. That is but one of their counterfeits; others there are and evil are the arts practised by the High Priests, but I shall not sully the day by naming them here.”

Thomas stared at him in surprise. “But you said this was long ago,” he declared, disturbed by the vehemence of the jerboa’s warning and the apparent fear in his voice.

Simoon gaped at him, then turned back to the trailing incense. “And so it was,” he breathed. “In the dim, deep, bygone past. Forgive me, the teller oft gets embroiled within his own tale. I was forgetting.”

“What happened to the serpent god?” Woodget asked. “Was he overthrown?”

“He was indeed,” the jerboa replied, “for the history of the world would not have unfolded as it has done. Yet the Dark Despoiler was not beaten without cost.

“The shadow of Scarophion stretched far and wide. Much had he conquered and laid waste, yet still he lusted for more. Then did the forces of his enemies band together and a host of diverse creatures was gathered to do battle. But in brute force alone there was little hope. Yet there were at that time many wise folk. Those who studied the wheeling stars, dabblers in mystic rites and some who could summon the powers of the Green and turn it to their own purpose.

“Through many years of blood and pain did the wars drag them and uncounted thousands were slain on either side. Yet at the last, by the combined arts of those cunning folk, Suruth Scarophion was finally assailed upon the very steps of his greatest temple.

“Long the two opposing forces grappled. Spell upon spell, might against might. Enchantment crashed into devilry and all around the ground quaked, ripping open huge pits which boiled with liquid flame. The pillars of the temple trembled and into his shrine the black horror fled.

“Fiercely did those sorcerers pursue him and their waxing powers crumbled the gore-daubed walls, throwing them down, and the roof that was scorched by sacrificial fires was torn asunder. Then did Scarophion’s strength break, and the forces of good prevailed. Under their final enchantment the Dark Despoiler fell and his mortal form was vanquished.

“But even as he expired, his writhing body consumed by the passage of his demonic spirit, the tyrant belched forth his black blood and the Green host was sprayed with its venom. So too did the wisest leave this world, yet they had achieved great glory and the land was made clean once more.”

Simoon’s voice trailed off into brooding silence but before him the smoke twisted into a large oval shape and the jerboa scattered it with his paws as though it frightened him.

“That were a tale and a half,” Woodget crooned, dreamily hugging his knees.

The prophet shook himself and stared at them as if he had forgotten they were there.

“Ancient myths have no place in this present age,” he said drawing the folds of his robe close about him as though it had grown chill. “Let us not stir the ashes and brittle bones of the long cold dead. Our fealty lies with tomorrow, not a thousand and more yesterdays. Is there aught else you would ask of me?”

“I really would like to know what my future has in store,” Thomas ventured. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

Simoon said nothing but pulled one of the embroidered lengths of fabric from the wall and spread it over the cushions between them. Then he put his tiny paw into his robe and took from a hidden pocket a pack of colourfully illustrated cards which he held out for Thomas to touch.

“Now shall your fate be revealed,” he intoned, placing five of them face upwards on the cloth.

Thomas stared at the weird pictures arranged before him. Upon the first there was the image of a fair face but it was painted green and Simoon furrowed his branching brows.

“A maiden has driven you hither,” he said, “or rather your envious coveting of her. You have commenced your journey poorly, Master Stubbs, may you end it better.”

Thomas shifted uncomfortably and wondered if Woodget was looking at him. He was too ashamed to raise his eyes and find out.

Simoon moved his gaze to the second card. It was an alarming drawing of a glaring mask with flaming eyes.

“Danger is close to you,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Your way is littered with peril, but treachery will always be the main hazard—this is its face, already it is watching. Take care not to fall under its sway, never take up that slippery mask yourself, deny the hold it will endeavour to clamp upon you and make it not welcome in your heart.”

Thomas frowned. He didn’t like the sound of it so far, but the third card showed an illustration of the sun and he hoped that would signify something cheerier.

“A charmed life is yours,” Simoon grunted, but when he studied the fourth picture he shook his head gravely.

“Here is the sign of the rolling waters, yet see how they are tormented by storm and tempest. When this card follows that of the sun then it is not well. Fortune may indeed be shining upon you, Master Stubbs, yet so bright does her glory gleam that those about you are lost in shadow and she is blind to them. Though you may survive great peril it does not mean your companions shall. Almost, the charm that you bask in is the very beacon which guides them to disaster.”

There was only one card left. It depicted a broken anchor and Simoon took several minutes pondering its meaning in conjunction with the others before he spoke again.

“Your life is with the sea,” he said at length, “but no joy shall you find in it. Yet not unnumbered will your sailing days be. A time will come when you shall return and settle upon the land, although always will your heart and mind be burdened—a great weight shall ever drag you down.”

Thomas gazed at the cards uneasily, then tried to shrug off the prophet’s forbidding words. “Had me going for a little while you did!” he said.

The large, black eyes of the jerboa gleamed at him, then the lids closed over them and the mittened paws collected up the cards. Simoon breathed deeply and the thread of smoke which rose from the incense burner was drawn towards him.

“And what of you fieldmouse?” he asked. “Do you desire to lift the veil and spy upon your destiny?”

Woodget shuddered. He hadn’t liked any part of what the mysterious character had told Thomas and he shook his head firmly.

“That I don’t!” he cried. “I’d stick my head in a rabbit hole and not come up again if’n what you said was half as gloomy as what’s ahead of poor old Tom.”

The jerboa smiled faintly. “You are wise, Master Pipple,” he said, “for only fools attempt to see what lies beyond their noses.”

Thomas scowled at this and decided that it was time they left, but Simoon was not finished with them.

“No more foretelling shall there be,” he said. “That grey country of what is to come should perhaps be left in the realm of the vast unknown. But this much only I would counsel you to know—in every life there is a ruling influence. Choose now one card only and see the nature of that which governs you.”

Woodget bit his lip as his trembling paw stretched out to take one of the cards fanned out before him.

“No Woodj,” Thomas said impulsively. “Let it be—please.”

The fieldmouse wavered but the eyes of Simoon were bent upon him and it was as if he could do nothing to stop himself. Without thinking, his paw flashed out and he tapped the back of a single card.

Deftly, Simoon flipped the pack around and took out the one that the fieldmouse had chosen.

Impassively he gazed at the card in his fingers then, with a curiously theatrical movement, flourished it for the mice to see.

“Here is a picture of a pretty damsel,” he announced. “Love is her name and under her sovereignty does your life lie, Master Pipple. Hers is a delightful dominion, for your heart’s longing shall come to you and together you shall dwell till the end of your days.”

“That’s Bess!” Woodget grinned.

Thomas’s scowl had not lifted—in fact it had deepened. Simoon had put him in a bad mood and he lumbered to his feet.

“Come on Woodj,” he said. “Time we went.”

The fieldmouse rose and as he did so he thought he caught upon the jerboa’s face an expression of extreme sorrow and overwhelming compassion.

But the impression was fleeting and Woodget decided he must have been mistaken.

“Thank ’ee for the sit down and the story,” he said. “Maybe we’ll come back before long.”

At this Thomas mumbled something inaudible but before they passed through the entrance. Simoon held up his paw.

“One thing more ere you depart,” his clear ringing voice called forcefully. “No charge for this visit have I laid upon you, yet this I do so now. To you, Thomas Stubbs, whose life is charted and mapped upon the seas, for a while at least, your toll is to tell he with the limb of wood that I desire to speak with him.”

“Mulligan?” Thomas asked a little sullenly. “He won’t come here. He never leaves the cotton bales.”

“And he never shall if you do not ask him,” came the grave reply.

“What do you want me to do?” Woodget piped up.

“Of you, Master Pipple, I beg only this, trust not too soundly those you hold dear.”

Then the jerboa closed his eyes and the smoke began to wreathe about him once more.

Thomas pulled the fieldmouse away and muttered under his breath.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” he said emphatically. “It’s all mummery and pretence. Well, I’m not taken in.”

Trotting through the tunnel of dancing light patterns, Woodget glanced back, but within the tent he could see only a vague screen of mist.

Behind the obscuring fumes, Simoon placed the cards down upon the cloth and gazed at the picture of Love he had shown to Woodget. Then he took from the bottom of the pile the one he had hidden and shuddered. Here was the true card chosen by the fieldmouse, but skilfully the jerboa had palmed it and selected one more to his liking.

Now he regarded it warily and sadly shook his head.

“I would not burden his merry young heart,” he said. “Not yet.”

Hastily, as though the image frightened him, Simoon threw the card down and shrank further into the mist.

Upon the cloth lay the picture of a serpent. Flames dripped from its jaws and along its twisting back were painted nine bright stars.

6 - Siren Songs

A little distance from the lonely alleyway where Simoon’s tent was entwined with faint blue wisps of smoke, Thomas and Woodget discovered Dimlon curled up in a corner and sniffing forlornly.

“It’s creepydark down there,” he whined, pointing further along the narrow passage. “Dimmy was too afeared to go far on his ownsome. I thought the witchyspellcaster had done summat awful to you both. You were such a time, least it seemed you were in this horrid spot. What did he do, what did he say?”

Thomas helped the pale grey mouse to his feet and brushed the dust from his fur. “He was just some travelling conjurer,” he told him. “Nothing for you to be afraid of. It’s all show with that sort; card tricks and juggling; that’s all he’s capable of. I’ll warrant. Don’t you get too excited, Dimmy, there’s no such thing as magic, there really isn’t.”

Instead of looking relieved, Dimlon appeared crestfallen—as if the world had become suddenly dull and uninteresting without the threat of the mysterious supernatural to add spice to his humdrum life.

“Was Simoon really a hoodwinkingswindleybamboozler?” he asked Woodget in disappointment.

The fieldmouse cocked his head to one side. “’Tain’t for the likes of me to say,” he replied. “That’d be like askin’ a leaf what it thought of the forest. He’s beyond my reckonin’, even if my noggin could find the proper words. I can tell you this though—he do rattle out a good tale. You have to admit that, Tom.”

“Probably made it all up,” Thomas muttered grumpily. “Same as that phoney future of mine.”

“I wonder what he has to say to Mulligan?” Woodget mused. “S’pose we’ll have to go tell him he’s wanted.”

Thomas closed his eyes and stretched out his paws, wiggling his fingers as though he were casting a spell, then in a ridiculous imitation of Simoon’s doom-laden tones groaned, “Ohhhh Mulligan, you are in great danger. Beware... beware... beware the woodworm.”

Dimlon laughed and Woodget gave Thomas a gentle shove to silence the hollow wails that were still issuing from his gaping lips.

“Let’s get a move on then,” Thomas chuckled. “To the bales we go.”

“If we can ever find our way out of here,” Dimlon added glumly.

When the maze of passageways was finally left behind them and at last they reached the cotton bales, to their astonishment the three mice discovered that Mulligan was not sitting in his usual place and none of his snobbish neighbours knew nor cared where he had gone.

Just as they were making their way back along the central road, debating what they should do next, a hearty voice hailed them.

“Ahoy there, my young mates! And right glad I am to see you up and well, Master Thomas!”

There, hobbling towards them, with his stick in his strong paw and his pack slung over one shoulder—was Mulligan. A great grin divided his whiskery face and he indeed seemed genuinely pleased to see the three mice. Throwing his tattooed arms open wide he limped his way forward, the wooden leg drumming upon the deck’s timbers.

” Where’ve you been stowing yourself?” he cried, clapping Woodget on the back, nearly sending him flying. “All yesterday I was waiting for you, so this very morn I decided to haul myself over to your quarters but you weren’t there. A fine chase you’ve led me but I’ll not grudge it, so glad am I to clap my gogglers on you again.”

Woodget was not sure what to make of Mulligan’s renewed friendliness. He recalled the hunted, angry look that was on his face the last time he had seen him—the night the bosun disappeared. Why was he acting so differently now? The Irish mouse almost seemed anxious that they forget his previous ill humour and was desperate for their companionship.

“We just been to find you,” Woodget said, watching him suspiciously, “and... well, yesterday me and Dimmy were helping with the search.”

Mulligan gazed at the ground. “Aye,” he muttered, “poor Able. But it’s on account of him that I went in quest of you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Thomas.

“Has Mister Bosun been found?” Dimlon cried jubilantly. “Is he safe? What news! What news!”

Mulligan stared at the foolish mouse then cleared his throat. “No,” he said, “he’s still lost, but his going won’t be unmarked. So, I invite you three—my friends—aboard the Calliope to sup with me in his honour. A final drink to an old friend, up on deck with the sea around us and the breeze in our whiskers. What say you?”

The three friends looked at one another. Woodget didn’t think it was particularly appropriate considering the drunken circumstances of Mr Ruddaway’s demise and shyly said as much. It was obvious to him that Mulligan knew more about that mystery than he was letting on, but he could not understand what reasons he might have for keeping the knowledge to himself—unless of course he was somehow involved in the bosun’s disappearance. There were just too many secrets and riddles surrounding him for Woodget’s liking and he recalled bitterly that it was chiefly on account of Mulligan that he was here now, and not at home with Bess.

At his side, Dimlon’s whiskers drooped sadly and he glumly stuck out his bottom lip. “I doesn’t want to go on deck,” he whispered miserably, “I might fall in and be dunkdrowndeddeep.”

“That’ll not happen with me to guard you,” Mulligan assured him. “What say you, Master Thomas?”

“Yes,” Thomas answered, much to the others’ surprise. “I will come with you. For three days I’ve been stuck down here and I’m beginning to feel stifled and in need of fresh air. It would do us all good, I think, to be rid of this musty and heavy atmosphere for a while. I didn’t know the bosun, but I’ll certainly share a drink with you in his memory.”

“There’s handsome,” Mulligan beamed. “And don’t you worry, Master Pipple, old Able would think this a fitting tribute—of that I’m positive sure, so I am.

“But first we’ve a message for you,” Thomas said. “We went to see Simoon, the one who fancies himself as a prophet.”

“Oh aye?” Mulligan murmured, looking at them curiously. “And what did he have to say for himself?”

“That he wanted to see you.”

The Irish mouse sucked his teeth and tapped his stick thoughtfully. “If pedlars with inflated opinions of their own worth and importance wish to parade their gimcrack baubles and shoddy tricks,” he said dismissively, “then they must seek out their own audience, not turn the custom on its head. It’s impudence so it is! Let the knave come to me if that is his wish—for I’ll not go to him.”

Still put out by Simoon’s predictions, Thomas agreed with this sentiment but Woodget stared unhappily at Dimlon.

“Now let’s to the upper deck and give old Able a fitting send off!” Mulligan declared. “I’ve managed to refill the flask so there’ll be no want of grog.”

With Thomas by his side, and Woodget and Dimlon trailing after, they headed for the rat district, then out of the hold.

Alone in the cloudless sky, the late afternoon sun shone warm and gold. Its brilliance sparkled over the calm surface of the sea, turning the placid waters into an unbounded rippling surface of shimmering flame. Through this burning splendour the Calliope voyaged, its shapely bows slicing through a flaring mesh of leaping light and leaving a fractured trail of scattered diamonds blazing in its wake.

On to the deck, the four mice came and all filled their lungs with the keen salt air.

Officially no passengers were allowed out of the hold during the main part of the day but Mulligan had had a word with the mouse on watch and told him of their purpose. Gravely the first officer let them pass but told them that if the captain caught them then he knew nothing about it.

“We’ll go astern,” Mulligan instructed the others. “Yonder we can sit and go unnoticed by any unfriendly eyes.”

Dimlon followed him around a corner but Thomas and Woodget stood as still as stones and their faces were filled with awe.

This was the first time since the Calliope had left the harbour that they had ventured out of the hold and the sight of the open sea in the daylight was a miraculous, almost worshipful vision to behold.

In their most fanciful dreams they had never imagined it to be so beautiful or so gigantic. No glimpse or shadow of land could they see in any direction, though they turned in a wide, staggering circle.

For them it was like waking from some drab, ashen-shaded sleep and discovering for the first time that the world was filled with colour and light. Intense sparks of dazzling hues flashed and bounced around the ship and Woodget thought that by some cunning art Simoon had imprisoned him inside his lantern of coloured glass.

A million briny prisms broke the pure radiance of the sun, hurling its vivid, vibrant spectrum into the air, shaming the deep blue of the sky for its lack of variety.

“Lor!” Woodget mouthed when at last he found his voice. “If only Bess were here. She thinks summer flowers is pretty, but compared to all this, them’s just muddy brown splots with no life in ’em.”

“It’s incredible,” agreed Thomas. “Like a wide flat country of dancing light.”

“That can’t be the same old sun as shines on Betony Bank,” doubted Woodget. “This one’s fiercer and it’s much warmer, ain’t it?”

“What’s keeping you pair?” Mulligan called suddenly and the sound of his harsh voice broke the enchantment which had kept the two mice spellbound.

Woodget looked up at Thomas and his friend smiled sadly.

“This is what I wanted to see,” Thomas murmured. “Different places and things unexpected. But I never guessed it would be so lovely. Now I know why I longed to roam—the sea is in my blood, Woodj. There are shores out there with folk on them stranger than jerboas, and I ache to see them. I desire to know all there is to know and view all there is to view. This is just the beginning—I should have done this long ago.”

Woodget took hold of his paw and sighed.

“I’m pleased you’re happy, Tom,” he said, “but this ain’t for me. Oh real grand and showy it is here, but too rich for my eyes. I’ll be content to go home to the paler tints of my field, I don’t need this gaudy sun—not with Bess beside me. She’m all the light I needs.”

Thomas gave the paw a squeeze. “Then we both know what we want,” he breathed. “This life is the one I claim and you, well your rightful place is at Bess’s side. I wish I’d had the sense to see that before opening my big mouth, then you wouldn’t be stuck out here with me.”

“I ain’t stuck nowhere,” the fieldmouse answered. “I’ll be back at the farm before too much longer and how her eyes’ll shine when I tell what happened.”

“You do forgive me then?”

Woodget gazed at his anxious brown face and nodded.

“We best hurry up afore all that rum gets drunk,” he chirruped, but he failed to add that he didn’t like the thought of leaving Dimlon all alone with Mulligan. Woodget’s mistrust of the Irish mouse was growing. If he was involved in whatever horrible fate had befallen the bosun then there was no knowing what else he was capable of.

Sitting by the deck rail. Mulligan and Dimlon were already taking their third swig when Thomas and Woodget joined them.

A grin more idiotic than was usual had slid onto Dimlon’s face and he was giggling gleefully.

“My but that’s lickytonsilgarglingfruityjuice!” he exclaimed. “My Aunty Lily always kept a bottle of speshul tonnik which she took to make her ‘feel better’, so she said, but it always gave her a nastybadheadhammerbangingbonce the next day.”

Mulligan fixed a despairing eye upon the pale grey mouse then raised the flask to the surrounding sea.

“Here’s to you, Able,” he called, “May the deeps of Fiddler’s Green keep you—I’ll not forget, nay—I’ll not forget.”

For nearly an hour they sat there, at times talking gravely but mostly the speech was merry, yet always there was rum.

Under its heady influence Mulligan mellowed from the intense, suspicious creature whom Woodget had grown to dislike and back to the jovial old salt he had at first admired and looked up to. But of this new incarnation Woodget was still wary, sensing that just below the now calm and friendly surface, tamed or merely shackled for the moment and held at bay, there constantly simmered a watchful anger fanned by an embittered mistrust of everything.

Yet the unpleasant side to Mulligan’s nature remained fettered and not a trace of it strayed onto the Irish mouse’s features. Many a yarn he spun them and soon the three youngsters were listening enthralled. Even the fieldmouse laid aside his doubts for a while under the relentless barrage of hair-raising stories.

Of adventures in remote climes, the peg-leg regaled their attentive ears, from the coasts of Spain to the Western Indies—proudly displaying the faded scars which lay beneath his brindled fur as testimonial of the skirmishes that had found him.

Then he told them the histories of his tattoos and what the faint, blurring pictures meant.

“See this knife with a notched blade,” he said showing them his forearm. “That says I was one of the sixty-five who fought on the Tantalus back in thirty-seven when we repelled a bloodthirsty crew of river-pirating rats. Ah, that were a good contest. Who knows how many of our lads are left now? I don’t and I’ll wager only the Greenmouse does.”

“What about that one, Mister Mulligan?” Woodget asked, pointing to a small tattoo that had faded to a near invisible smudge of indistinct blue ink. “It looks like a star.”

Mulligan glanced down at the mark on his right wrist and rubbed it with his other paw. “Aye,” he muttered, “’tis the oldest of my skin scrawls. My father bore one the same and so did his before him—stretching back to I don’t know when.”

“What do it mean?” asked the fieldmouse.

“Oh, why nothing,” came the evasive answer and Mulligan covered the star with his paw then tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Have any of you ever clapped eyes on the land of Greenwich?” he began. “A haven for the weary it is but governed by the grimmest old hatchet I ever did meet. Still if you’re ever heartsore then it’s to that restful spot you should take yourself. Almost I forgot my cares when I was last in its borders, so I did.”

“When was that?” asked Dimlon sleepily. “I could do with a doze right now.”

“This very winter I stood before that throne of oak and endured the Starwife’s withering scorn,” Mulligan replied, then he coughed and blustered about the fine weather as if he had not meant to mention that he had been there at all.

Woodget lay on his back, with his paws behind his head and his eyes gazing up at the deepening blue sky. Warmed by the dipping sun, he too felt sleepy and for a while was perfectly content to listen to the talk drift over him. Mulligan’s brash voice rumbled in the air and Dimlon’s fluting giggles were becoming ever more frequent. Beside him, Thomas’s normally sensible tones sounded a little slurred and, as he listened, their combined voices seemed to blend into a comforting hum that pulsed in his ears and lulled him into a delicious sleep where a fair and haunting voice sang in the far-off distance.

Suddenly Woodget snapped his heavy eyelids open, for surely that voice was no figment of his drowsy brain and for an instant it seemed that it was real and called to him.

“There is one question I’d dearly like to know the answer to,” Thomas was saying as he took the flask from Mulligan. “How did you come to lose your leg? Was it in that fight you spoke of before?”

The Irish mouse stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Nay,” he whispered. “Not then, them Portugese rats were a scurvy bunch but it was scum worse than they who lamed me and I won’t tell of it. I was lucky to get out with my life and the leg was a cheap bounty for that. I’d have paid an awful lot more—aye a lot more to flee from that evil place.”

In the silence that followed, Woodget sat up and turned his head this way and that, his sensitive ears filtering out the rush of the sea as it washed against the hull, desperate to hear the plaintive, soul-wrenching music once more.

Woodget scratched his forehead then tutted as he wiggled a finger in his earhole. “Dreaming you are, Pipple,” he told himself.

Then, when he had given up all hope of ever catching that blessed sound again, there it was, drifting on the warm evening breeze.

It was painfully sweet to hear and as he hearkened to the high, lilting notes he felt that he could abandon anything to continue listening. For if there was ever an end to that ravishing melody it would be more than his spirit could endure.

With a squeak, he jumped up and dashed over to the rail, hopping onto a low shelf so that he could peer over the side.

Behind him his friends regarded the fieldmouse with amusement. “Sure, there’s something biting that one,” Mulligan commented. “Been restless and nervy all the afternoon, so he has.”

Thomas called Woodget’s name, then his jaw dropped and he too heard the heavenly voice.

Immediately he sprang to the fieldmouse’s side, and when the sound finally came to Mulligan and Dimlon they hastened to join them.

“What is it?” Dimlon breathed, flapping his large ears. “It’s a delishuslugholeticklinserenadeycoo.”

Now the divine music filled the air, and those who listened prayed that it would never cease.

Profound yet light was the refrain, being both wrung with unquenchable sorrow and inspired by limitless joy. Tears unbidden came to the eyes of the four mice as they held their breaths and the sound unfolded, but none of them knew from whence the harmony came.

Abruptly, Woodget jolted and jabbed a finger across the sea.

“Look!” he hissed. “Over there!”

His friends squinted through the glare of the shimmering water and then they saw a dark speck bobbing upon the burnished waves.

“Hello there!” Woodget called, jumping up and down and waving his arms.

At once the singing stopped and the speck sank below the surface.

Slowly the mice stirred and the world seemed paler and filled with a sudden bitterness at the loss of that ravishing sound.

“Why did you do that?” Thomas complained.

The fieldmouse stared mournfully at the unbroken waves.

“I didn’t mean for the tune to end,” he said sadly. “I wanted whoever it were to come closer.”

“That were a piece of driftwood,” Mulligan said, shaking himself out of the spell the beguiling song had woven around him. To his dismay he saw that he had left his pack unattended on the deck where they had been sitting and swiftly he ran over to it and gripped it tightly in both paws.

“And that was no voice,” he called, “just the wind. Mighty strange things happen at sea; cold blue flames a-licking the masts I’ve seen and fish with wings leap from the deep, but though there are yarns of sirens who lure mariners to their doom or chant their witching songs over them to make them forget all they are—I ain’t never seen nor heard one.”

He hoisted his bag over his shoulder and his face was set and stem. “There are myths enough that are mine to contend with,” he uttered grimly. “Aye, old tales that might yet spring to evil life. It’s no time I have for other fables—the one alone is plenty for me.” He lapsed into brooding contemplation as he gazed up at the deepening blue of the sky, then shivered.

“Brrr!” the one-legged mouse said. “It’ll be cold when that sun sinks behind the waters and the stars pop out above. I’m thinking it’s time to get below.”

Woodget continued to stare out at the empty waves. “Not yet,” he muttered. “I’d like to stay a little while. In case it does come back.”

“I’m definitely stopping,” Thomas added, swaying a little from the rum. “I wants to get a good look at who’s singing. Oh yes, oh yes—I do and there’s no mish... mishtakingit.”

Mulligan frowned—he had remained up here too long. The deck now seemed horribly open and exposed, a perfect place for an enemy to make a sudden unexpected attack. He clutched his pack thoughtfully and longed to return to the hold which at that precise moment offered the best hope of sanctuary, even amongst those snobbish characters berthed on the cotton bales. All his instincts were telling him to return, to seek the safety of a crowd and leave this undefended place where Able Ruddaway had undoubtedly looked into the pitiless eyes of Death.

But to gain the refuge of the hold meant walking the dark length of that sloping passage and for all his bluff talk of old battles. Mulligan did not want to venture there alone.

“What about you, Dimmy?” he asked suddenly. “Will you be staying with your two mates or would you care to keep an old rascal company? It’s wearisome work tramping back down there on my tod.”

Dimlon glanced at the others, pondered for a moment then nodded with a brisk flap of his ears. “Alrighty,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll go with you, if you’re willin’.”

“That I am lad!” came the all too grateful reply.

Together they marched to the entrance of the dark passage which led down to the hold and entered its deep, clinging shadows.

For some time their sight floundered in the darkness. Away from the rich dazzling sunlight it seemed as though they had plunged into a chasm of engulfing night and they stumbled on blindly, the only sound being the rhythmic taps of the peg-leg striking the sloping floor.

Dimlon’s eyes gleamed in the gloom and all traces of his former sleepiness appeared to have left him. With a smile on his face he followed Mulligan into the blackness, his gaze fixed upon the Irish mouse’s back, and silently he fumbled with the buckle of his satchel.

“What’s this then?” croaked a dry voice in front of them. “Had a little party have we? That’s nice, oh yes, isn’t that pleasant?”

Mulligan thumped his stick on the ground and squinted as his eyes grew accustomed to the murk, whilst Dimlon’s face fell.

“Who’s there?” the Irish mouse demanded. “Get here where I can see you.”

Ahead of them there was a shuffling sound and from the complete darkness ahead loomed the imposing figure of a tall rat.

The creature was plump, but the uncommon length of his arms, combined with the stretched appearance of his upper body, lent him a gangly aspect—resembling a wide-boled tree with sagging, yet sturdy branches. The rat’s eyes were small, yet fiercely alive and full of sly curiosity, shifting constantly from Mulligan to the pale grey mouse at his side. His features however were not sharp or cruel, but neither were they docile or dullwitted.

Catching his breath, Dimlon studied the rat doubtfully and saw that he possessed a large pimply snout, marred by a deep scar which travelled all the way across his face, from one jowl to the other.

“Who are you?” Mulligan demanded, gripping his stick and brandishing it threateningly.

A swaggering arrogance was in the rat’s bearing as he prowled nearer, alarmingly unconcerned by the weapon in Mulligan’s paw.

“Mebbe you’ve heard my name already,” his cracked voice uttered. “I done told your other little chum.”

“Jophet...” Mulligan murmured and he stared nervously at the creature’s tail, but it was too dark in there to be certain. “Spying on me is it?” he cried, rallying a little. “I’ll have none of that! You get back to the rest of your filthy kind.”

Jophet folded his long arms and slouched against the passage wall. “No,” he replied with a forbidding calmness. “I’ve a mind to stay here awhile and watch you return to the hold. I wouldn’t want owt to happen to you, now would I?”

Beads of sweat pricked Mulligan’s brow and he bared his teeth, preparing to fly at the insolent villain. Then he remembered that Dimlon was there and he mastered himself once more.

“Dimmy,” he said, “stand close to me. This vagabond won’t harm us if he knows what’s best.”

A smirk appeared on Jophet’s face and he snickered softly. “You call me a vagabond?” he cackled. “Is it I who have flitted from isle to isle these past years? Tell me, Haltfoot, what quest sends you halfway round the world? What business drives you on—could it be an errand of some kind? If so then I wonder what could have been entrusted to you? A message perhaps? I think not. A treasure more tangible, I guess. Hmm, yes I wonder very much and you can stake your remaining leg that heads other than mine are puzzling over it too. What plots are you hatching? we ask ourselves.”

Mulligan’s paws were shaking now; the rat knew too much.

A hissing laugh whistled through Jophet’s lips when he saw how uneasy his words had made the Irish mouse.

“For your own safety,” the rat told Dimlon, “I would not remain in the stumptoe’s company. Only ruin can come of mingling with such as he.”

“Do not listen to him,” Mulligan instructed. “We must continue on our way. Let the fool prattle his rattish nonsense with none to hear it.”

“What’s in the bag, Peg-leg?” Jophet inquired with a twitch of his arched brows. “Shall we open it and take a peep? Let me lay my curiosity aside.”

“Keep back, you vermin!” Mulligan roared, his temper finally flaring and he thrashed his stick furiously in the air, only a hair’s breadth from the rat’s snout. “I’ll not be spoken to like that by one of your hellish breed. Listen to my warning and heed these words well if you value your stinking skin. If I so much as clap my eyes upon your heathen face during the rest of this voyage or at any time thereafter, then you’ll feel the brunt of my rage. Your flea-bitten hide I’ll tear from your bones whether you be an adept or no and leave your bloody sinew shivering in the darkness!”

Breathing hard and quivering with fury, the Irish mouse drew Dimlon closer and placed his paw upon the pale grey mouse’s shoulder.

“The air reeks in here,” he muttered. “Come, Dimmy, to the hold.”

With his eyes fixed upon Jophet’s disrespectful and arrogant face. Mulligan limped by. But as he journeyed down the passage he was painfully aware of the rat’s glaring and watchful eyes boring into the back of his skull.

Helping Mulligan hurry along, Dimlon glanced around and to his dismay saw that Jophet’s unflinching stare was now fixed upon him. It had been a frightening and disturbing encounter and now his mind was greatly troubled and he was eager to return to his lonely encampment upon the wool sacks to consider what he should do.

Quickly the two mice gained the bottom of the sloping way and the hold opened up before them. Alone in the passage, Jophet drew his claws thoughtfully over his snout and slipped silently after them.

“Come on, Wood,” Thomas called.

Apprehensively, the fieldmouse grasped the rope with both of his tiny paws and began to climb down. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “This is plum stupid. Don’t let go now, Pipple, pretend it’s only a corn stalk a-waving in the breeze at Betony Bank.”

Determined that this time, if the singing recommenced, they would be ready, Thomas had pattered around the deck rail and decided upon a reckless course of action.

Realizing that if the singers did return they would be too high up to see anything very clearly, Master Stubbs’s rum-addled reason knew what had to be done.

Several feet above the water line, he had espied a narrow ledge where two small mouse bottoms might just manage to perch for a while. So, with Woodget’s help, he had thrown a rope over the side and proceeded to clamber down it. Intoxicated beyond reach of common sense and heedless of the great danger, Thomas hurried rashly down—humming happily to himself the whole time.

When his feet reached the ledge, he scrambled onto it, precariously rocking on his heels as he sought to steady himself and muster as much of his sense of balance that remained to him. Although the platform was proving to be a lot smaller than its appearance first suggested, somehow he managed to press his back against the hull and slither down until his legs were dangling out over the edge of the narrow ledge and he was sitting relatively securely but without much comfort.

Below him, the churning waters splashed upwards and he was now so close to them that his toes were cooled in a fine salty drizzle. But Thomas was not afraid of the gurgling death that waited for him if he should fall, he glanced only briefly at the thrashing sea, then turned his attention upwards once more.

“Come on, Woodj!” he called. “That’s it, paw over paw. Sshoon have you here.”

“I knowed how to climb, Tom!” the fieldmouse yelled back. “But this ain’t no field and I must be softer in the head than I ever did think. What’s got into him—or me for that matter? I sure do regret giving him his first taste of berrybrew that night. The stuff drives out his sense.”

At that moment a sweeping fold of water smacked against the ship and its showering spray shot into the air, drenching Woodget completely, and for a perilous instant his paws slipped from the rope.

Upon the ledge below, Thomas saw his friend struggling, his fingers slipping from the wet line and the terrible predicament he had placed him in finally shone through the alcoholic veils which had furled about his wits.

“Woodget!” he choked, as the fieldmouse wailed and scrabbled to remain aloft. “Hold on!”

If Woodget had not wound his tail tight about the rope then he would have surely plunged into the rushing waters, but at last he was able to steady himself and held on more tightly than ever before.

“Go back up,” Thomas called. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Not on your nelly!” Woodget cried back, feeling more determined after a moment’s rest—if not more confident.

Inch by inch he laboured, descending slowly to that treacherous lip where Thomas was waiting until finally he was sitting beside him.

Woodget clutched the ledge for dear life. He could not tear his eyes from the foam that bubbled and frothed beneath his feet and his ears were filled with the clamour of the rushing waves and the rumble of the ship’s engines. Never had he sat in such a terrifying place, but amid the fear his excitement boiled and a fierce thrill possessed him every time the cold and salty spray touched his downturned face.

“Oh Tom,” he murmured, “what an awful seat this is. We could tumble into the drink at any time.”

Greatly relieved to have his friend safe by his side, Thomas surrendered once more to the rum’s influence and he gave one elaborate nod of the head.

“Aye,” he agreed, “but what a switch from that stale and noisome hold. Why, you might as well be buried under the ground and a-wandering in a town of the dead as be down there. Least here you know you’re alive and value every second. Did you ever breathe such air, Woodj? A mouse could die here and be happy for it.”

“Do you think the singing will start up again?” the fieldmouse asked.

“If that’s what it was,” Thomas answered. “But whose voice could it have...”

Before he had finished speaking, there it was. The music which they had imperilled their very lives to hear again suddenly began and its sound was clear like a bell of crystal ringing over a barren, tuneless land.

The mice’s hearts leapt when they heard it and Woodget forgot all about the white-capped danger which rushed below him.

“Thomas,” he whispered. “Look, do you see?”

At his side, Thomas’s eyes stared unblinking out to sea and he gripped the fieldmouse’s arm excitedly.

A little distance from the ship, rising from the radiant and gentle waves, the top of a head appeared.

Golden was the colour of the hair which hung in long, trailing tresses and the failing sunlight revelled there, burning in sparkling fires, and the droplets which fell from the flaming locks glimmered back into the waters like jewels of twinkling amber. Delicate shells of many lustrous colours were threaded into the glistening curls and upon the creature’s brow sat a circlet of small pearls.

As yet the face of the creature had been hidden behind that dripping curtain of shining gold, but now the head was tossed back and the hair swept behind two strangely shaped ears.

Then Thomas and Woodget beheld the face and as one they sharply drew their breaths.

Never had they seen anyone more beautiful and never afterwards could their fumbling words attempt to describe that supreme loveliness.

Like a mouse maiden she appeared, yet unlike any their eyes had ever looked upon. Exquisite were the finely shaped features and the fur which covered them grey as the sea, yet at times it flashed like the bright silver of a fish’s scale. A blue, flawless as a sapphire and deep as summer twilight, blazed in the large eyes, glittering with a radiance all their own—a luminous flame to scythe through the darkness of the raven deeps where not even a faint glimmer of the sun’s rays could reach.

Like two shapely fins were her ears and their spine-webbed elegance served only to enhance her grace and beauty in Thomas’s eyes.

But the maiden was as yet unaware that she was being observed and, inclining her head to one side as she threaded yet another shell onto a golden strand of hair, the heavenly song rose from her curving lips—climbing steadily into the mounting dusk.

“What’s she doing out there?” Woodget asked in a murmur. “Where’d she come from?”

Captivated by the vision in the distance, Thomas let out a yearning sigh, but the sound was far louder than he ever intended and was carried far across the water.

At once the lovely creature looked up and stared angrily over to the Calliope—the fierce blue of her eyes gleaming directly at the two mice sitting upon the ledge.

A look of astonishment and horror registered upon her face but an instant later she was gone—vanished beneath the sea.

“No!” Thomas yelled. “Don’t go! Please come back!”

A stillness settled over the waters and the rippling circles which formed when the maiden disappeared, spread ever wider until they were lost in the ship’s wake.

“She’m gone, Tom,” Woodget muttered sorrowfully. “But what manner of folk were she? ’Tweren’t natural.”

Thomas was still gazing out to sea, his eyes following the last of the faint ripples.

“I don’t know,” he answered in a subdued voice. “P’raps she was one of Mulligan’s sirens he spoke of—or else we both dreamed her.”

Suddenly a voice laughed at them nearby and Woodget was so startled that he almost fell off the ledge.

“What strangeness is this?” cried the faintly teasing voice. “A fine pair of tritons, I deem. Yet the larger of the two has hardly wetted his toes and the other is more like unto a sorry looking spratling.”

Thomas and Woodget stared, not daring to move a muscle. For there rising once more from the waters was the beautiful maiden, and a mocking smile was upon her face.

“Halia did not know that there was an audience for her song,” she laughed, “and one so brazen that he would dare call after me. It is well that my father is far from this place, for he is ever wrathful with the discourteous and ill-bred.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said hastily, “I never meant no harm nor to be rude. I just wanted to hear your music a while longer and maybe learn something of you.”

“You wish to learn of Halia?” she asked with amusement trickling from her lips. “And what would one of the earthborn know of we who dwell in the realm of my father? For though you may draw close to the sea, you fear it still. A triton you may appear, yet you are not of that race. A soil-treader you are, a trampler of the sod and grubber in the dirt. What business bears you from the dust and clay of your home and over my country?”

“Your country?” Thomas mumbled. “What do you mean? This is only the sea.”

A spluttering shriek of laughter issued from Halia’s mouth and she shook her head despairing of the tears which streamed down her cheeks.

“Only the sea!” she wept. “If you did but comprehend the folly of your words. Great in jest are your poor untutored wits, yet you are too high a prize for me to enjoy alone. Stay a moment longer, Master Triton, others should share your worldly view.”

With that, she dipped down below the water and Thomas turned to Woodget who had been too shy to say anything to the beautiful creature.

“What do you make of her?” he asked. “Can it be the rum still affecting me?”

“If so then it’s trickin’ us both,” the fieldmouse replied, “but whatever’s the truth of it, that damsel’s having some sport or other.”

Before Thomas could make any response, the golden-haired maiden emerged from the sea once more, clapped her paws together three times and called out six names.

“Dias, Enalus, Metaneira, Myrtea, Carmanor, Zenna. Come, look on what I have found.”

To Thomas and Woodget’s astonishment, five other faces rose from the water. All of them were beautiful and adorned with shells like Halia but none had golden hair like she.

The tresses of one shone like silver, another was like burnished copper, two others were livid green and the fifth was white as the foaming waves.

“Dias,” Halia gurgled, beckoning one of the others to draw closer. “See these scratchers of the mould, a triton I have named he with the red cloth about his neck, but he bears no shell to bring the storm and poorly would he fare in our waters.”

The silver-haired maiden swam close to her side and she peered at the mice curiously.

“Oenopion I name him,” she laughed, “for the bloom of the wine is still on his face, but what of the other? That minnow who burns redder than the hair of Enalus our sister? What say you of him?”

Halia giggled as she regarded Woodget, her lithe form bobbing up and down with the gentle rising of the waves. “No larger than a fat worm upon a hook is he,” she cried, “and see how he squirms.”

“Won’t you come join us, Wineface?” Dias asked. “If it is your wish we shall show to you our father’s kingdom and all the marvels hidden therein. Let your eyes be astounded by the gardens of the deep, flowers brighter than any which grow on mortal lands bloom in our royal courts.”

Thomas shook his head. “Many thanks,” he replied, “but I think I’ll content myself with perching here awhile.”

“But we shall guide you,” Halia cried. “Metaneira, Myrtea—help me ease this unwilling creature into the sea. I would make a true triton of him yet. It is long since we welcomed an earthborn into our halls. We shall sing the song of oblivion over him and he shall forget his precious world and its weary clay. With us always shall he remain—an esquire of the waters to amuse us and do as we bid. Drag him down.”

Mischievously, the maidens swam forward, their green hair flowing wildly about them as their webbed paws reached up to clutch hold of Thomas’s legs.

The mouse merely chuckled and swung his legs out of their grasp.

“Alas no,” he said delightedly. “Fair as you seem, dear ladies all. I’m not yet that far soused. Grog-concocted phantasms you are, and once I tipped into the sea that’d be the end of Thomas.”

“Thomas!” the maidens cried, taking up the name and singing it with their silvery voices. “A fine sturdy title. Thomas Triton, we now call you. A friend of the sea-daughters. Oh what a consort he would make—a prince amongst the proud storm warriors of our court.”

Thomas chortled, and Halia turned back to Woodget.

“And your name, Master Worm?” she laughed.

“Woodget,” he answered.

The maidens gurgled in their mirth and leaped amid the swelling waves as they called out, “Woodget Worm, Woodget Worm.”

“Oi!” the fieldmouse demanded crossly. “You stop that.”

“But Master Worm,” Dias cried, shaking her silver hair. “You are no triton like your gallant comrade, for do we not perceive that you bear the sea no great love?”

Woodget frowned and folded his arms tersely; it was no use arguing with these silly creatures.

“See how he pouts,” Halia laughed. “The worm is as awkward as Zenna of the sullen face.”

She whirled around, sending a spout of water splashing over Woodget’s knees as she did so and he muttered under his breath.

“Zenna!” she called. “Where are you? Did she not arise with the rest? Where is she? Zenna! Do not hide with the wide-mouthed fishes below, their looks may marry with thine but you are not of their kin. Come let the sun shine upon that plain face of yours—if he can withstand such a drearsome sight.”

At that the other maidens burst into laughter.

Thomas grinned to hear them, but Woodget thought it was an unpleasant and cruel sound.

Then, from the rippling surface of the sea, further from the Calliope than the rest of her sisters, rose Zenna.

Dark was her hair, black as a crow’s wing and no shell adorned it. Sleek and wet it clung to her broad skull, hanging lank and heavy about her narrow shoulders. Although she was not ugly, nor plain as Halia had suggested, her features lacked the grace of her sisters and in their bright, ornamental company she appeared drab and sombre.

The light that shone in her eyes was dim and the leaden hue of slate, possessing none of the vital gleam that glinted in the keen glances of those before her. Also, her ears were larger than the others, and scalloped in shape, and beneath her chin three spines curved down towards her throat.

As swift as an otter, Halia swam over to her and towed her forward.

“Join us,” she sniggered. “I would show you one whose tongue is as pert and dolorous as thine own.”

At first Zenna resisted, pulling away from her golden-haired sister, but then her dark eyes fell upon Woodget and she struggled no more but looked quickly away and could not bear to meet his gaze.

Halia trawled her to the side of the Calliope and looked up at the fieldmouse. “Here, Master Worm,” she cried. “I present Zenna, she who is enamoured of the cold murk which lies in the northern waters and who prefers skulking in stagnant grottoes to singing in the sun and weaving shells in her hair. Although no shell would brighten that griping countenance and maybe only barnacles could endure it. Let us find a hermit’s casing and lodge her slouching frame within, a happy housing for that indecorous visage.”

Again there was taunting laughter and Zenna stared wretchedly down, her mouth pulled into an unhappy scowl as she endured the spiteful jibes and jeers.

Woodget’s good nature hated this scornful teasing and his sympathy for the unfortunate maiden surged within him.

“You leave her be,” he snapped abruptly. “Pretty you may be on the outside but you’re spoiled and hateful underneath. You’re nowt but vain and mean-hearted.”

The laughter died at once and the maidens stared at the fieldmouse as though he had slapped every one of them. Silently, Zenna lifted her face and her dark grey eyes gleamed at him gratefully. Then, with the faintest of smiles glimmering upon her face, she pulled away from Halia and vanished back into the sea.

“It would seem our sister has found a champion at last,” Halia eventually said with a frost in her voice. “She will not thank you for it, Master Worm. Zenna deserves our treatment of her, for she is secretive and wanders far from our father’s halls and is insolent to him when pressed about her wild roamings. She adds no grace to the court and all her speech is of woe and gloom.”

“Six against one just ain’t fair,” Woodget said simply and Halia pursed her lips at his stubborn defence of her unlovely sister.

Turning to Thomas she ignored Woodget completely and asked, “Master Triton, I put it to you once more and this shall be the final invitation, for never again shall you chance to glimpse any of our folk. Will you not descend with me, down to the many pillared chambers of the royal hall, where greater music than our mere voices can sing plays ever and without an ending?

“Light and beauty will your eyes behold and riches beyond the measure of your thought is housed there. Gold in abundance lies glittering and heaped in corners, and monstrous gems which burn with a fire at their heart lamp the colonnades. Will you not consent to come down? Can we not sing the spell of changing over you so that you may breathe our fathoming airs? No regrets shall burden your heart for as one newly-awakened shall you be. Come Triton, or is the memory of your clay too precious to surrender?”

Whilst the maiden spoke, Woodget looked at Thomas and prayed that he would not yield to her tempting words.

“No Tom!” he urged. “It’s drowned you’ll be!”

But Thomas was still convinced that Halia and her sisters were only figments of his drunken mind and he declined the invitation. “Nay,” he said. “I’ll not wet more than my toes this day and it’s time we was returning to our bunks. A thousand thanks to you, fair ladies, for even though you’re only tricks born of the drink, fairer tricks I ain’t never seen and probably never shall.”

Clambering to his feet, he waved to them and one by one the lovely faces disappeared beneath the sea, their fish-like tails flicking momentarily above the waters until only Halia remained and her sublime smile was fixed upon him.

“Farewell on your voyages, Thomas Triton,” she laughed. “May my country bear you to good fortune and keep you safe. Perhaps it is well that you refused my call, for I guess that much lies ahead of you. Valiant deeds will you accomplish and you shall win great renown. Now I must depart, for too long have I lingered here.”

As the crimson fireball of the sun dipped low upon the rim of the sea Halia sank into the waves, until only a vague shimmering mass of waving gold could be seen beneath the surface of the water.

Thomas leaned recklessly over the ledge and caught a brief flash of two bright points like blazing sapphires—and then she was gone.

“Well,” he muttered, stretching and reaching for the rope, “right now I could do with a good kip.”

Woodget smiled, his friend still believed that the sirens were not real. “Hurry up and climb then, Master Triton,” he cried. “The sooner I’m away from this place and have the deck under my feet again the happier I’ll be.”

Thomas chortled and began to ascend the rope, closely followed by the little fieldmouse.

Night was falling and already the first stars shone faintly in the darkening sky. As the Calliope voyaged beneath the deepening heavens, gilded by the last flickering rays of the setting sun, a shadow reared from the swirling waters of the ship’s wake.

With her leaden eyes gleaming, Zenna turned her solemn face towards the Calliope, intently watching the two tiny figures labour up the trailing rope.

Brighter shone the bleak unloved light of her gaze as she saw her champion gain the deck rail and clamber to safety.

“Woodget,” she breathed, chanting the name as though it were something new and wondrous to her. “Woodget.”

A look of bliss lifted her serious features and a rare grin divided her ashen face. Repeating the fieldmouse’s name over and over to herself she twirled joyfully in the water then, purposefully, she began to swim after the great, darkening shape of the Calliope and was soon lost in the gathering shadows.

7 - Into the Raging Squall

The following morning, Thomas awoke late and his head was pounding. Gingerly he looked about him, but Woodget had already left their quarters some hours before so, stepping carefully from the barrels, Thomas went in search of him.

Eventually he discovered the fieldmouse talking to Dimlon at one corner of the central road and Thomas was surprised to see that they were both holding mops in their paws.

“There’s one for you too, Tom,” Woodget said giving the deck a swipe with the damp mop. “Mulligan suggested we ask the captain if we could earn our breakfast, seeing as how all our grub’s run out, so us three are the new swabs.”

“Couldn’t we rest first and work later?” Thomas groaned. “I don’t want any breakfast. I think my seasickness is back—my head feels awful and my tongue’s as shrivelled as a raisin.”

Woodget threw the spare mop at him. “I ain’t got no sympathy for you, Tom,” he laughed. “Or should I call ’ee Triton? You just set to it, there’s a week of work to do so you’d best start now.”

Scrunching up his eyes to shield them from the dim lanterns which to him were blazing like suns and stabbing into his aching brain, Thomas dabbed at the floor and his first job at sea commenced.

For the rest of that day, they were kept extremely busy cleaning up the hold and were rewarded by three square meals which they ate with the rest of the crew.

Several times. Mulligan came to watch them sweep up or wipe the timbers and during these periods he would regale them with more stories or burst unexpectedly into an old sea shanty, the choruses of which shocked most of the other folk who happened to be passing or stopped to listen.

Thomas looked forward to the one-legged mouse’s visits but Woodget still felt uncomfortable in his presence and preferred to concentrate on his chores instead.

By the end of the day, the new members of the crew were absolutely exhausted. Dimlon plodded back to the wool sacks with his heavy lids drooping over his large eyes and spoke hardly a word to anyone whilst Thomas and Woodget eagerly sought their own bunks and were asleep almost before they had cast themselves down.

That night a ponderous silence filled the hold; not even the grunting of rats as they snorted and belched in their slime-haunted slumbers disturbed the tremendous quiet which charged the still, expectant atmosphere.

Through every stupefied, insensible mind, the fleeting ghosts of beloved memories or the rambling scenes of never remembered dreams coursed freely. To some, fanciful images of their final destination, built and coloured from the exaggerations of family and friends, towered large in the deep caverns of their snug rest. Bright pictures of fields and streams flowed through the homesick sleep of others, whilst stomachs bored with the same old rations inspired nocturnal visions of steaming puddings drowning in cream and the heavenly scent of freshly baked but imagined bread set many whiskers trembling and craving lips drooling.

Even the first officer who sat up on deck, supposedly on watch, had nodded and was in the arms of some fair mouse maid; Fleur of Calais, Rinda in Bombay, Nessea in Crete, little Cho Teh who dwelt by the docks in Singapore. To each of them he had confessed his undying love, and promised to return and wed them one day, but knew that he never would and they danced on their pretty, dainty feet before him, dipping in and out of the ever winding waltz of his dream.

Only one soul was still awake upon the Calliope. Within his tent, the hood of his cloak cast back over his head, Simoon sat before the incense burner, a pouch of soft leather clasped in his paw.

Glittering like the wintry heavens, his great black eyes fixed upon the cloud of blue smoke which gathered around him and he began to chant a string of mysterious words. From his quick tongue the rapid rhymes of a half-forgotten land poured as into the pouch he delved, bringing out a fistful of herbs and powders which he cast at the burner.

At once the tent blazed with a vivid green light. A brilliant emerald flame crackled within and the air was filled with angry, spitting sparks until the smoke became a dark, thickly-swirling, olive fog.

Into this billowing mist Simoon stared, muttering continually and gradually the obscuring veils parted, but through the dissipating shreds he did not see the embroidered fabrics upon the far wall. Glimmering within that vaporous, ever shifting frame, as if it were a window looking upon a remote scene in the far distance, the jerboa beheld the shores of a tranquil, moonlit country rising gracefully from the shimmering sea.

All was silent save for the prophet’s faint, steady breaths. No sound of the lapping deep flowed from that ethereal view, no call of gull or sigh of wind, only the dun colours of that far away island filtered through and Simoon’s eyes burned stronger than ever before.

Over the sundering waters, his unswerving gaze travelled, sweeping through the breaking waves and flying high above the silvery sands. Into the deep shade of cypress trees, his keen eyes penetrated, piercing the violet darkness and crossing the hills to where a row of white, weathered columns and tumbled stumps jutted from the ground like pale and broken fingers. Grass grew over the marble floors within that ancient temple, yet many figures clad in robes of white still gathered there. Clasping one another’s paws, they formed a great circle and began to slowly pace around a large central stone.

Suddenly the wheeling ring was broken and it seemed to the jerboa’s eyes that a strong gusting wind had fallen upon them. From the east it came, tearing at their gleaming robes and driving them out onto the hillside. Lifting their faces to the gale, the scattered creatures were suddenly afraid and terror was graven upon them as they stared into the battering night.

Solemnly, Simoon bent his glance eastward where the far shores of that isle were tormented with storm and the waves came riding far inland. With terrible violence the tempest raged, and in its midst sailing swiftly over the sea was a dense, thunderous cloud—wreathed by countless forked and savage lightnings.

The jerboa’s face darkened and his bristling eyebrows quivered as he strained to venture closer to that wild tumult. Larger its image grew in the churning smoke before him until the inside of the tent flashed and shone with every fierce bolt that snaked from the black menacing cloud. Clenching his teeth, Simoon’s paws clenched into fists and the knuckles blanched as the tremendous effort to spur his will on took its toll. Through the obscuring storm he tore, rending aside the violent lashing screens to see what lay hidden within.

The prophet’s jaws ground together, as he battled with the horrendous might of the unseen power and, suddenly, he broke through.

Blanketing thunder clouds gaped about him and in he swooped, though the lightning raged all around like flickering white fences.

Then he saw it, the hideous vessel concealed deep within the tempest’s heart. A high golden prow rode the leaping waves and Simoon shivered at its monstrous shape. In the likeness of a ghastly, ravening serpent had the figurehead been fashioned; two huge rubies burned in its eyes and over the surface of every polished, faceted scale was the fury of the tormented weather mirrored and hurled back into the night.

Simoon quailed when he looked on the hellish, slave-worked ship, for it was crammed with countless yellow-eyed, foul-looking creatures with curved swords in their claws and long knives gripped in their teeth. Yet the most dreadful of all those infernal, misbegotten fiends stood haughty and arrogant behind the malformed figurehead.

Tall and imposing was he, a grotesque portrait of bitterness and reviling hatred. Long and raven, his hair streamed in the gale and his narrow eyes blazed black with the awful loathing of his unquenchable malice. Pride and disdain leered upon that cruel face as he held his gaunt head high and stared malevolently past the golden serpent and at the storm beyond.

Sitting upon his cushions, Simoon gazed at the venomous creature for several moments, then raised his paw to dispel the remote visions. But even as he did so, the fiend upon the prow turned its malignant head and glared through the vast distance as if it were aware of him.

A ferocious snarl crept over the lean face and the burning eyes flashed dark, slicing through the olive drab smoke and with a frightened shriek, the jerboa fell back before the terrible force of that evil glance.

Out flew an accusing, threatening claw and the golden ship veered around until the horrific gilded serpent bore unerringly forward and the crimson glare that beat from its ruby eyes flooded the prophet’s tent.

With his back against the tapestry-adorned wall, Simoon shuddered and, holding his paws before his face as if warding off some dreadful blow, he stared fearfully up at the foggy portal his own powers had created.

On came the glittering ship, its barbaric crew yammering for death and murder, and its vicious captain threw back his head to crow with devilish mirth. Larger the nightmarish figurehead loomed until it seemed as if it would crash through the surrounding mist and plough straight over the jerboa’s prostrate form, crushing him beneath its horrible weight.

“Enough!” Simoon wailed. “Arvit Netchua Kara-vinda!”

Leaping to his feet, he raised his puny arms in a gesture of defiance and challenge but the fiery glare intensified and he appeared lost in a lake of steaming gore.

“Berakka Netchua!” he yelled. “Begone! Begone!”

Within the swirling mists a great wave swept before the ship, surging and rolling forward until, impossibly, it burst through the magical foggy window and the seething salt water crashed into the buckling tent, sluicing about the hem of the prophet’s cloak, its stinging spray battering into his stricken face. Then, just as the first glint of gleaming gold pushed from the smoke, Simoon snatched up his staff and from its rayed tip a green fire spluttered into life and an arc of dazzling energy shot into the whirling mists.

For an instant he heard the screeching of the heathen army and the vile curses of the hellish captain bellow above the din of the storm—and then all was quiet.

Only the faintest eddying threads of pale blue smoke remained in the tent but the cushion-strewn floor was awash with sea water.

Wearily, Simoon leaned upon the staff and passed a paw over his eyes as he panted and struggled to regain his breath.

“So,” he uttered in a hoarse gasp, “the time long feared is indeed upon us. The Scales are moving once more—rampaging over the face of the unhappy world to recover the remaining pieces. Upon the wings of storm their evil is riding and who is there in this age of the world who can withstand the High Priest of the Dark Despoiler? Perhaps we have underestimated the strength of our enemies—if so then the hope of the Council is built upon sand. Only when the nine stars herald His rebirth shall we know for certain whether our toil has been in vain. Long have we waited for this chance, much has been gambled and still more will be lost ’ere the end finds us.”

Sighing, the jerboa shook his head and lay the staff down as he cast his eyes about the waterlogged tent.

“Yet for the here and now I must also take time to consider,” he mused. “Far away the forces of the Scale are thundering over the sea, yet into the very skirts of their twisting wrath are we sailing. Verily, a calamity approaches and the morrow will be a day of doom, but Simoon the prophet must be ready when it strikes.”

Mumbling to himself, he paddled over to the wall and began pulling down the tapestries—there was much to be done.

The next day dawned bleak and grey but through the choppy, buffeting waters the Calliope steadily smacked and scythed her way. Within the hold, those folk who had at first suffered from seasickness were once again afflicted and even some who had thought themselves immune lay moaning in their bunks, wailing with every roll of the ship.

Much to Thomas’s amazement the vessel’s stomach-curdling motion had no effect upon him whatsoever and, feeling extremely pleased with himself, he set off with Woodget and Dimlon to discover what duties would be assigned to them.

That morning Captain Gabriel Hewer’s orders made no mention of swabbing the decks. “A real Devil’s squall this is,” he said, “and like as not the brew’ll spoil a whole lot more afore it improves. Make certain all’s secure and keep me informed of the mood below. If those scab-faced, whining rats try to scramble to the upper decks, knock their heads together and give them something real to whinge about for a change.”

In the hold the mouse families held onto each other in grave silence as the weather outside steadily worsened. Ever more powerful became the waves that smote the Calliope and as she ploughed further into the storm the pale daylight failed altogether, for heavy clouds blotted out the sky and, with an ominous rumble of distant thunder, the rain commenced—torrential and driving.

Whilst the ship pitched and crashed upon the swollen, wind-whipped waves, Thomas, Woodget and Dimlon ran to and fro between the crates trying to keep everyone calm. At first they attempted to take their minds off the storm by gathering those that were willing together and in desperation called upon Mulligan to sing a few songs. Initially the rousing ditties of the Irish mouse appeared to hearten them, but when a tremendous clap of thunder resounded directly above the ship all the children began to scream.

Now the din of the storm could be heard above the throb of the straining engines and any further plans to appease the passengers were abandoned.

Then into the central thoroughfare came Simoon. The small, crimson-robed figure of the jerboa emerged from one of the narrow alleyways and behind him he dragged a great bundle of possessions which he had lashed together.

Without a word to anyone, and not even appearing to notice their fearful faces or indeed anything that was going on, Simoon began to tie his goods to the side of a large crate.

The assembled mouse families watched him in disbelief as the ship’s movements became ever more erratic and unpredictable.

“What’s the wizard doing?” the children blubbed through their sobbing tears. But their parents did not know the answer. The jerboa was evidently preparing himself for something, but for what?

When he was certain that his bundle was sturdily fastened, Simoon climbed to its bulky summit and slipped his long, kangaroo-like feet under the straps. Then he pulled the hood over his head and waited.

Clutching at a rope for support as the deck began to tilt more wildly. Mulligan spoke to his friends through gritted teeth.

“Unnatural this is, I don’t blame these folk for being afeared. In all my years at sea I reckon this’ll turn out to be the blackest day of them all! May fortune guide us to safe harbour.”

Woodget stared unhappily about them. Nearly everyone was weeping and trembling with fear and, as yet another almighty wave blasted against the Calliope, sending it reeling and lurching through the ravaging tempest, his own spirits withered inside him.

“We will make it, won’t we?” his small voice asked.

Mulligan shrugged and tapped his bag thoughtfully. “We have to,” he muttered. “But there’s more at work here than the elements only. A fiendish power and a dark, striving mind is behind that lashing rain.”

Woodget did not know what he meant by that but there was no time to question him further, there was still much to be done. Everything that was not tied down had to be made secure and with the help of many others they set to it.

Painfully, the morning crawled by and still the storm raged, with no sign of abating. Upon the forlorn, tormented ship the evil weather vented its fury, tossing it like a scrap of driftwood over the towering, hammering waves.

The fears of the passengers mounted and recriminations reverberated throughout the hold as spouses squabbled about who was to blame for bringing them to this dreadful end. In the rat district, the scrawny inhabitants yowled with every crashing wave and many had been sick from sheer terror. Once, five of the hapless creatures tried to scramble to the passage which led to the upper deck but Mulligan had checked the stampede by standing resolutely in the way and knocking the first of the squealing brutes to the ground with his stick.

“There’ll be none of you scarpering for the time being,” he shouted. “We’re not sunk yet!”

But the tempest gripped the Calliope more fiercely than ever. All around, the pounding waters reared into the shivering dark like mountains of despair—only to come smashing down on top of her.

In the hold an uneasy quiet had fallen, all were now too petrified to shriek or bewail their fate.

Anxiously they waited, enduring each shuddering blow that smote the hull as if it would be the last—the one that would finally bring an end to their misery.

Only the creaking of the ropes which held the cargo in place could be heard amid the roaring tumult and Thomas hoped that the crates were sufficiently fastened down.

“Green spare us!” Woodget whispered.

“Oh Aunty Lily!” Dimlon jabbered.

Suddenly, a wave more violent than any they had yet experienced rammed into the ship and as the hold tipped almost vertically, chaos and confusion erupted.

In that instant Thomas’s voyage on board the Calliope ended, but in the years that followed he never forgot the sheer horror of those final terrible moments.

Screeching and howling, the passengers were thrown forward, tumbling uncontrollably along the main thoroughfare—falling on top of the panic-stricken, squawking rats.

Woodget went spinning head over heels down the suddenly steep deck, his little figure bumping into Dimlon, who in turn fell against Thomas. Only Mulligan managed to save himself, snatching at a corner of tarpaulin as his fellow travellers were flung by, shrieking in terror, unable to stop themselves.

Like an insane see-saw, the Calliope jerked and plunged as the wild, merciless waters possessed it utterly and the passengers were shaken from port to starboard then fore to aft like jangling beads in an enormous rattle.

“If you value your necks, hold on!” Mulligan bawled. “Or you’ll be dashed to pieces. It’s somersaults she’ll be doing next!”

Toppling and slithering, the creatures in the hold grabbed at ropes, crates, chests—even the hull’s rivets were scrabbled at in the frenzied struggles to find something to cling on to.

Somehow Woodget battled his way from the seething, wailing throng and made a frantic grab at one of the ropes.

But not all were quick enough to find a pawhold and back they fell when next the ship lurched, only to be thrust forward again as it wildly bucked and dipped.

Like a shrieking tide with flailing arms, thrashing legs and whisking tails the mice, rats, shrews, hedgehogs, stoats, voles and moles were washed to and fro. Lethal and hopeless was their plight, for no one could spare a paw to help them and those who valiantly struggled to save some poor, tumbling wretch were torn from their anchor and fell headlong into the screaming, steerless crowd.

But soon the violent, brutal shaking began to reap a horrible harvest.

Mothers screamed as children were ripped from their aching arms and went flying down the tilting deck to be lost amid the surging flow of tortured bodies. Breath was punched from lungs as feet and elbows drove heedlessly into stomachs. Many of Mulligan’s snooty neighbours were already dead but their limp frames continued to be hurled across the hold. Heads cracked against the metal bulkheads and backs snapped when they struck the corners of great quivering crates. Skulls split open as they slammed into the hull and bones splintered, their fragmented spikes piercing mangled, flapping limbs.

Never in all his young life had Woodget been so frightened. It was as if they had suddenly plunged into a dark, tormented nightmare and he wrapped his arms and legs about the rope more tightly than ever. But every pitch and yaw brought new horrors as the rattling flotsam of the dead and dying flushed past him and in that snarl of bruised and fractured bodies he recognised many faces, young and old.

Despair filled the Calliope and the fieldmouse stared about him, sobbing with terror, searching for Thomas and the others.

“Tom!” he cried, ducking just in time as a rat’s gangly, battered corpse cannoned by, almost knocking him from his perch. “Tom! Where are you?”

Woodget’s heart sank and he prayed that his friend was not amongst that jumbled multitude of the dead.

Outside, the maelstrom raged with increased savagery and from the engines there came a horrible sound of rending metal as the prop-shaft twisted and buckled.

“Over here!” Mulligan’s voice called. “We’re over here.”

Separated by the central road, Woodget saw that Thomas, Dimlon, the Irish mouse and a host of others were clutching desperately at the tarpaulin.

But the sight brought little comfort, for at that moment the ship was lifted from the sea by a gargantuan wall of foaming, lightning-crowned water and hurled through the crackling air. Over and over the Calliope turned, flipped by the monstrous wave as if she were no more than a coin and then with a ruinous, almighty, deafening crash that jarred every one of Woodget’s bones and had him squeezing shut his tear-filled eyes as tight as he possibly could, the ship returned to the sea.

In the grisly tangle of bodies which came smashing onto the deck, nothing stirred and all voices were stilled.

Whimpering, Woodget opened his eyes, not daring to hope that his friends had survived, but to his relief he saw that they were still clutching the tarpaulin.

Staring across at him, hanging on for dear life, Thomas managed a desperate nod. “Don’t worry!” he cried. “We’ll make it yet, Woodj!”

At his side Dimlon stared about him with his round eyes blinking in dismay and the three cork pendants which hung about his neck swinging violently with every jerking roll of the ship, smacking him in the face until he managed to wedge them under the strap of his satchel.

Only Mulligan appeared unafraid, yet his face was terrible to look on for it was set and grim and as he raised his eyes to the ceiling he shouted his defiance to the Green Mouse and in that hour his mood was as black and thunderous as the tempest itself.

“This is not the end!” he bellowed. “It cannot go down to the deeps. Hear me now, I command you, spare us from this pitiless storm!”

Then, Woodget noticed that Mulligan was only holding on with one fist—his free paw was tightly grasped about his precious bag and the fieldmouse gaped in bewilderment. Even encompassed by all this death and horror, the peg-leg was still protecting whatever secret was hidden in that pack.

“He’s mad!” Woodget cried. “Totally crazed—it can’t possibly be worth riskin’ his life fer.”

Outside, the typhoon screamed more viciously than ever and the Calliope floundered in the tortuous, rearing seas.

When another fierce wave pummelled the ship and sent it wheeling through the violent, ferocious tumult, Dimlon let out a shrill yell and his fingers slipped from the tarpaulin.

Squeaking, he tumbled down towards the mass of broken bodies but just as he thought his life was over, a rough, tattooed paw flashed out and Mulligan caught hold of him.

“Get you back here, lad!” he snapped hoisting the spluttering mouse back to safety before returning his paw to the bag.

Dimlon stared at him with a mixture of fear and gratitude in his wide eyes. For a brief instant he opened his mouth to thank him and then clapped it shut and turned quickly away.

“When will it cease?” Thomas cried. “We can’t go on much longer!”

Mulligan shook his head, “That I don’t know. But if it doesn’t blow itself out soon then we’re all done for one way or another.”

And then, cutting through their dread and fear a clear, resonant voice rang out above the din and the ringing words shone like a ray of hope in the pits of their despair.

Throughout everything Simoon had remained poised upon his bundle, his small seated figure never once caught off balance or off guard by any of the insane lunges of the ship. Now he lifted his head and cast back the fringed hood.

“Hearken to me!” he cried. “There is yet a chance for us all. If you can suffer the hurts and abide your wounds but a little while more then the worst of the storm will truly have passed. Its malice is not directed towards us, yet we have dared to venture where only one vessel is permitted to voyage. Through the rim of its fury are we crossing but that will soon be past.”

Mulligan glared at him and the jerboa’s great dark eyes gleamed back in acknowledgement.

“So it’s nearly over!” Thomas yelled thankfully.

“No indeed,” came Simoon’s cryptic and unpleasant reply. “For soon your troubles begin in earnest.”

Thomas frowned but the prophet had pulled up his hood so that his face was lost in the shadows and he made no further movements nor would he answer any of the questions the survivors called to him.

Anxiously, but with a renewed faith for their salvation, the remaining passengers held on and though the Calliope continued to tip and tilt, gradually the violence decreased and the howl of the tempest began to fade.

“The phoney fortune teller was right,” Thomas muttered in disbelief.

“Course he was,” Mulligan told him, “but it don’t need no magic to predict that. Storms don’t last forever, but the ship’s still being knocked about out there.”

“But not half as bad,” Thomas answered. “Why, I could even let go now and get over to Woodget.”

“You stay where you are!” the Irish mouse instructed. “We’re not through yet.”

Hearing this gruff statement, Simoon raised his head again and held up his paws.

“In that we are agreed,” he declared. “Yet to cling on like ticks to flesh or spiders to webs, will not avail you now. The host is dying and only a few tattered strands remain of our spinning. In this evil hour we must face a new peril. Leave your moorings and head for the upper deck, while there is yet time.”

Sliding his feet from under the straps, Simoon leaped to the floor and with a small silver knife began cutting his unwieldy bundle of goods loose.

“Flee while you may!” he warned them. “The moment of doom is nigh! Let it not override you!”

Everyone stared at him, that strange, velvet-robed creature who darted from one rope to another—hacking them in two.

“What’s he doing?” Thomas murmured. “What did he mean by ‘doom’?”

“The fool’s addled,” Mulligan said. “Look at him now, he’s climbing back on top of his baggage.”

Sure enough, once the bundle was no longer tethered to the crate, Simoon hauled himself back to his former position then folded his arms as if he were waiting for something.

“To look at him you might think he was simply going to fly out of this calamity,” Mulligan added scornfully, “like a genie on a carpet.”

Further along the hold, Woodget craned his neck to see what the jerboa was up to and he wondered what he should do.

“Mister Simoon?” he cried. “What’ll happen?”

The prophet turned his head and bowed respectfully to the fieldmouse. “Make haste,” he urged, “gain the passage, run to the upper airs—it is your only chance.”

Such was the compelling force in his voice that Woodget let go of his rope and dropped onto the deck.

“Tom!” he cried. “Come quick! Simoon says we must an’ I believe him.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Thomas yelled back. “Be careful, Woodj, we might be thrown about again at any time!”

A soft, regretful sigh issued from Simoon’s fringed hood. “Alas,” he uttered. “Already it is too late. The moment has come.”

Down the sloping passage there came the sound of running footsteps and into the hold tore Captain Gabriel Hewer. Wretchedly, he took in the awful spectacle of the squashed and broken dead, then called out at the top of his voice.

“Abandon ship! Abandon ship! The squall’s driving her towards the rocks!”

At first the survivors merely gawped at him, doubting that the situation could get any worse, then the full horror of his words dawned on them and they leapt from their perches and bolted towards the passage as thought all the servants of the legendary Hobb were pursuing them.

“Don’t shove there!” boomed the captain. “Let the wives and children go first. Hoy you, belay that pushing!”

But the passengers paid him little heed; their one consuming desire now was to gain the upper decks, to leave this appalling, grisly place where they had witnessed so many violent and needless deaths. Yet in spite of their anguish, and driven by the blindness of their terror, they ran over the fallen bodies that lay across their path, praying that there would be time to mourn for them and regret their careless tramplings later.

Still seated upon his belongings, Simoon watched them go screaming through the hold and his sparkling eyes sought for Woodget. Swamped within that frenzied mob there briefly glimmered a patch of reddish gold fur and the jerboa’s thorny brows joined together as deep furrows scored his face.

Poor Woodget was caught in the overpowering flow of the screaming, stampeding survivors and was swept helplessly along, his scared little face bobbing up behind taller shoulders and upraised paws.

“Fare you well, Master Pipple,” Simoon breathed in a soft, sorrowful whisper. “Many are the ordeals that yet await you. May such blessing as are in mine power to grant go with you. But I dread that against the trials to come their humble strength will fail. I pray that you do not.”

“Tom!” Woodget’s plaintive voice cried. “Tom!”

Further back in the surging crowd, Thomas vainly tried to catch up with him but the crush was too fierce and he yelled Woodget’s name as loud as he could.

“Wait for me!” he roared. “Wait for me, Woodj!”

But the fieldmouse could not escape from the jostling, thrusting horde and was carried with them to the passage where they battled and kicked and forced their way in, cramming as many of their frantic, pressing bodies inside as they could.

Suddenly a tremendous crunch reverberated throughout the fabric of the Calliope which threw everyone to the ground, and those in the darkness of the passage screeched piteously as they stumbled over one another. Then the terror-charged air was blasted by a dreadful, nerve-shredding, scraping din as the keel was driven over rock and reef.

With its panels and timbers shuddering and groaning, the ship almost seemed to cry in agony as ugly rents were scored in her side, but still the gale slammed her to the utmost of her ruin and she was hurled against the rocks.

Once more the Calliope lurched but this time there came a terrible splintering of wood and metal and the hull bulged and hammered inwards.

Cracking like whips, the restraining ropes snapped around the cargo and the crates went skidding across the deck, killing all in their thunderous path. Toppling to destruction, the great wooden boxes split asunder, disgorging their contents over the floor—and then it happened.

With a deafening, grinding rip of juddering metal the hold buckled and was torn apart. Into the ship exploded a jag of solid rock that gouged up through the shivering deck like a massive black fang, and into the ship’s flesh that tooth bit deeply.

At once the sea came flooding in, the clamour of its spouting greed outmatched only by the screams of those still trapped in the hold.

“Come on lads!” Mulligan bawled at Thomas and Dimlon. “Get you above. There’s lifebelts enough for all. The ship can’t help us now, she’s done her best!”

In the passage the thick wailing current of charging creatures climbed ever upwards but the way was narrow and their progress painfully slow.

Still caught far behind them, Thomas turned to look on the daunting sight of the deluge which was boiling and gushing its way inside. Already the stern was sinking and the wool sacks by the aft bulkhead submerged beneath a seething flood.

“Why can’t they hurry?” he cried, desperate to follow Woodget to the upper deck. “If we don’t make a move soon the water’ll be over our heads.”

“No, no, no,” asserted Mulligan, adding darkly, “the ship won’t stay in one piece for that long—she’ll be ripped apart.”

Hopping up and down at their side, Dimlon abruptly leaped into the opening as the crowd in front flowed forward. “Now!” he yelled. “Hurry, get inside—we can begin the climb!”

Mulligan lumbered after him but Thomas hesitated, for there, down the central aisle, still sitting on top of his bundle of goods, was Simoon.

Already the water was racing up the crate-blocked thoroughfare and splashing towards him, but the prophet did not appear to care. His paws were resting lightly upon his knees and Thomas thought he heard the jerboa chanting to himself.

“Simoon!” the mouse called. “Get over here—now!”

Slowly the jerboa turned to him and the dark eyes glittered as he raised a puny paw.

“Look to yourself, Master Stubbs!” he shouted back. “Fear not for Simoon! But turn if you can from the treacherous course which lies ahead of you. Disprove my words at our first meeting. Safeguard those around you; do not betray the trust of he who loves you as a brother. Farewell!”

To Thomas’s dismay the hull shivered as the gash in the Calliope’s belly was ripped ever wider and the angry waves came rushing up to meet the waiting Simoon.

“Tom lad!” Mulligan’s anxious voice boomed. “Get you in here!”

Thomas turned and fled into the passage but his last glimpse of the jerboa haunted him long after. With a serene expression upon his face, Simoon gazed at the endless, roaring waters as they flushed around his goods and even as the hold split in two and a wall of frothing brine came crashing in, the bundle was lifted up and the prophet was swept into the far, murderous darkness.

Outside, a jagged pinnacle of spiking black rock thrust from the seething fury of the waves and onto this awful, wrecking peak, the Calliope had been bitterly impaled. Now her gored, shattered bulk was plucked by the tempest and stung by the driving rain. All around, the thunder boomed and trumpeted and the blackened heavens were riven with dazzling stabs and spears of wrathful lightning.

Into this deadly storm the remaining passengers emerged, spurting suddenly onto the upper, rain-lashed deck. Immediately a vast wave came sweeping over the side and four unwary mice were washed into the sea—their squeals lost in the raging wind.

With his woollen hat pulled down about his ears but unprotected from the needle-sharp, biting rain, Woodget clung desperately to the deck rail as the torrential tides came blasting against the Calliope’s broken stern and everyone around him howled in terror.

No one knew what to do. The lifeboats were gone, for the official crew had abandoned the ship before she hit the rocks. All that remained were the large cork lifebelts but what hope was there in those if the full devastating might of the violent sea was ranged against them?

“What’ll we do?” screeched the mice. “We should have stayed below.”

Many of them tried to fight their way back to the passage but collided with the overpowering surge of their fellow passengers who were still issuing onto the deck—wailing that the waters were rising behind them.

They were trapped, there was nowhere else to go, but in that fearful gale they could not survive for long and beneath their very feet the ship was breaking up.

Consumed by terror and despair, nearly all of the gibbering, tremulous rats cast themselves over the side, hoping to find sanctuary from this terrible plight upon the great rock which towered upon the left. Perhaps some crevice or shelter could be found in that monument of destruction where they could escape the brutal ravages of the savage weather. But even as they hurled themselves off the edge, the wind tore at them and the poor, puling creatures were dashed against the hard rock or flung into the churning sea.

Abruptly, the deck splintered and buckled in two and the cries of the passengers increased. To face the sea clutching only a lifebelt was an insane prospect but to remain here was to meet certain death.

As the waves roared over the sides, the bravest fought their way forward to where the lifebelts were stowed and yanked them free. To the mice the circles of red and white painted cork were huge, but they could bear at least thirty survivors without difficulty.

Drenched with salt spray and beating rain but too afraid to move, Woodget could only watch as the rest of them made a dash for the seven belts and he glanced back to the passage, but Thomas and the others were still nowhere to be seen.

Around the rapidly disintegrating carcass of the Calliope, the sea was thick with its surrendered and plundered cargo. Barrels bounced and rolled upon the ferocious waters, wooden chests rode the inflamed tide to be smashed upon the adamantine rocks and in that confused slick of crate and keg, a small round nest was carried by a crest of foam—its occupants trembling still.

Yet upon the creaking deck, fear had bred selfishness and spite. Four of the lifebelts were already being hoisted over the deck rail, but few were those who lifted them and they would suffer no one else to join their craven crew—kicking and punching away all who tried.

With their paws clutching at the cork and their fingers gripping the attached ropes, a group of five stoats charged over the edge and plunged down into the wild sea. More lifebelts followed but none were sufficiently moused and soon only two were left and already they were being towed to the rail.

“Stop right there!” bellowed a ferocious, commanding voice and there was the captain, tearing up from the flooding passage with Mulligan and the others followed close behind.

“Tom!” Woodget squeaked. “I was so scared. I thought you was dead!”

Thomas hurried to his friend’s side then glared across at those trying to make off with the lifebelts.

“We’ll all be dead if we don’t put a stop to that!” he yelled.

Over the deck the skipper ran, cuffing the heads of the mice and voles who were making off with the remaining lifebelts. After him hobbled Mulligan and the peg-leg’s stick went swiping across the fingers of those the captain missed. Even Dimlon was incensed and with an expression upon his face that startled Woodget and daunted those before him, the pale grey mouse waded into the rest of the cowardly thieves.

“Now!” Captain Hewer bawled when the lifebelts were liberated. “Let the weaker folk come forward and take tight hold. That’s it, as many as can squeeze on.”

In the squalling rain the passengers gripped the cork and ropes until nothing of the belt could be seen under their huddled bodies. Then they battled against the gale to the side and tumbled into the swirling waters below.

“Right,” Mulligan shouted to Thomas and the others, “this one’s the last, so take a position, lads.”

But there were too many for the final lifebelt to bear and to their dismay everyone realised that many would be forced to stay behind.

“Youngest first,” the captain commanded. “You’ll have to remain here, Mulligan.”

The Irish mouse stared at him. “I can’t!” he declared. “I’ve got to get off this ship. You don’t understand—I must be spared. I have to!”

“You’ll do as I say,” the captain snapped back. “Let the youngsters go, we’ve had our share of life. Give them a chance.”

Mulligan’s face went pale and his paw clenched his stick more firmly than ever as he prepared to do what he must. But, before he could carry out the heinous plan his desperate brain was formulating, a wave greater than the others came crashing upon them.

The deck crunched and snapped beneath the dreadful, violent blow. Its timbers were dragged into the sea, leaving only a floundering, railless section wedged between the rocks. Twenty-three mice, rats, shrews and voles were thrown overboard and drowned in the deep and amongst their forsaken number was the captain. But upon that last, resolute fragment of the Calliope the final lifebelt was still waiting to enter the waters.

Few now were left to cling to its sides but there stood Mulligan and the others. Grimly, ashamed at the thought of what he might have been compelled to do, the Irish mouse snatched at a rope and Dimlon squeezed in behind him.

“Come on, Woodj!” Thomas said. “There’s just room enough for you an’ me.”

Together they reached for the lifebelt but their paws never touched it.

At that moment a second mighty wave thundered across the broken deck and with their terrified shrieks ringing in Mulligan’s ears, both Thomas and Woodget were dragged into the tempest-torn, froth-capped sea.

8 - At the Shrine of Virbius

Far from the treacherous, biting rocks the two quailing mice were swept—out into the thrashing tumult which wrenched and snatched at then-striving bodies. High the heaving, swollen waves lifted them, before flinging their defenceless, tumbling figures back into the deep—crashing a deluge of pounding waters over their small, gasping heads.

Unable to swim, Woodget’s arms and legs kicked and flailed helplessly in the almighty, churning sea and, as he squealed for help, the choking brine flooded into his mouth.

Retching and battling futilely against all hope, the fieldmouse’s gargling yells were seized by the devouring gale and scattered into the blaring storm.

Vainly he tried to keep his head above the water, but his limbs were tiring and his muscles ached. He no longer knew where Thomas was. At first, when the immense wave had plucked them from the shrinking deck they had endeavoured to stay together, but the thrusting push of the unyielding current proved too strong and swiftly the two friends were separated. With every blast of the violent, pummelling wind, the gulf between Woodget and Thomas widened until mountainous cliffs of rearing water and dense, impenetrable swathes of steaming spume and spray isolated them both.

From the black, clangorous heavens, livid spikes of lightning leapt and flashed, discharging into the flaring sea—illuminating in stark, blinding instants the immense, unquestionable authority of the vast encircling waters.

Woodget was lost, his tiny form no match for the ancient, peerless might of the roaring deeps. Gradually his panicky, frenetic splashings grew weaker and more often now did his head dip below the destroying waves. Sea water filled the fieldmouse’s nostrils and glugged into his balking mouth as he gulped down his final breath. The cork talisman bobbed pathetically at his breast as the tempest beat upon him and his lungs strained for air.

It was too great a trial for one small fieldmouse who had only ever waded in the stream near his home before boarding the Calliope. Then the water had merely reached his knees. It had been a delicious summer’s afternoon and he had thought himself marvellously daring to sit in the centre of that sweet, trickling brook and lie down to cool his sunburned ears and tail.

Now he was lost, engulfed in the fathomless expanse of the wide, beleaguering oceans, no more than a speck to be devoured and forgotten. It was useless to try fighting that cold, unconquerable realm, better to slide into the oblivious dark and cease the unavailing contest. There was no escape from the force of the unbeaten waters and no chance of release; he was theirs now. Woodget belonged utterly to that uncharted murk, it had claimed him and it was time to surrender.

Under the gale-driven waves his lolling head sank; the sea water rushed into his ears and closed over his head until the only sound was the amplified thump of the blood in his veins and the frantic pattering of his bursting heart.

Down Woodget spiralled, his tail whirling behind him. For a brief while a trail of silvery bubbles leaked from his lips, before failing completely when his lungs were finally spent. At last it was over; his bitter grapplings with life were done. The inviting deep had mastered him and, as he descended from the cares of the riotous world above, a prickling blackness crept over his limbs.

Only one glimmer of joy glowed in the closing windows of his mind. An image of that summer’s day when he had gazed upon Bess with the sunlight glinting in her chestnut hair and the scintillating reflections playing over her lovely face. On that glorious afternoon his heart knew he loved her and the sound of her blissful laughter echoed faintly in his flooded ears. Then, like a spent, wavering flame, the image was extinguished and Woodget’s unconscious mind flitted into the snug vanquishing void as his limp body twirled lifelessly down.

Thomas flayed his arms about him, yelling the fieldmouse’s name between his gasping breaths. Yet only the howling night answered and his worst fears soared.

The last glimpse he had seen of Woodget had been many minutes ago and then his friend had been floundering amid the crashing waves—spluttering and coughing as his little arms beat hopelessly in the water. But the storm had driven them further apart and Thomas wept as he guessed the awful fate that had befallen him.

“No,” he blurted, his tears squandered in the raging tempest. “Woodget!”

But there was no time to grieve, for his own desperate contest for survival was still being waged and his life teetered in the balance. More powerful than the fieldmouse’s arms were those of Thomas but in that fierce turmoil his labours were of little use. He knew that soon his fight too would be over, yet valiantly he battled on.

Then, just when his thoughts became as clouded as the perilous night, a miraculous chance occurred and in that desperate hour Thomas’s flagging spirits rallied and dared to hope for deliverance.

From the surrounding darkness, propelled upon a breaking, foaming white wave, a barrel torn from the ship’s hold came rolling into view.

Not wasting a moment, in case the perfidious waters whisked it away again, Thomas used the last dregs of his strength and toiled towards it.

Anxious seconds stretched by as the mouse swam, spurring himself through the clashing waves, his eyes fixed upon the reassuring bulk of the floating cask in front. About him the lightning flickered and the thunder shook the deep calm reaches of the sea but Thomas was blind and deaf to all else now.

Before his salt-stung eyes, the barrel grew ever larger and he struggled closer—then, with a trembling, quivering wrench, he dragged his arm from the waters and to his lasting joy clamped his paw upon one of the cask’s sturdy metal bands.

Sobbing in relief, he managed to haul himself from the waves then collapsed across the wooden sides—overcome by exhaustion, fear and the horrible, searing loss of his dearest friend.

“Woodget!” his whimpering voice cried. “Woodget!”

Mulligan grunted and rolled onto his back. Drifting from the aching oblivion that had stolen over him as he clung to the gale-tossed lifebelt, his senses slowly revived.

A cool, refreshing breeze was now blowing upon his grizzled, sand-crumbed face, bearing the fragrance of wild thyme and pine trees, mingled with the pungent scent of burning grasses and acrid woodsmoke.

In the distance he could hear the dim rumour of the tempest as it travelled over the sea, the faint rumblings of thunder becoming ever softer and more remote.

Groaning, the Irish mouse realised that his left arm lay twisted beneath him and the wound in his shoulder had opened again, smarting from the salt water of his sodden fur.

Gingerly he wriggled his fingers to ensure no bones were broken then slid his sprained arm from under him and sat up, opening a bleary eye.

Above him, in a sky scoured clean and clear by the awful storm, a full moon was shining—its silver radiance flooding the world below and casting a bright path over the becalmed waters of the sea.

As one emerging from a deep, troubled sleep. Mulligan stared about him, waiting for his jangled wits to collect and order themselves.

He was sitting upon a bank of wet sand that sloped down to the water’s edge where the rippling waves meekly lapped the shore. The curving coastline was strewn with all manner of wreckage. Splintered relics of the Calliope littered the moon-bathed sands; shards of shattered timber jutted from the beach like long, deadly thorns and fragments of broken crates floated as a thick, crusting scum upon the placid waters.

Groggily turning his head. Mulligan saw that behind him the sandbank rose gently, before levelling into a grassy upland—fringed and bound with the dark, grasping shapes of gnarled, weather-twisted shrubs.

To his surprise it all looked vaguely familiar; a curious tingling crept down his spine but the answers eluded his bewildered mind.

“I know this place,” he mumbled in a daze. “I know it. Certain sure I am... I’ve been here before... and yet...”

Mulligan sighed, it was still too soon, no doubt it would become plain enough in time.

Turning back to the shore, his gaze fell upon his bag that had slipped from his shoulder and was now lying almost buried in the sand.

“My pack!” he cried, lurching forward to seize hold of his precious belongings. “Sure, it’s born lucky you were, Mulligan.” Then, even as he was congratulating himself, his face darkened—what had happened to the others?

Clumsily, the peg-leg picked himself up and scanned the sands.

Only then did he realise that not all of the wreckage consisted of the mere splintered remains of the Calliope. Here and there, sprinkled carelessly over the beach. Mulligan saw the bodies of his fellow travellers.

Upon the damp, silent shore they lay; mice, voles, stoats, hedgehogs, moles and rats. The faces of some stared up at the bright moon with glazed, unseeing eyes while others were half hidden by torn fronds of seaweed and dusted by sand.

Sadly, the Irish mouse stepped between the scattered dead, pausing beside each of them to see if it was not too late, but in this quest he held little hope.

“All gone,” he whispered. “Aye, for them the way was too harsh. Many more I reckon are at the bottom of that deceitful ocean now. To look at her, all flat and glass like, you’d never suspect. As cruel as they come she is. Takes a battered old rogue like me to come safe through her perils. But a tragic, sorry loss this night has been. Am I then the only one?”

Bereft of his stick which no doubt was floating upon the great waters somewhere, he limped morosely back along the bank, engulfed in troubled thought, then he paused and his heart beat faster. There, down by the water’s edge, within a great clump of tangled weed and broken timber he glimpsed the edge of something round, painted red and white.

Urgently, he bounded down the sands and tore the weed-twisted splinters away—then gave a loud cry.

“Dimmy!”

With his paws still clutched to the lifebelt, his legs and tail submerged in the shallow waters and the satchel marked with the letter ‘D’ twined about his body, lay Dimlon. But the pale grey mouse was sprawled motionless and his heavy lids were closed over his eyes.

Anxiously, Mulligan fell to his knees and pressed an ear to the mouse’s chest.

“By the Green’s beard!” he cried in delight. “The lad’s alive!”

Hastily, he hauled Dimlon from the water and laid him upon the sands.

“You’ll soon be spouting nonsense again,” Mulligan chuckled. “Seems we’ve both got charmed lives.”

Grinning his lop-sided smile. Mulligan thanked providence, then slowly, as if some outside influence exerted its will upon him, he raised his eyes and gazed inland once more.

Beyond the knotted shrubs, the vague outline of a dark wood crowded the foothills of a great and lofty mountain range whose sheer, limestone crags shone milk-white under the resplendent moon. Yet rising before those shadowy heights, black and dense against the shimmering heavens, was an immense plume of dark smoke.

The smile perished on Mulligan’s lips and he cursed his jumbled wits for failing to recognise it sooner.

“I do know this place,” he uttered in a hoarse gasp of disbelief. “Yonder are the White Mountains—the Lefka Ori! By all that’s wonderful, that cursed storm has washed me to the very foot of them. I’m on Crete! It’s swept me to the very spot I was headed for!”

Trembling with excitement, he stared at the immense mass of the mountains and drew a paw over his eyes. “The Shrine of Virbius! At last I’ve come to the Temple of the Twelve Maidens. The sacred pillars of the Lord’s birthplace!”

Astounded by this amazing chance, but alarmed by the climbing column of smoke in the distance. Mulligan took a last look at Dimlon and patted his head affectionately.

“Have to leave you now, matey,” he breathed. “Old Mulligan’s got important business to attend to, though it looks like I’m here too late. You ought to be safe for the meantime, sure—I’ll come back for you when I can, so I will.”

Quickly the Irish mouse trudged up the sandbank and soon the shore was left behind as he pushed through a gap in the hedge and limped his way into the meadow beyond. Through fields filled with blue anemone, yellow flax, white crocus and pale purple corydalis he went and steadily the ground began to rise until he was lost in the shaded pine woods which skirted the mountainside.

Many years had passed since Mulligan first set foot upon the soil of that hallowed country. Here, as a boy, his father had brought him and with the wide, awe-filled eyes of an infant he had glimpsed the stones of the revered shrine where the spirit of the Green was reputed to have originally risen from the barren earth.

It had always been a beautiful haven of peace, one of the dwindling number of sites where the Divine still flourished and was venerated. Nestling upon the mountain’s shoulders, the ancient temple had, through the ages, fallen into a stately decay—a graceful collection of eroded stones rearing from the verdant ground and pointing skyward. At the edge of a wide ring the pillars were arranged, girding a bowl-shaped hollow where a large altar jutted from the centre.

All his life Mulligan had loved the worn marble of its pillars and the grass-grown mosaics that covered the temple’s floor. To all outside observers it was merely another time-ground ruin but there the primal forces of life and light were worshipped. Yet the only offerings placed upon the sacrificial stone of Virbius were garlands of flowers and baskets of fruit given in gratitude of the Green’s bounty.

Behind the worn, unroofed stones of the temple, the real shrine was located, for there grew the sacred grove where, on certain nights of the year, His glorious presence could be glimpsed shimmering under the branches like the ghostly reflection of stars upon the water.

There in the thickets of evergreen oak, wherein stood a throne wrought of leaf and bough. Mulligan had first heard his father recount the history of the Dark Despoiler and the terrible legacy that had been entrusted unto their kin. Since that far off day, the images conjured in the Irish mouse’s mind as the legend unfolded had forever plagued his waking hours. Now he was embroiled even deeper inside the unending saga as it threatened to burst back into the living world.

Many times had Mulligan returned to the temple during the course of his wayfaring life and always the maidens who preserved its memory and tended the altar welcomed him, for he was the last of his line—heir to a part of the great burden which they too shared.

Now the blessed woods which had once been filled with the chanting hymns of devout pilgrims and the murmur of solemn prayers, were hushed and still. As his hobbling steps carried Mulligan beneath the high pines and cypresses, the reek of burning and destruction grew ever fiercer. Choking streams of billowing fumes coursed between the trees and through the leaves ahead he could see the angry flicker of flaming tongues.

Sternly, he spurred himself on, crashing through the final distance, until the woods opened up around him and the green sward of the hillside stretched before him—up to the Temple of the Twelve Maidens and the Shrine of Virbius.

“No,” Mulligan gasped as his eyes beheld the terrible devastation that had been visited upon the once idyllic place. “Not here!”

Every one of the temple’s weathered pillars had been hurled to the ground and set rolling down the sloping lawns, and behind it the sacred grove itself was ablaze.

Angrily, the Irish mouse lumbered on, over the trampled grass that had been flattened and furrowed by countless razoring claws, until he stood at the very edge of the ring where the pillars had stood.

Only two of the round stones remained rooted in position, but over their weathered surface vile pictures and ghastly curses had been scrawled in a red, sticky substance.

Even as he turned from them, his nostrils impressed upon him the true horror of the night.

Borne upon the scorching fumes that polluted the cool air was a frightful stink, like the iron-tanged stench of a charnel house. The awful fetor of raw, chopped flesh and freshly-spilled blood hung thick and cloying upon the ash-drifting atmosphere, catching in the back of his throat and forming a syrupy, metallic bitterness upon his cringing tongue.

Steeling his nerves, the mouse stepped down into the temple and through the swirling clouds of hot, concealing smoke.

Suddenly Mulligan let out a cry of disgust and he reeled backwards as his tormented eyes beheld the grim spectacle at the centre of that once tranquil and hallowed place.

Upon those faded, moss-encroached mosaics, he saw them—a mass of cruelly slaughtered bodies.

There, around a large stone, engulfed in a pool of congealing gore, lay many folk of the temple—but the white robes they had worn were now stained crimson and slashed to shreds. Their carcasses had been thrown into one untidy, irreverent pile, but Mulligan’s horror at the sight spiralled when he saw that nine heads had been savagely hacked off at the neck and arranged into a serpentine, wriggling shape upon the ground. Beside this gruesome, snaking line, ugly scarlet letters had been daubed and Mulligan shivered when he read them.

Nine bright stars from out the void
shining up on high

It was the first part of an ancient rhyme which he knew only too well and in a low, murmuring, fearful whisper he chanted it to himself.

Nine bright stars from out the void
shining up on high
whose banished soul do they call back
and augur in the sky?
Despoiler of the ancient lands,
who baked the deserts dry
Scarophion, Scarophion—the demon is close by.

Mulligan staggered away from the monstrous row of decapitated heads, carefully avoiding the oozing lake of blood and muttering oaths under his breath to call upon the protection of the Green Mouse to save him from the momentous evil his eyes were witnessing.

Within that repulsive heap of the butchered dead. Mulligan recognised the shapely arms of maidens and knew that, somewhere along that snaking line, their once lovely faces were now hewn and chopped.

“This is madness,” he wept, “the madness of that foul, worming devil. The Scales have been here—those bloody-clawed, heathen murderers!”

Unable to look on that dreadful spectacle any more, he wheeled about and stared instead at the inferno which raged where the grove had once stood.

The oaks that had grown there for so many years, watching the stones crumble before them with the slow passing of the ages, were wreathed with ravaging, destroying flames and under the intense heats the mighty trees withered and blackened. Into the sky the dark pall of smoke rose, glittering with orange cinders that soared up on the violent, baking airs and floated in smouldering clouds out over the dark woodlands.

“There’s nothing left here now,” Mulligan murmured desolately. “The power of the Green has fled this place and won’t never return. Is this how it shall be? Is the enemy to win at every turn? It’s fearsome strong they’ve become if they can assail His very birthplace. What chance have I now? What chance have any of...”

Mulligan’s voice drifted into silence and he looked up sharply. Above the spitting crackle of the devouring flames his ears had caught the unmistakable sound of someone weeping.

Hurriedly, he lumbered from the fume-flooded temple and climbed the three steps to stand upon the grass again.

“Hoy there!” he called. “Who is it?”

Upon one of the toppled stones that had been cast down the hillside, crouched a hunched, sobbing figure. To Mulligan’s surprise he saw that it was a mouse maiden and she was dressed in a robe of pure white but under the glare of the burning oaks she seemed to be arrayed in a single brilliant flame.

At the sound of his call, the maiden lifted her head and gazed fearfully across at him—perhaps not all of the foul brutes had departed upon the hideous ship, maybe one had been left behind to ensure that the temple folk were indeed completely slain.

She was a young, frightened-looking mouse, with light brown fur and a face that was wet with wretched tears. Her long black hair was twined high upon her head and on her brow she wore a plain circlet of fine silver.

Quivering with emotion, she peered through the drifting smoke at the sturdy outline of the one-legged mouse and her nervous apprehensions vanished immediately. She knew that unmistakable silhouette well enough, and a surge of relief and elation rushed through her being. To see a familiar face in the midst of all the chaos and despair was beyond anything she had hoped for and gladly she ran over the trampled lawn to meet him.

“Mulligan!” she cried, her voice hoarse with weeping. “In the hour of my utmost sorrow you have come—the Green Himself must have sent you to me.

Mulligan limped forward and into his outstretched arms the maiden cast herself, clinging to his solid bulk like a child to its father and into his barrel of a chest she let loose the full tide of her grief.

For several minutes, the Irish mouse comforted her as best he was able, waiting until the shuddering sobs which possessed her finally subsided.

“Now then,” he began gently, “are you up to telling me what happened here this night?”

Wiping her eyes, she pulled away from him and stared over his shoulder to where the broken temple was choked with smoke, then beyond to where the fires still blazened greedily.

“Not here,” she uttered. “Not so close to... to what lies in there.”

“Come then,” he said hobbling down the hillside, “let us be free of this reek at any rate and sit where the air is sweeter.”

Yet the maiden lingered where she stood, as if the sight of the wanton destruction and the awful knowledge of those concealed within the cloaking fumes mesmerised her.

“Did you... did you look on them?” she asked in a flat, dead tone. “I was too afeared to. I cannot compel my feet to bear me inside that place, tell me are they... are they all...?”

“Every one of them,” Mulligan answered, “unless others escaped like you, but there’s nowt we can do for those poor folk in there now, save inter them.”

Tearing her eyes from the horrible scene, the maiden turned back to him but all expression had left her face, no trace of the desolation that had wrung her could be seen now, it was as if her spirit had perished and Mulligan’s heart bled to see it.

“No,” she said softly. “I was the only one outside the temple when the... the attack happened. Neltemi is my name. I do not think you would recall me for I was only a child when you last visited our shores. I was but a pilgrim’s daughter at the time and entered the service of the temple seven years ago.”

Mulligan gave her paws an encouraging squeeze and asked, “How is it you survived this carnage?”

Neltemi stared over to where the dark, shadowy woods bordered the sloping hillside. “When the outriding gales of the tempest fell upon us,” she began, “I was abroad in the forest, searching for blooms to weave in a garland to place upon the altar.”

Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper and she sat upon the gouged lawn before continuing.

“Never had I seen such a fury of nature,” she murmured, “yet it was not a natural storm. All around me the trees were swaying and creaking down to their roots, then it seemed to me that evil voices were carried upon that blasting gale. I became afraid and sought for shelter. Even as the rains began to batter from the thundering clouds I gained the higher ground to the west of here, and there in a shallow cave I waited for it to pass.”

“What happened then?” Mulligan asked.

“It did not pass,” she told him bleakly. “The tempest grew worse and from my vantage point I saw a vast shadow come sailing over the sea. Like a black cloud it was, but travelling low over the water until it drove far onto the shore and then the guise lifted and I saw it, the glittering ship with its fearsome prow.”

The maiden gripped Mulligan’s arm desperately. “It was the vessel of Scarophion,” she hissed, “and onto the sands leaped none other than the High Priest himself.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“It could only have been he,” she answered vehemently. “Who else could radiate such evil and torment the elements so? Then, behind his loathsome form, the army of the Scale came. Beneath the lightning the steel of their swords flashed and into the trees they rampaged, their savage cries riding upon the winds.”

Neltemi glanced back at the ravaged temple and bowed her head. “My folk were unarmed and unprepared,” she said simply. “No battle ensued, no ringing of sword against sword. All I heard were their screams as they were cruelly put to death and the rumble of the stones when the pillars were hurled down.

“Then the grove was invaded and despoiled and the trees were kindled. But none of those heinous deeds, not even the murder of so many innocents, those whom I loved as my own kin, none of that compares with the dreadful knowledge of what they have stolen.”

The maiden fixed her gaze upon the stricken face of the old seafarer at her side and in a frail whimper added, “They have taken it. The seventh fragment which we have kept secret and guarded these many ages has been reclaimed by the infernal legions of the Dark Despoiler. His power is waxing, Mulligan, and there is nothing we can do to check it. This hallowed place has proven to be no match for their barbaric might. Why did the Council not warn us of their strength? We were told the Scales would not dare to assail us.”

Mulligan laughed grimly. “Aye,” he said. “I too was told the self-same thing and yet I was pursued, followed all the way from Greenwich and who knows, maybe even before that. Seems that the wisdom of some ain’t as keen as it used to be. Either that or there’s a traitor at work.”

Neltemi shivered, then looked at him curiously. “And what of your errand?” she asked cautiously. “Did you bring it from the Starwife’s realm?”

“That I did,” he answered, patting his bag. “The old battleaxe gave it up to me, though whilst I was kept waiting outside her chamber I thought she’d decided the nine years weren’t enough and she’d hold onto it a bit longer.”

“Steeped in wisdom is the Handmaiden of Orion,” Neltemi murmured. “Or so it is said. She would not keep the fragment any longer than she ought. Even though she was never a custodian of the other pieces, surely she is aware of the peril they bring? It is hazard enough to guard our own charges, for you know the ruin the works of Scarophion bring.

“Where each of the nine fragments have been hidden, their malignance has cultivated decay and nourished weariness until the very stones despair and crumble to dust. Deserts and wastelands have those once fair regions become, or else confined to the dim memory of history as were we. Yet the burden you bear is the mightiest of them all. Too imbued with the evil of the coiled one is that fragment and thus have your family been accursed.”

“Accursed?” he repeated. “Aye that’s the very word for it. Bearing this thing in secrecy once every nine years from place to place is no great labour, but home and hearth have been denied me. No heir have I to continue the errand and maybe I should give thanks for that. No child of mine would I wish to pass this vileness on to. No, the toils of me and my ancestors shall finish when I do.”

“But it cannot remain in any one place for all time,” Neltemi answered. “Even the Starwife would not permit it to remain in her own land longer than was necessary. This evil must never be entombed in one region forever. Think of the damage its very presence would cause.”

Mulligan stared at his pack thoughtfully. “I know it,” he muttered. “But I also know that other forces are at work now. The Council bid me to carry this treacherous object here and await instruction. Why so? That is something they have never done before. What reason did they have? Who was I to see?”

“I know not,” she answered. “If Cisseus, the head of our order knew of it then she told no other, and now it is too late. Cisseus lies dead within the temple and I cannot aid you. Little do I know of the Council’s intent; I was but a gatherer of flowers and chanter of hymns, nothing more.”

Mulligan chewed the problem over carefully. “Well,” he decided at last. “It is plain that this loathsome device cannot remain here, the shrine is destroyed. As you cannot advise me, then only one course can I see now.”

“The city of Hara!” Neltemi breathed. “Yes, within its sculpted walls the final hope resides. Should that sanctuary fail then the light will indeed be doomed to darkness everlasting. If the Holy One cannot guide you then all are lost.”

“Aye, but now the time runs short,” Mulligan added. “The Scales will return far over the seas with their hellish prize. How long is it till they come marauding again or one of their agents is successful? Is this not the year when His stars are to be ranged in the heavens? I guess as much from what I read back there in that place of death.”

“When the moon has waned and waxed again, the nine shall glimmer above,” she answered gravely, “and not once in another hundred winters shall they converge again. But my heart fears that never again will they need to wait, for this is the age of His renewal. Perhaps all our efforts have been in vain. Nearly all our glories have faded; the cities are dwindled into the dust or jungles have devoured them.”

“Well I’ll not give up hope of it yet,” Mulligan cried, “but it’s off at once I must be going. There’s passage I have to find; a long trek to India so it is.”

Neltemi rose and laid a paw upon his cheek. “Then the last handmaiden of the temple bids you farewell,” she said.

“I’ll not go till I’ve helped you sort this out,” he told her. “You’ve no wish to see the horrors piled in yonder wreckage. I’ll do what needs to be done.”

The maiden shook her head. “No,” she said, “you shall not. It is true, I have no desire to look upon what the temple now holds and my nerves rebel at the very thought, but there are no others to assist. You, Master Mulligan—son of Padraic, cannot afford to waste even a moment more. Go now, tarry not for my sensibilities. I will command my courage and see to the dead to ensure they are honoured in our fashion. Your task is greater and will prove the most difficult. When you see the Holy One, tell him of us, tell him the Shrine of Virbius is ended and that in the city of Hara the fate of the world now lies.”

“I’ll see that he knows,” Mulligan promised, “and who can tell? If the Scales are vanquished a second time, perhaps the Temple of the Twelve Maidens will rise again and new groves shall grow.”

Neltemi managed a weak smile, then her forehead creased into a frown and she stared fixedly at the shadowy woods nearby.

“In there!” she hissed. “A movement!”

With his paw on his bag. Mulligan whirled around and from the shade of the trees a thin, dark figure emerged.

“Who is it?” Neltemi asked. “Can it be one of the heathen disciples?”

To her astonishment, the one-legged mouse laughed. “Nay,” he answered, “that’s nothing to be scared of.”

On to the despoiled lawn the newcomer blundered, his ungainly feet traipsing a crooked path over the trampled grasses. Like a drunken owl, his head bobbed and swivelled from side to side upon his long neck, while at his sides his arms flapped in a ridiculous, flustered manner.

Neltemi stared at the peculiar stranger, and started when from his mouth she heard his high squeaking voice shout, “Mister Mulligan! Wetandrenchedsandcloggeddrippynoseawfulfrighted I am! I doesn’t like it. Oh, I wish I was back with Aunty!”

Mulligan raised a paw in greeting. “Ahoy there, Dimmy!” he called. “It’s pleased I am to see you.”

“On the beach back there!” the youngster whined, hurrying over the lawn. “Bashedbrokebitsan’deadunsallabout they was all drownded—all them mice an’ voles and such. All of ’em gone and I don’t know what became of Woody an’ Tom. Like as not they’re swillin’ about somewhere too, oh it’s so fritful!”

Neltemi’s eyebrows arched to a point as the pale grey mouse lumbered closer, his face screwed up in misery and his satchel swinging at his waist.

“You know this one?” she whispered to Mulligan.

“Aye,” he replied. “Name’s Dimmy—and I’ve never known a title more suited to no one.”

“Yet he managed to find you simple enough,” she said, “though all the isle of Crete stretched about him.”

Hearing her words as he came puffing up in front of them, Dimlon threw his arms about Mulligan’s shoulders and in a wailing, gabbling voice wept, “I seed the marks your wooden leg made in the sand and how they were headed for the smoke. Was that clever? Would Aunty be proud? It was lonely on the beach, only dunkedmoleys and coldsoppingshrews and mices, so many faces I knew. Is the harm and hurt over now—is the risk finishedan’done? Are we safe Mister Mulligan, can we stay here and be safe as castleswithdrawbridgesbigtowerslotsofbubblyoiltothrowdownonbadnastyheads? No more boatybobbers for Dimmy, not never—oh, but then I won’t see Aunty again.”

“Don’t you go bawling your eyes out,” the Irish mouse chided him. “I’ve more to do than dry them.”

Dimlon sniffed then glanced at the maiden before turning to stare at the fierce burning which still raged further up the hill.

“Someone’s played with fire,” he warbled, his eyes rolling in their sockets. “’Don’t you go fiddling with that tinder box, Knucklepateslopwit or you’ll frazzle your ears off!” that’s what she tells me. Oh, but what a beautishusbigflickerysparkwhizzingblaze, and so hot—why even here my fur’s a-steamin’.”

Twitching his nose he quested the parched, ash-snowing air and smacked his lips hungrily. “Is there sausages?” he asked patting his stomach. “Dimmy’s tum’s a-wagging.”

Neltemi glared at the idiotic creature in dismay, then turned hastily to Mulligan. “Stay no more,” she said. “Go now, begin the long journey to the city of Hara.”

“I will,” he answered, giving Dimlon a sharp prod with his finger. “And you’re coming with me if you’ll keep that prattling mouth of yours buttoned.”

“But Dimmy doesn’t want to go no place, not no more. He wants to eat and have a comfyheadonpilloweightywinker.” Mulligan ignored him and took the maiden’s paw in his as he bowed before her.

“May your fortitude not desert you,” he said gently. “I would that my urgency was not so great. Farewell.”

Neltemi nodded. “Green be with you,” she answered, “and may the Scales be blind to your voyage.”

Neglected for the moment, Dimlon gazed at the broken, smoke choked temple and the burning oaks behind it.

“Is there no one else?” he asked suddenly. “Why is there such a big bonfire with none to see it? Can Dimmy have their jackety spuddies if they don’t turn up?”

That was too much for Mulligan. Incensed by the mouse’s absurd stupidity, he whisked around and shouted at him.

“Are you such a witless dolt?” he snapped. “Can you not see what has happened here? Brainless should have been your name—or Gowk of the solid plank! The enemy has been here, Dimmy! The servants of a terror so old and so cruel it would bite away your soul if you were to hear so much as a whisper of it! No, there aren’t any others here—because they have all been barbarically murdered. Butchered and gored by that scurvy, pagan crew. We three are the only ones alive for miles around. We are totally alone and cut off from any help whatsoever! So pipe down your incessant squawking before I cuff your ears and crack you one good an’ proper!”

Dimlon blinked and trembled under the ferocity of his outburst then took several steps back and fiddled with the buckles of his satchel.

“Are you certain you will take him with you?” Neltemi asked Mulligan. “The boy is moon-kissed; his company can only be an affliction.”

The Irish mouse sighed. “I feel responsible for him,” he said. “Whilst onboard ship I thought an agent of the serpent was drawing too close, but there were a pair of brave-hearted and generous lads to whom I would’ve entrusted the fragment if the situation proved too hopeless for me. Those two were the friends of this poor idiot, but they were lost in the wreck. No, the fool will go with me, perhaps I can instil some sense into him.”

“Such beneficence!” rang a sudden, spiteful hiss that crackled with hatred and cut through the air like a razor.

Mulligan’s face fell and he wrenched his eyes over to where Dimlon had stood.

“How selflessly noble of you,” the vile, vicious voice continued, “to take that poor jabbering cretin under your protective wing. I would have spiked or gutted him long ago and dissected his oozing brains to find the cause of his crass imbecility.”

Neltemi clutched Mulligan’s arm and her eyes shone with fear as she looked upon the evil vision which now stood before her.

“What... what trick is this?” Mulligan stammered. “What fiendish devilry is at work here?”

Immersed in the diabolic glare of the leaping fires, the wide-eyed innocence now dismissed and with a deriding, scornful sneer twisting his features, the mouse he had known as Dimlon sniggered hideously.

At last he had abandoned the nauseating masquerade of the simple, likeable Dimmy and was revealed as his true, pitiless self—the cloaked figure who had watched the bungling rats try to waylay the Irish mouse upon the quayside, and the one who had murdered Able Ruddaway.

From his satchel he had taken two curved, glittering blades, fixed them onto his claws and was now waving them menacingly in front of their faces—slicing the glinting knives to and fro and revelling in the horror that shone in their eyes.

“Gullible and credulous have you been, Mulligan!” crowed the fiend that had pursued him over land and sea. “You should have obeyed the counsel of your dotard masters and trusted no one. See to what hazard your blind faith has brought you!”

“He’s one of the Scales!” Neltemi cried. “A disciple of the serpent!”

Stupefied, Mulligan opened his mouth then clapped it shut many times before managing to utter a sound.

“N... no...” he stammered. “This cannot be, it isn’t possible. Dimmy—Dimmy, what is this?”

A gurgling laugh answered him. The glinting blades continued to weave a taunting dance as the leer distorted his features beyond recognition and the mouse’s eyes began to burn with a golden light all their own and the dark pupils shrivelled into narrow slits.

“Dimmy?” rapped the harsh, needling voice. “How swiftly you accepted that odious simpleton! His contemptible, chattering character was but an invention—a device to inveigle myself into the loathsome company of that guileless fieldmouse and his tedious associate and so finally into your own. And oh—how easy it proved. You were so eager to gain their confederacy that you failed to question the identity of this absurd, donkey-witted oaf who dangled at their tails.”

Screwing up his horrendous face, he assumed for a moment Dimmy’s incredulous voice and taunted Mulligan all the more.

“Feebleheadedincompetentpegleghah! Are you not ashamed to have ever believed in such a ludicrous façade? There is no Dimlon! No brutish Aunty Lily—only I and my consummate, lying tongue.”

“And who might you be?” murmured Mulligan faintly, although he knew only too well.

“Dahrem Ruhar,” hissed the other, “loyal servant of the Black Sovereign, dedicated unto Him when from my recanting mother’s womb I was gladly freed. And you—dear, terrified weed-picker, you were quite wrong, for I am no ordinary disciple.”

At that he flicked his tail and brought it snaking around before him. Then, as Mulligan and Neltemi stared, the tip of its writhing, worm-like skin suddenly quivered and a dark pink line appeared, dividing it in two until the halves curled backwards and the malformed shreds shook apart, twitching into a repulsive fork of flesh.

“An adept!” cried Neltemi. “He’s an adept of the Scale!”

With his mutilated tail switching to and fro, Dahrem bared his teeth and they saw that they had grown into hideous yellow fangs.

“Now you are mine, Mulligan!” he roared. “Long have I dogged your crippled shamblings, for the secret of your gutterbred family I suspected. Over the globe you have flitted, wallowing in the bottle and carousing in dockyard dives. Yet I knew that one day you would lead me straight to that which we all are seeking—and then it happened.

“Into the land of the drab of the firmament you were received, in Greenwich and there my guesses were confirmed. I knew then that from that place you bore a valued prize and even the pretended ignorance of Dimmy could not fail to have recognised the truth. So, that is what became of the ninth fragment. Many years have our scholars studied the ancient records gathered from the pathetic temples of our enemies and pondered over its fate.”

Cackling, he stalked closer and Mulligan’s fingers tightened over his bag, but the servant of Suruth Scarophion had him trapped and there was no escape.

“The location of the others we have long known,” he hissed, “for who can hide the creeping desert and the wild wastes that spring from such hidden treasures? Yet where the final piece was bestowed, none of our arts could reveal. But now I have it. Dahrem Ruhar shall take it back to its rightful place and he shall rise high in the Dark One’s favour when He is reborn.”

“You’ll not lay your scurvy claws on the cursed evil my family have fetched and ferried over the seas for countless generations!” Mulligan told him, his old tenacity returning. “I’ll not end our terrible legacy by passing it straight to one of your hellish and profane crew!”

When he heard this, Dahrem threw back his head and let out a hooting shriek of mocking laughter.

“And who will prevent me, Master of the Rumswillingguts? Not you certainly, and as you so stupidly pointed out, there is no one left alive here to come to your aid. We are completely alone, we three, and you are far from any chance of rescue. My brethren have done well, they have taken the seventh fragment which this ramshackle shed of a shrine has been hiding—and do not think that we are ignorant of where the eighth is secreted. That has ever been known and soon, before the stars that herald His return begin to flame in the sky, that too will be assailed. But now your time is over and my own star is about to rise. Surrender the fragment unto me.”

He opened his blade-bound claws but Mulligan drew back.

“It’s through me you’ll have to pass before you’ll see so much as a wink of it!” he growled.

“Oh believe me, I shall be delighted to oblige,” the grotesque creature replied with a malignant chuckle. “Do not think that because you saved my life on board the Calliope that I will spare yours. No, your life will I most eagerly take to win my prize.

“Do you desire to see the other powers granted unto an adept of Sarpedon—My Majestic Lord? Should I slough this raiment for your harrowing and most awful benefit? I think not, your blood would freeze if I were to reveal my unhallowed grandeur. No, it would be better for you to yield up the fragment without my having to wrest it from your paws and, just to make it more amusing, I know just the way to compel you.”

With a flash of gold, the claw reached out, seized Neltemi by the paw, then wrenched the maiden from her feet and dragged her close to him. Before Mulligan could do anything she was held fast in the treacherous mouse’s grasp, his wiry arm crooked beneath her chin—glittering blades resting threateningly upon the fur.

“Make no attempt to save her,” he spat maliciously, “for you cannot. The talons of Scarophion are steeped in the vessels which house His black blood. One tiny snick of the flesh and she is doomed to a torment greater than your pickled mind can grasp. Now, open that precious bag of yours and give the fragment to me.”

“No, Mulligan!” Neltemi gasped, throttled by the crushing strength of Dahrem’s sinew. “I am nothing. Run now—you must try.”

The adept of the Dark Despoiler squeezed her throat a fraction tighter and her rasping voice became a shrivelled squeal.

“You ask the peg-leg to run!” he snorted. “And how far do you think his hobbling could get him before I pounced to rend and rip? Keep silent little flower puller, or my talons may grow weary of your squeaking and snip into that lovely neck to carve out your windpipe and let it flap from the gash to whistle in the breeze.”

“Don’t!” Mulligan cried, dragging the bag from his shoulders and opening it hastily. “Take what you want! Just do her no harm—I beg you. She’s scarce more than a child.”

The jagged fangs ground together in Dahrem’s jaws and a feverish light gleamed in his horrible, reptilian eyes as he watched Mulligan take from the pack a peculiar object covered and bound by many strips of dingy grey cloth.

“Remove the wrappings!” he urged. “I must see it before I release her.”

“No!” Neltemi shrieked, battling to drag the powerful arms from under her chin.

But Mulligan ignored her protests and bent over the parcel, his fingers tugging at the bindings.

A horrible grin like a row of pointed gravestones appeared on Dahrem’s face and, while the maiden continued to writhe in his grasp he stared at the unravelling bundle in Mulligan’s paws.

“Don’t!” Neltemi wept. “Please!”

The Irish mouse glanced up at her for a moment. “I must,” he said. “I know what torture would be yours if I did not submit. I will not have that evil upon my conscience. Let the thing go, let him and his infernal mob take it. The time of our guardianship and custody is over.”

Tearing another ribbon of cloth away from the object in his paws. Mulligan’s face was suddenly illuminated from beneath by a rich gleam of burning gold and a deep, emerald green.

“The ninth fragment!” Dahrem yelled. “Give it to me!”

But imprisoned in his deadly embrace, Neltemi stared down at the terrible thing which Mulligan held and even now he was lifting it up to give to him. Desperately the maiden sobbed and snapped her eyes closed, then with a shudder, she called “Take this chance I give to you Mulligan—flee if you can!”

Gripping the two curved blades in her paws, she yanked them down towards her and they plunged deep into her throat.

“NOOO!” Mulligan bellowed, leaping to his feet.

Snarling, Dahrem hurled Neltemi from him and his twin knives flew across her back in rage as she collapsed onto the lawn.

Wailing, the maiden felt the venom race through her veins and already it began to eat into her flesh as from the great, ugly wounds the blackened blood frothed and spouted.

Aghast at the sacrifice she had made. Mulligan gaped down at her thrashing form as it convulsed and buckled in agony, then he stared across at Dahrem.

The ghastly mouse was tensing himself, preparing to spring. The muscles rippled under his pale grey fur and upon his claws the lethal blades scratched at the air.

But Mulligan was too quick for him. Inflamed by the screams issuing from Neltemi’s foaming mouth, the peg-leg loosed a deafening yell and with all his strength, lunged forward, striking Dahrem full in the face with his pack.

Howling, Dahrem tumbled backwards and Mulligan’s lumbering weight came trampling over him, punching the breath from his lungs until he wheezed and gasped for air.

“Scum!” the Irish mouse bawled, raising his fist and striking the winded creature’s jaw with a resounding smash of knuckle and bone.

Dahrem yammered in pain as one of the fangs splintered in his mouth. Then another almighty crack smote the side of his head and when the third impassioned blow pounded into his face his yellow, snake-like eyes fluttered shut and he knew no more.

“Right!” Mulligan raged, reaching for the abominable creature’s knife clad claws. “This is one nap you’ll not wake up from, Dimmy lad! You foul savage wretch. I’m goin’ to take off them poisoned blades and shove them into your lying, treasonous mouth. It’s eating them filthy razors you’ll be doing and while you’re at it I’ll cut out that deceitful tongue of yours! Let’s see how long your blood takes to turn black and burn you from within! That’ll open them viperish gogglers again I’ll be bound, just long enough to see me laugh in your face and watch the skin melt off your bones.”

Overwhelmed by hatred. Mulligan fumbled with the fastenings that held the golden weapons in place. Nearby the cries of Neltemi were failing and tears filled his eyes for he knew there was nothing he could do to save her. Once the venom entered the blood, the die was cast and the abhorrent fate sealed.

Carefully, he removed one of the curved knives and set about untying the second. But in his anguish and trembling from the hideous screams that clamoured in his ears. Mulligan’s fingers slipped.

To his despair, the one-legged mouse’s paw jerked along the base of the blade and his thumb accidentally pressed against the razoring edge.

Yowling, he stared at the drop of blood that blobbed up from the broken skin and, in that awful instant, knew that he was finished.

Of all the perils Mulligan had prepared himself to face over the mounting years, never had he suspected that in the end his death would be due to such a clumsy, senseless blunder.

He who had fought in so many ferocious battles, who had been captured and taken to the dens of the Scale in Singapore and shown there the terrifying instruments of torture as the chisel-featured high priest and his blubbery, powdered consort looked on in callous disregard. There, even as they manacled him to the rack, he had torn himself free—leaving his leg still fettered in the irons as somehow he managed to fight his way out, though the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

Many times had Mulligan the mariner thwarted the designs of the dreaded enemy but now, here at the last, his own carelessness had doomed him and from the black venomous blood of Sarpedon there was no remedy or salvation.

Suddenly the dying cries of Neltemi fell silent and the Irish mouse stared over to her steaming body.

“So the last of the twelve maidens passes,” he breathed, “and soon I shall follow her.”

Desolately, he staggered to his feet, not wishing now to kill the unconscious figure that sprawled under him. Only one thing mattered at that precise moment, only one thought loomed large and great inside his stricken mind. The fragment—everything else dwindled into insignificance, only that mattered. It must be taken away, cast into the sea, if that was the only choice left to him.

“Green grant me time,” he mumbled, taking a final, shivering look at Neltemi’s blistering remains. “My wound is small, perhaps the venom will take longer to work its evil. The ninth piece must not be left out here for any to find. Here at the end of my life’s labour I must do what I can.”

Wretchedly, he stooped to snatch up the object he had taken from his bag and removed from the many layers of wrapped cloth. Then, with long lumbering strides. Mulligan raced over the lawns and disappeared into the dim shade of the pine woods.

In the brooding silence that followed, a groaning murmur disturbed the peace and Dahrem opened a dimming eye as gradually he slipped back into wakefulness.

A brief pang of terror washed over him when he found that one of the blades had been removed from his claw and he waited for the first searing agonies to commence. Yet no poison had invaded his lifeblood and when he realised that, the merciless mouse marvelled.

“The fool!” he whispered. “What lunacy of his rum-drowned wits made him spare me?”

Then, from some distant reach of the obscuring trees there came a fearful shriek as Mulligan felt the venom begin its grisly work and Dahrem sprang up.

Hooting with ghastly mirth, he set off in pursuit—fixing the knife back onto his claw.

9 - The Passing of the Burden

All was dark beneath the waves. Far above the storm was raging, but in the turgid deeps no force of wind or rain could penetrate the tranquil peace.

Through the cavernous, rippling gloom a solitary figure fell, turning slowly through the shrouding shade, like an autumn leaf lazily spinning from the tree.

Down went Woodget—his little body limp and silent. No thought stirred in his blackened mind, he knew only peace and an end to his sorrows as deeper he drowned.

Yet in that hollow chasm, two points of soft grey light glimmered, faint in the distance. Swiftly they advanced and around them a face formed in the dim darkness.

Concern and sadness scored the ashen brow, and the tangled tresses of her sable hair flowed like ink about her forlorn face.

Through the tideless waters Zenna came; seventh daughter of the king under the sea, whose understanding surpassed the groping thoughts of earth-born races. Princess of the remote cold regions beyond the province of her vain and frivolous sisters, her territories were the ice-locked north and the biting cold of the southern wildernesses.

In those desolate wastes only the hardiest and oldest of living things dwelt, biding out the passing ages in winding caves at the roots of the world. Unto those very foundations of rock and earth, right to the source of all that now moved through the ocean or walked upon the land above, had Zenna ventured and from those nameless spirits and cloistered intellects she learned much.

Since that evening when Woodget had defended her from her scorning sisters, she had followed the Calliope, hoping for another glimpse of the small land creature. Then, when the storm commenced and it was plain that the ship was in danger, she had fled to her father’s halls and pleaded with him to bring calm and still the wrath of the waters. But the squall had not been of his making and there was naught he could do. Over that part of his realm where the tempest boiled across the sea, a power greater than his held sway.

So back she raced, only to behold the Calliope smashing upon the pinnacle of rock and to hear the screams of her passengers.

Now, torn with anguish, she hurriedly reached the fieldmouse’s side and the light of her eyes dimmed when they beheld him.

“Woodget,” she breathed, though no bubbles rose from her mouth.

In mourning, she raised her webbed paw and caressed his furry cheek.

Quickly she drew the paw away, then stared at him—the light burning more keenly in her eyes. Somewhere, deep within the fieldmouse, an indomitable spark of life still glowed, but even as she sensed it, the ember waned.

Hastily, Zenna touched Woodget’s temples with her delicate fingers and put forth the power that was in her.

From her lips a wondrous, plaintive music began and the haunting melody was full of enchantment and invocation.

Round and around the divine notes entwined them, growing in might and splendour with every yearning chord until its strength bound them close and all through the vast oceans the sublime echoes of her heavenly voice were heard. Those who listened to the blissful airs were moved to both grief and jubilation.

Louder and more forceful became her song, and although there were no discernible words, it was filled with the knowledge of all living things. Of the weeds that grew beneath the sea her music sang, to the verdant grasses which thickly covered the cloud brushed hills and the brightly coloured, burgeoning flowers that rose to greet the warming sun. From fallen seed to towering tree, her glorious harmony told. Of the egg to the bird, infant to adult, from weak to strong. The unquenchable force of pulsing, unfurling life beat forth from her being and in that chill, secluded darkness a dim green light began to glimmer, until it shone bold and bright throughout the limitless waters.

Suddenly, the fieldmouse in her arms twitched and his chest heaved as he jerked his head from side to side.

A triumphant grin split Zenna’s face and the music ceased.

“From the brink have I brought thee, my little champion,” she murmured, her voice frail and her strength diminished by all that she had imparted to him, “and for a brief time only thou may breathe as do I, yet to the surface must Zenna now bear thee—and fleetly. Ah, but much do I crave for thee to remain and end my solitude, yet were I to sing the full song of changing to keep thee at mine side even a short while longer, then the memory of who thou art and whence thou came would burn from thy mind.”

Drowsily, Woodget shook his head, but his eyes remained closed. Though she had fanned the dying spark within him into a steady flame, he was still very weak and the numbness that had crept over his limbs had not yet passed.

Smiling wanly, she propelled him up through the darkness. Back to the churning pull of the upper tides they ascended—up to where a bulky shape rocked upon the waves above.

Zenna gazed up at the fat silhouette over their heads, but before she lifted Woodget into the turbulent air, she wavered and brought her face close to his.

Tenderly, her lips touched his pink nose—then the tempest was about him once more.

Woodget choked and the water coughed from his lungs.

Close by, her eyes watching over him, Zenna waited as the fieldmouse squeaked and lashed about with his arms, crying shrilly, and her gaze turned to the large floating cask and the figure that still clutched to it.

Thinking himself tormented by guilt and the terror of the storm, Thomas raised his head and there, to his amazement and overwhelming elation—he saw Woodget.

Quickly he squirmed over the barrel and held out his paws, shrieking at the top of his voice.

“Woodj! Take hold—you’re safe! You’re safe!”

Shivering and retching in the fierce salt water, the fieldmouse lunged forward and felt Thomas’s strong fists clench about his paws.

“Up you come, Pipple!” Thomas shouted, dragging him from the sea and desperately hugging his spluttering frame. “Oh Woodj—I thought you was a goner. Praise to the Green that you’ve been spared. We’re going to make it out of this you an’ me, we will—I promise.”

Beneath the rain-lashed sky, Thomas clutched fiercely to Woodget and upon their bulky craft that tilted and jerked at the mercy of the driving ocean, they were carried out under the eaves of the destroying storm and eventually into calmer, safer waters.

Immersed in the waves, Zenna turned away. She had lingered too long and a staggering fatigue now consumed her. Down to the darkness she descended—down to the restful halls of her father.

Thomas looked up at the mountains that reared in the distance and wondered at the column of smoke which polluted the clean air—even as Mulligan had done several hours before.

Up to the debris-strewn shore, almost to the very spot where the lifebelt lay half covered with seaweed, the barrel had borne the two friends, bobbing gently in the shallows amongst the rest of the Calliope’s shattered flotsam.

Still holding onto one another, the mice had fallen into an exhausted swoon and only when Thomas had begun to slide off the cask’s curved sides did he splutter awake and find himself up to his waist in water.

Rousing Woodget, he had waded onto the sands and there they now stood, gazing about them curiously, lamenting the bodies of their drowned fellow passengers yet at the same time thanking the providence that had spared them from the ravages of the tempest.

“I remember music,” Woodget began slowly. “All was dark but there was a voice a-singing—least I thought there was.”

“You was dreaming,” Thomas told him. “Next you’ll be saying it were them rum-inspired sirens again.”

The fieldmouse sighed. He was certain that he was not mistaken but he was too weary to continue and merely said, “Right you are, Master Triton.”

“Don’t call me that,” his friend replied. “It’s a stupid name and I don’t like it.”

Woodget looked up at the snowy slopes of the White Mountains. “Tom,” he murmured in a small voice, “where does you think we is?”

Thomas shrugged and scratched his head. “Could be anywhere,” he answered. “There’s no way of telling how far that gale pushed the ship off course and what happened to us after that. I don’t know how long we was asleep for either, but I reckon the dawn won’t be long in coming. See over there, behind them rocks that run down to the sea, the night’s growing fainter, the moon’s dipping and the stars are failing.”

Removing the neckerchief from around his throat he wrung it out and flapped it a few times to shake off the last drops before tying it back in place.

“One thing I do know, however,” he said gruffly. “Looks like we’re the only ones who made it. Look how many others didn’t.”

Woodget pulled his hat from his head in respect. “What do you think we should do, Tom?” he asked quietly. “How are we ever gonna get back home?”

“There must be someone up by that fire we could ask,” his friend replied. “But first things first, there’s nowt we can do till we’ve laid these dead folk to rest. I ain’t leavin’ them exposed on this beach when the sun rises. The gulls’ll only find ’em and start their greedy pecking. Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

The fieldmouse shuddered and shook his head, repelled at the very thought.

“Tell you what,” Thomas began in a forced, cheerful tone. “Why don’t you start lookin’ about for something we could use as a shovel? There must be plenty of useful bits in all this wreckage.”

“What’ll you be doin’?”

Thomas scowled and stared along the shore. “I’ll find all I can and carry them over,” he said. “One great big grave’ll have to suffice. It’s better’n being gull bait.”

And so Woodget began to search amongst the bric-a-brac of splintered clutter that was heaped along the sands, whilst Thomas set about the grisly task of heaving the drowned bodies up to where the shore met the twisted shrubs and laying them in a row upon the coarse grasses.

When nearly half an hour had passed, Woodget had already commenced digging and the number of drowned corpses which Thomas had brought over had grown to seventeen.

“There’s still at least twenty of them as far as I can see,” he said gloomily as he came toiling up the bank with the body of a rather plump mole hoisted over his broad shoulders. “Probably an awful lot more further along the coast too, but I’ll need a rest soon or I’ll be falling in that trench of yours myself.”

Woodget leant upon the flat piece of wood that served as a spade and gazed at his blistered palms, but remained quiet and thoughtful.

A pallid, grey light was edging up over the rim of the sea and when he had lain the mole upon the ground, Thomas stretched and peered at the horizon.

“The sun’s rising,” he uttered impatiently. “That means the gulls’ll be squawkin’ and crying overhead any time soon. Better get a move on.”

Quickly he hurried down the sands and as Woodget watched his burly figure go foraging amongst the wreckage, he was relieved that he did not have to perform such a grisly and unpleasant task. Then, before he returned to his own labours, the fieldmouse glanced at the glimmering horizon and rubbed his eyes.

In the great dim distance—where the silvering sea joined the fading night, a band of grey vapour was rolling over the waters. At first Woodget thought nothing of it and dismissed it as he did the early morning mist which gathered in the dells of Betony Bank. But when he next looked up from his digging, the dense cloud had moved with uncanny speed across the waves and was now much closer.

In the ashen light of the encroaching dawn, his sharp sight could plainly discern the swirling skeins and curling wisps that crept from that wide, swiftly-flowing fog bank. That great and bloated vaporous wall was driven by a single purpose, as though a determined urgency was sweeping it over the sea, steering the concealing mists straight towards the shore and, as a wave of fear gripped him, Woodget threw down his makeshift spade to run after Thomas.

“Tom!” he cried, waving his arms in the air. “Tom! Tom!”

Turning over a large, brine-saturated plank, Thomas cautiously peered beneath. He had volunteered for this gruesome duty in case, among the debris, there were the bodies of Mulligan and Dimlon. He did not want Woodget to stumble across the carcasses of their friends, but it was a chilling and macabre search and he wished it was over.

Hearing the fieldmouse’s calls he raised his head and wondered what all the shouting was about.

“Over yonder!” Woodget cried, jumping up and down as he raced towards him.

Thomas stared at the shimmering sea and squinted at the dense cloud that sped over the waters.

“Bless me,” he muttered as Woodget came puffing up beside him. “What is it? ’Tain’t no ordinary fog—look how fast it’s moving and there ain’t hardly a breeze.”

“I don’t like it, Tom,” Woodget whimpered. “I fancy there’s summat inside that thick cloud, summat that don’t want to be seen—an’ it’s headed straight fer us.”

“But what could it be?” Thomas breathed.

“I doesn’t know an’ I doesn’t want to find...”

Abruptly breaking off, the fieldmouse pattered down to the water’s edge where he tilted his head to one side and strained to listen.

Over the sea the mist came swiftly on, moving like a great island of white smoke whose ethereal hills were constantly shifting in a turgid, heaving dance. Over its changing, gaseous bulk the rays of the approaching dawn glimmered and shone, tinting the undulating outline with delicate, flickering shades of rose, blended with vibrant streaks of peach and deep veins of shimmering gold.

With his eyes fixed upon this mysterious yet curiously beautiful spectacle, Thomas came to stand beside the fieldmouse, whose large and sensitive ears had obviously heard something beyond the range of his own, and in a low whisper he asked, “What is it?”

Woodget turned to stare at him with a mixture of confusion and fear written upon his face.

“Tom,” his woeful voice cried in alarm. “There is summat in there—I done heard it! Muffled by the thick fog it is, but plain enough to my lug holes.”

Thomas gripped his friend’s shoulders. “Tell me,” he said.

The fieldmouse glanced back at the advancing vapour. “Lurkin’ in there, deep inside its very heart, there’s the sound of a girt ship a-ploughin’ through the waves. Oars are dippin’ in the drink and pushin’ it onto the beat of a thumping drum, and there’s voices too—I can hear folk callin’.”

“A ship?” Thomas murmured. “That’s not possible. How could the mist cling to it like that?”

“Like I said,” Woodget muttered. “I doesn’t want to find out. Some witch’s magic or other, I’ll be bound.”

Thomas held his breath, then he too caught the vague noise of waves crashing against a hull and the monotonous throb of a pounded drum.

“You’re right, Woodj,” he admitted. “But I don’t think we should stay here and wait for whoever’s inside that fog to get any closer. The rate it’s travellin’ it’ll be slap bang on top of us afore we know it. Whatever it turns out to be, it don’t seem clever to stay out here in the open for all an’ sundry to see. Let’s you an’ me get off this beach and dart up into them meadows, p’raps even to the trees.”

Together the mice scurried over the shore and up the sloping bank as the mist flowed ever nearer, growing larger with every passing moment.

Past the incomplete grave Thomas and Woodget ran, then through the shrubs and into the flower-filled field beyond.

“Have to finish buryin’ them folks after,” Thomas panted. “It’s the living we’ve got to take thought for now.”

Suddenly Woodget skidded to a halt and he grabbed his friend’s arm desperately.

“Stop!” he yelled. “Tom! Wait!”

Thomas stumbled and whirled about.

“What is it now?” he demanded.

Woodget pointed towards the trees and held up a paw for his friend to be silent.

From the pine woods there suddenly came a frightful scream that was shrill with agony and torment, and the hearts of both mice stopped as they listened.

“What were that?” Woodget murmured when he recovered from the initial shock. “Oh Tom, what is this horrid place we’ve a-come to? Full of weird nasties it is; first there’s rollin’ fog, now terrifyin’ wild beasts. I ain’t goin’ no further.”

To their dismay another scream issued from the trees. It was a terrible, soul-rending screech and the fieldmouse covered his ears in a vain attempt to blot it out.

“You don’t have to go no further,” Thomas muttered. “That’s coming this way too. It’s crashing through the woods, whatever it is. Sounds like all the devils in the pit are torturing the creature. But one thing’s fer certain, we can’t go forward nor back—we’re trapped, Woodj.”

“Oh Tom,” the fieldmouse whined, turning around to stare at the shore. “The fog’s closing now, it’s almost here.”

Thomas followed his gaze and sure enough, tendrils of the unearthly mist were already groping their way along the gently breaking waves and over the floating debris of the Calliope. Then, like an avalanche of swirling steam, the great island of fog came rumbling after.

Curling fingers of searching mist had already crept ashore and were stealing up the sands when, within the dense cloud, the drum beats suddenly ceased and Woodget heard the unseen oars being lifted from the water and an anchor go splashing into the waves.

From the pine woods the screams continued and with each hideous yell the horror of them intensified.

“That thing’s at the edge of them trees now,” Thomas muttered. “Listen, it’s out in the meadow!”

Screened by the spring flowers which were already opening in the brightening sunlight, the source of those infernal shrieks came charging. The two mice could hear it rampaging towards them and they drew close to the shrubs which bordered the sandbank.

Trembling, Woodget looked over his shoulder to where the immense wall of mist obliterated the shore and he nudged Thomas urgently.

“Tom,” he whispered. “There’s summat movin’ in that fume down there—see, there’s figures wadin’ out the water.”

His friend grimaced. Within the depths of the churning fog, indistinct but large, grey shapes were lumbering through the shallows.

Yet now the wailing screams were very close and the fieldmouse shivered. Every screech was a fresh torrent of misery and anguish—so fierce and dreadful that it wounded the spirit and drove deep into his mind like a biting, murderous spike.

Now the meadow was engulfed by the ghastly cries. Over the clumps of white crocus and blue anemone they rang, and Thomas knew that at any moment the maker of those grotesque screeches would burst upon them. He hunted over the ground for something to protect them.

Lying beneath the shrub where Woodget had flung it, he discovered the makeshift spade and Thomas flourished it in his fists as suddenly the bellowing creature came crashing through the yellow flax.

Behind him, down upon the sands, where the outlying wisps of mist flowed between the scattered wreckage, seeping into every hollow and splintered crevice, three dozen stern-looking figures stepped from the sea.

As the fiery disc of the morning sun reared above the horizon, their steel-shod feet trod upon the shore and the brilliant light was mirrored in their silver armour—casting dazzling, bouncing reflections before them like beacons blazing in the gloom.

Tall and proud were those newcomers. At their sides they carried great spears with tapering, burnished blades—adorned with scarlet beads and crimson tassles in imitation of the blood they had skewered from their enemies.

With grim expressions, they glared up at the mountains where the black smoke still reared in the now dim blue sky then turned their attention to the meadow and heard the terrible, suffering screams clamouring from it.

At the front of the armour-clad strangers, the tallest of them raised a gauntleted paw and, with the great spears raised, they charged up the bank towards the place where Thomas and Woodget stood behind the twisted hedges.

“Tom!” the fieldmouse cried. “No!”

Thomas let the weapon fall from his fingers, for he too recognised the figure that had come lumbering upon them and he opened his mouth in shocked astonishment.

“Mulligan!” he yelled.

Through the pine woods Mulligan had staggered, hurrying from the Shrine of Virbius as fast as he could, before the venom that had entered him could execute its lethal work.

Yet the Irish mouse had not gone far before the first bitter pains began. His right paw turned black and from his punctured thumb there dripped a foul-smelling ooze which withered the undergrowth when it splashed over the ground.

Further along his arm the pricking, shooting agonies travelled and from his dissolving tattoos the dark blood bubbled—forming ghastly, frothing pictures over his withering flesh.

But for a long time Mulligan denied the pain, holding out against the excruciating torments that ravaged his arm, clenching his teeth as he hurtled on. Through the trees he bolted, his wooden stump smashing against snaking roots and ripping through the ferns and grasses, but never once did he falter or fall.

Only a single thought burned fierce in his mind, outshining the pain that bit into his shoulder and crept across his chest—the fragment had to be taken as far from the ruined temple as possible and he knew that he would die in the attempt.

In his left fist he clutched it, the thing which had cursed his family throughout the ages, and he was determined never to let it fall into the enemy’s grasp whilst there was a breath still in his body.

Then, when the eaves of the wood were within his swimming sight, the venom found his heart and the poison flowed swiftly in. That was when Mulligan cried out. It was too much to endure in gritted silence and his tortured voice flew high and shrill over the tree-tops to herald the rising dawn.

Such was the savagery of the blistering, scalding pain that his convulsing spasms hurled him against the trunk of a stately cypress. The wound in his shoulder that the rats had inflicted upon him in Cornwall gushed with steaming blood and his shrieks cut through the cool airs.

In his paw the green and golden device slipped from his loosening fingers. Then amidst his racking anguish, he heard a voice come hissing from the woods behind him.

“No escape, Peg-leg!” it called. “Your office is over.”

“Dahrem,” Mulligan gasped. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

Goaded by the threat of the evil, pursuing mouse. Mulligan seized hold of the fragment more firmly than ever and threw himself from the tree trunk and darted for the meadow.

But the insidious, chilling voice grew louder in his ears as Dahrem came hunting, gaining upon his hobbling progress and hissing his hatred.

“I can hear your sweet agonies, Peg-leg,” he cackled. “Do I not know that delicious sound too well? Thus did the bosun perish. Soon your eyes will boil, Peg-leg. Give up—the contest is ended. I and my beloved Lord have beaten you. The time of the Green’s insipid sovereignty is over! The darkness is falling, just as it now veils your stinging sight. Yield to the majesty of Sarpedon.”

Another, bellowing scream issued from Mulligan’s throat, but this time his voice was cracked and gurgling, for the venom was filling his lungs.

Behind him the adept of the Scale leapt from the pines and his swivelling, reptilian eyes scanned the meadow for his stumbling prey.

A malevolent sneer distorted the pale grey mouse’s face as he beheld Mulligan’s tormented form struggling through the flowers. The fool was his now, his to toy with before the final piercing agonies snatched his unworthy and wasted life away. How amusing it would be to wrench the ninth fragment from him whilst he yet lived.

“For him to go yammering to his doom knowing that his puny efforts have all been in vain,” Dahrem hooted. “Such sport must not be denied.” And with a whoop of malicious mirth he hared after his hapless victim.

Even though it seemed as if the end had indeed come and his labours proved unavailing. Mulligan forced himself on. Choked from the rising, poisonous bile that frothed up his throat, the Irish mouse staggered towards the tangled shrubs that fenced the meadow. The breath rattled in his breast as he strove to gulp down the sweetly-perfumed air, but each gasp was shorter than the last and his dissolving lungs were almost utterly consumed.

Before his streaming, rolling eyes the world was falling back into night and to him the sun’s glimmering rays were like the shadows of death. Then, as he went crashing through the last swathe of growth that separated him from the hedge and the shore, two blurred figures reared in front of him.

At first Mulligan thought that they were more vile members of the heathen cult and he tried to barge past them but his good leg collapsed beneath him and within the wooden stump of the other the flesh liquefied and, like ink, his lifeblood welled up—spilling over the earth.

Thomas and Woodget stared down at the awful apparition that had blundered into them and the fieldmouse yelped in fright and horror.

Upon the ground, writhing in his unnumbered agonies. Mulligan yelled and squealed. In his paw he clasped something bright and gleaming but it was as if he was mortally afraid of his two friends and tried to ward them off with ghastly screeches and frail thrashes of his shrivelling arms.

“Mulligan!” Woodget whined pitifully. “’Tis us—Tom and Woodget! What’s happened? What is it?”

The Irish mouse screeched as the vile, foaming toxin flooded into his mouth and spurted from his nostrils, then as if the veil had been torn from his eyes, he saw a brief, clear vision of the two mice standing over him.

Hope soared in Mulligan’s twitching heart and the ghost of a grin haunted his face as he reached up with his paw and pushed the loathsome treasure into Woodget’s astonished grasp.

“T... Take it!” he commanded, through his final torments. “To... to Hara... to the... the city of the Holy One. Swear to me... swear!”

Woodget stared down, tears welling up in his eyes. “I... I swears,” he stammered.

A tremendous sigh galed from Mulligan’s lips. There was still a chance to cheat the unholy fiend and he bowed his head in gratitude.

“My... my thanks,” he murmured.

“What can we do to help?” Thomas asked, distressed by the horrific sight of the once solid seafarer whose quivering frame was dwindling before their eyes even as they watched.

“Keep back!” Mulligan warned in a grotesque, poison-babbling gargle. “Don’t... don’t come near—the... the serpent has bitten. Beware my friends, beware... of him.”

“Who’s done this to you?” Thomas cried angrily.

With his last strength. Mulligan pointed a shaking finger back over the meadow, but before he could utter the name, the venom claimed him. Emitting a strangled gasp, he slumped into the grass like a salted slug, threads of oily smoke streamed from his ears and the slime-filled sockets that had once housed his eyes crumbled and caved into the decaying skull.

So perished Mulligan, the last in his line and penultimate custodian of the ninth fragment. But in the end he had not been vanquished and the toil of his ancestors had not proven worthless, for the evil had at last been passed on and he died with a triumphant smile traced upon his flaking, rupturing lips.

Appalled and aghast, Woodget wailed and threw his arm before his face to hide from the nightmarish scene, whilst at his side, Thomas stared dumbly down as the hideous, steaming corpse was completely destroyed by the virulent, devouring, black blood of Suruth Scarophion.

“Save us!” he whispered.

“Mister Mulligan!” the fieldmouse wept. “I don’t understand. Tom—what’s happenin’?”

Backing away from the stinking pool of dark, oozing sludge of grizzled fur and glistening, black putrescence, Thomas shook his head wildly. “I don’t know!” he cried, his voice unnaturally high with terror. “I feel sick.”

Dragging the back of his paw over his eyes, Woodget turned away then gazed at the thing the Irish mouse had entrusted to him.

“Thomas,” he murmured in a hushed, awe-filled voice. “Look, this must be what he had in his bag all that time.”

Rebelling against the mounting waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, Thomas gazed at the object in the fieldmouse’s paws and blinked in wonder.

In Woodget’s fingers was a large piece of curved jade and, under the morning sun, the countless hues of rich swirling green that spiralled within its ravishing depths appeared to move and pulse with an inner light all their own.

Yet, surmounting the splendour of the precious jade were carved bands and curling patterns wrought of the purest gold. In glittering fronds and sweeping arabesques, the gorgeous metal wove an intricate design that encased the livid mineral entirely—bordering the irregular edges of its peculiar, fragmented shape with cunning and skilful craftsmanship.

“What do you reckon it is?” Woodget asked. “Some kind of bowl it looks like, but if so then one fit fer a king.”

“It’d be a broken one,” Thomas observed. “It looks to me like a piece of something bigger. A vase maybe?”

“You think Mulligan did steal it after all?” Woodget muttered, daring to gaze back at the horrendous, smoking remains of the Irish mouse.

Before Thomas could answer, a cold, brutal voice resounded in their ears. Woodget dropped the treasure in surprise and they whirled around in astonishment. In all the confusion and despair surrounding Mulligan’s death they had forgotten about the figures emerging from the mist down on the shore behind them.

“Take them!” the savage voice snapped. “Take them!”

Over the sands the armed warriors had come, following the sound of Mulligan’s dying howls and now there they stood—towering over the frightened mice, with no expression in their eyes save icy condemnation and bitter enmity.

Twice the height of Thomas stood the leader of these strange creatures. His sharp, pointed head was mostly hidden beneath an ornate helmet, fashioned in the shape of a snapping maw and decorated with the colourful plumage of exotic birds. But, under the shadow of this and above the mouthguard which protected his snout, his eyes glinted bleakly and as fiercely as the polished silver armour which covered his menacing bulk. Even his long, powerful tail was covered in sections of jointed, beaten metal, although tufts of brindled brown fur could be glimpsed poking through the narrow, flexing gaps.

In his fist a tall, tassle-adorned spear was firmly gripped and he glared at Thomas and Woodget, snorting with disgust as though the very sight of them repelled him.

Around him the other warriors were regarding the mice in a similar, detesting manner then, as if he could stand to look no more, the leader gave a curt signal and at once three of the great, snarling ogres rushed forward to seize them.

“Be sure to bind their claws,” the tallest spat as he glowered down his barbed snout at the mice. “Then haul them onto the sands and hack off their treacherous heads!”

Kicking and struggling, Thomas and Woodget felt their paws being tied roughly behind their backs and they were plucked from the ground and carried through the twisted shrubs onto the sandbank.

“Stop!” Thomas cried, squirming for all he was worth. “Put us down!”

“Listen to the maggot-folk cheep,” roared the one carrying Woodget.

“They’ll not be wriggling for much longer,” rejoined another. “Chattan will set their heads up for all to see in this hateful place of death.”

“Make the ending swift,” the leader barked, glancing across the meadow to the pine woods and beyond to where the now faint trails of smoke rose before the mountains. “There may be more of this detestable breed lying in ambush. Karim—wield your sword!”

On to the sand the two mice were thrown and kicked until they rolled on their stomachs with their necks stretched out, ready for the execution.

“Wait!” Thomas yelled.

But it was no use, there came the ominous ring of metal as a gleaming, curved sword was drawn from its sheath and into the air it sliced—tracing a brilliant arc of white light before it came scything down upon their necks.

10 - The Legacy of Mulligan

“Hold!” the leader bellowed. “Stay your stroke Karim!”

Above the two mice, the creature with the sword growled impatiently and waited for the order to complete the execution.

But from the gnarled shrubs bounded the tallest of the armour-clad warriors and in his steel gauntlet he grasped the glittering fragment of gold and jade that Mulligan had given to Woodget.

Nudging Thomas with the toe of his boot, he scrutinised his tail then turned his attention to Woodget and did the same to him.

“Adepts can cleave the halves together at will,” Karim whispered.

His leader ignored him and gave Thomas an annoyed kick.

“Raise your eyes!” he commanded. “What have you to say of this? How came it into your possession?”

The mouse turned and a green and gold radiance fell upon his face.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said gruffly. “It was given to my friend here. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Given!” the leader roared sceptically. “Such horrors as this are not simply given away. Always they are dearly bought, now—answer me with the truth, or Karim’s blade shall drink of your worthless blood.”

Thomas glared up at him. “You’re going to kill us anyway,” he said belligerently, “so that’s not much of a threat, is it? What I’ve told you is true, but if you’re too stupid to realise it then it’s your fault not mine!”

The leader snarled and the other warriors murmured indignantly.

“Permit me to kill the insolent whelp, Captain Chattan!” Karim demanded. “The tail of the beast may not be cloven but its unholy tongue is surely forked.”

“Thomas ain’t lying!” Woodget piped up. “Mister Mulligan done gave that sparkler to me afore he died. We doesn’t know where he got it from, nor who it belongs to—that’s the Green honest truth.”

Towering over them the leader sharply drew his breath, then crouched down to inspect the prisoners more closely.

“What know you of this Mulligan?” he demanded. “Describe him to me.”

Woodget’s fears seemed to be confirmed. Mulligan must have stolen the object from some fabulous palace and these fearsome soldiers were obviously in search of him.

“He... he were an Irish mouse,” he began, “who liked a tot of rum now and then. Gettin’ on a bit he was, with tattoos down his arms.” Woodget’s description faltered as he recalled Mulligan’s final tortured moments and he fell into silence.

“He had a wooden leg,” Thomas finished for him. “Look, if that thing belongs to you then take it and leave us alone. We don’t want it, all we want is to find a way back to our home—that’s all.”

“This Mulligan,” the armoured creature asked. “He was a friend of yours?”

Thomas glanced across at Woodget and wondered what he should say for the best, but it was the fieldmouse who answered and in a bitter, forceful voice.

“Yes he were!” Woodget cried. “Mulligan was our friend, an’ if you don’t like it, Captain Chattan—then it’s just too bad!”

A soft chortle issued from behind the mouthguard of the helmet.

“I believe you,” the leader replied, but now his tone was gentler than before.

Lifting his gauntleted paws, he carefully removed his plumed headgear and scratched his tiny ears.

The captain’s head was small but it sat upon a thick and brawny neck that was covered in the same brindled brown fur that poked from the segmented armour which encased his tail. Down the length of his pointed muzzle however, and across the width of his eyes, was a patch of darker growth which gave him the startling appearance of someone wearing a mask. Yet the finely-shaped features of this warrior were genial and kind and a faint smile was traced upon his lips.

In spite of his predicament, Woodget found himself liking that face. It was stern yet trustworthy and again he wondered what manner of creatures these soldiers were. To him they looked like a large breed of weasel, but he had never seen anyone quite like them before.

Thomas however was still not certain, he was full of questions and impatient for answers.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you treating us like this?”

Chattan’s eyes fixed upon him for an instant. “We are the enemy of he who was vanquished in the first pages of history,” he told him, “and are sworn to destroy all who still worship that base and faithless father of despair.”

Turning to his troops, he nodded and said, “Remove their bonds, I do not think we have anything to fear from these two. My judgement tells me that here are no members of the evil brood.”

In a moment the ropes that tied the mice’s paws were cut and they sat upon the sand, rubbing their aching wrists.

“Thank ’ee,” Woodget said.

“My fingers are numb,” Thomas muttered ruefully. “Your folk weren’t too gentle with the knots.”

“They had excellent reason,” came the sharp reply. “For it is well known that the Scale dip their claws in venom.”

Woodget’s thoughts returned to Mulligan once more and he hung his head sorrowfully. “What do this poison do?” he ventured meekly. “Do it eat at you and turn your blood black and foaming?”

The leader’s face darkened. “How do you know of this?” he asked.

“That’s what happened to Mulligan,” Thomas answered with a shiver. “But he said he’d been bitten by a serpent. He shrivelled right in front of us. It was horrible! Poor Mulligan—I... I can’t...”

“Then alas, I see that he is indeed slain,” the leader lamented. “This is evil tidings. He was a most valiant and praiseworthy hero of your kind.”

The mice stared at him. “I thought you was hunting him!” Woodget declared in astonishment.

“Did you?” came the soft reply. “Then you were much mistaken. The one-legged nomad was most welcome in our city, and held in high esteem by those who sit upon the Green Council. He will be sorely missed by all who knew him and when we return to our city there shall be a day of mourning in remembrance of him. Ashes shall be strewn in the winding streets and his likeness carved above the thousand steps that climb the holy mountain. Our poets will compose verses to praise him, for his was a wearisome burden but he complained never.”

Chattan’s eyes stared into the distance and he became lost in a memory that returned the smile to his lips.

“For my part,” he said with a sigh, “my grief will be tempered with the recollections of the times he honoured me by sharing the contents of his flask.”

Stirring from his reverie he looked back at the two mice.

“It is obvious to me that you have much to tell,” he said, “but such tales must wait. We came only to give aid and do battle with our foes, yet we have come too late. The enemy has departed over the seas and what harm they have done here, well it does not take the book-learning of one of our scholars to imagine the slaughter that awaits our fearful vision.”

Lowering his sharp-nosed face, he gazed down at the glittering fragment in his grasp, then stared up at the White Mountains which were gleaming in the sunlight and narrowed his eyes at the spiralling smoke that still climbed above the trees.

“First we must make certain,” he said, rising to his feet and pulling the helmet back onto his head. “Though these folk are harmless, it is clear that within this region there are still members of the Scale. Now we must march to the Temple of the Twelve Maidens and see in truth the terrible deeds that have been committed in that most hallowed place.”

The warriors lifted up their spears and shouted dreadful war cries, but before leading them away, Captain Chattan instructed Karim to remain with Woodget and Thomas until his return.

“For your own safety,” he assured them. “Our armour may protect us from the darts and claws of our enemies, but you would wither at the first stroke. Do not despair of Karim Bihari’s company; to friends he is more gentle than his appearance suggests. Have no more fear of losing your necks. Now that he knows you are not a follower of the Coiled One, my lieutenant shall guard you with his own life.”

With that he led the others away and they marched into the meadow and towards the pine woods.

Alone on the shore with the mice, Karim returned his sword to its sheath and sat down with a jangling clank of his armour.

“I have no wish to see what awaits them,” he said, driving the shaft of his spear into the sand. “We were delayed too long to be of any use here. The Scales have preceded us, only death will they discover.”

“If you don’t mind,” Thomas began, truculently folding his arms and frowning at the warrior, “I think it’s time you told us who you lot are and what you’re doing.”

Karim’s eyes twinkled at him from inside the helmet. Then, with a sweep of his arms, the warrior removed the headgear and they found themselves looking at a creature similar to Chattan.

But here was a chubby face covered by dark red fur and a grinning mouth filled with large white teeth. Upon his forehead were stripes of ochre-coloured paint and a mane of ginger hair flowed down the back of his powerful neck. About the jovial jowls grew a thick, russet beard that was plaited into three short knots and in both of the small ears there was a row of silver hoops and studs. When he took off the gauntlets the mice saw that upon the large paws there were also many rings and silver bangles that rattled and tinkled at his wrists.

“You have never seen a mongoose before?” he cried in amusement. “Where have you been hiding? Are there none of my kin in your country?”

“Mongoose?” Woodget replied, repeating the unfamiliar word until he became used to it. “No, there bain’t be no mongeeses by Betony Bank. Not that I ever heard—only a gaggle of scruffy ordin’ry goose birds with honking beaks what me and our Cudweed used to pester and tease.”

“Betony Bank,” Karim uttered. “That is a curious-sounding land, outside of my experience. Upon our ship there are many charts; you must declare to me in which ocean this place lies.”

Thomas glanced at the water’s edge where the borders of the great island of fog still curled over the waves.

“Is your ship in there?” he asked.

Karim nodded. “Yes,” he said, “in the centre of that enchanted mist the Chandi is moored. She is the finest of our fleet.”

“But why do it lurk in that there fog?” Woodget chirped.

“So we may cross the seas in secret,” Karim answered with a laugh. “How else ought we to journey? The servants of the Scale are everywhere, it is not well for them to know all our ways and destinations. Always have the ships of Hara voyaged cloaked within vapours woven by our wise folk. Yet this, like so many other of our works, have the disciples of Gorscarrigern copied and turned to their own accursed purpose. A ship of their own do they possess, a golden vessel whose gilded timbers are tempered in blood and whose hideous prow inspires terror and dread.

“Within the eye of a storm does Kaliya, their slave-worked ship travel, and, when its thunderous passing mars the waters, no other craft, unless some powerful sorcery protects it, can endure the violence which rages in its wake.”

The mongoose gazed around the shore, at the wreckage of the Calliope, and sighed forlornly.

“I would guess that is what became of these poor folk,” he muttered. “On our voyage we saw the tempest’s fury in the distance and, recognizing the evil within, Captain Chattan steered the Chandi straight at its heart. But the Scales did not linger here, soon their hellish vessel veered aside and the storm drove east then south to avoid us.”

Tutting to himself, he sucked his teeth and preened the orange feathers that adorned his silver helmet.

“Many of us thought it would have been better to pursue that heathen crew to the bitter end of their journey,” he added, “but our captain would not have it so. To these ravaged shores he delivered us and here we found you. Forgive my earlier eagerness to separate your heads from your bodies, it has been a long voyage and there was hope of battle at its end. I fear my enthusiasm got the better of me.”

“Hang on,” Thomas interrupted. “Where did you say you sailed from—Hara, was it?”

Woodget blinked and stared at his friend in surprise until Karim put down his headgear and asked, “You have heard of my city?”

“That’s where Mulligan told us we were to go,” the fieldmouse announced, “To see ‘the Holy One’—ain’t that right Tom?”

Karim stroked his knotted beard thoughtfully. “Chattan will wish to hear your tale in full when he returns,” he said, “and you had best wait until then for the account of it, in case it grows stale with a second telling.”

“Mulligan made me promise to take that golden thing to your city,” Woodget confessed, “but I haven’t even got it no more—your captain still has it.”

Karim eyed him keenly. “Have no fear for that treasure,” he muttered. “Chattan Giri has no desire to steal it from you. When he learns your story I am sure he will return it to your care. Only a fool or a member of the Scale would lust after such an unwholesome device.”

“The Scale,” Thomas murmured, “But I thought...”

Above them a seagull suddenly burst into a raucous squawking as it rode the air and Thomas sprang to his feet.

“While we’re waitin’ for your lads to come back,” he said quickly, “me and Woodj’d like to finish off buryin’ them what’s dead, if that’s all right with you.”

“So, you bury your dead in the land of Betony Bank,” Karim remarked. “In Hara we inter them in the tombs cut under the mountain, if they do not die in battle away from our walls. But I respect your custom and will assist you in the labour, if you will allow me.”

“Course we will!” Woodget cried. “The more the...” abruptly the fieldmouse coughed as he realised what he was about to say and trudged off up the sandbank, grieved by his lack of thought and consideration for his deceased fellow travellers.

When nearly three hours had passed and the late morning was growing uncomfortably hot, Thomas and Karim had found all the bodies that lay scattered upon the beach and into the wide grave they had reverently been placed.

“Green guard and keep you,” Thomas murmured as the last spadeful of sand was patted down on top of them and the grave marked by a notice written upon one of the Calliope’s timbers.

With the dark, poisonous sludge that remained of Mulligan, neither mouse knew what to do and they feared to venture near it again. But they desperately wished to honour him and lay his soul to rest, so steeling their nerves, they took up their shovels again and stepped into the meadow.

“Wait,” the mongoose told them. “There is nothing you can do for the Irish nomad. Be content that his agonies are over. To bury that putrid slurry would only lock the venom into the ground and the soil would die utterly. In such cases it is best to leave it to the action of sun and rain. Let the weather destroy the blood of Gorscarrigern. In time only a bald patch of earth shall be here but who knows, maybe plants will grow again—then will Mulligan’s spirit be truly appeased.”

“But we can’t just leave him like this,” Woodget muttered. “He can’t go unnoticed for folk to trample by and not know he lies here.”

“Then build a mound of stones beside the reeking mire,” Karim suggested. “Yet take care not to go too close. The very fumes can spin the senses and cause you to fall into its foulness.”

And so they collected a great quantity of large and heavy pebbles and piled them high, near to the spot where Mulligan’s life had ended. Then, upon a large piece of wood, Thomas scratched the peg-leg’s name, wedged it in place for all to see and dismally the mice bade their travelling companion farewell.

Woodget closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer, then blew upon his calloused and blistered paws.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Karim leaned upon his makeshift spade and puffed out his round cheeks. As the strongest of the three he had done most of the hard work, except in the building of the stone mound, for that was a personal tribute and although he revered Mulligan as a valiant figure, the grief of Thomas and Woodget was deeper and more intimate and he did not intrude upon their solemn toil.

In the short time he had known them, the mongoose had grown increasingly fond of Thomas and Woodget. The mice who dwelt in his city were so serious and po-faced that he had never considered them to be an interesting race worthy of attention—with the exception of the Irish nomad—but this pair were far different from them.

Although the fieldmouse had not mentioned it to anyone, his tender paws were causing him much pain, but diligently and without a murmur of complaint he had pushed himself as hard as his little strength allowed. Karim admired him for that and was touched by his insistence on the matter of Mulligan’s epitaph.

As for Thomas, the lieutenant was amazed at how many of the dead he had already carried up the sandbank. For such a small creature he was deceptively strong and capable. He approved of the way the mouse was not daunted by any task and marvelled that he did not balk at the hideous work, but stoically plodded on with it until the job was over.

“You have the hearts of mongooses,” he complimented them when all was complete. “Now, let us return to the sands and talk no more of death for a while.”

So from the vicinity of the freshly-dug graves they walked in silence, all three lost in their own thoughts, and returned at last to the place where they had sat before. But they were not there for long when Woodget’s acute hearing detected the return of Captain Chattan and the others.

Hurriedly Karim struggled back into the armour which he had discarded in the heat of the digging and stood to attention as they waited for the company to emerge from the meadow.

Presently the sound of their marching grew closer and through the twisted hedge they came. Even though the plumed helmets still covered their heads, Karim could tell that their faces were drained and horror shone in their dark eyes.

Captain Chattan greeted his lieutenant with a hollow, stricken voice and Woodget and Thomas wondered at the change that had come over him. He seemed shrunken, bowed by a great weight and they noticed that the paw which gripped his spear was trembling.

“You did well to remain here, Karim,” Chattan uttered, “for the shrine was defiled and the grove burned. As to the maidens who tended the place... we built a great pyre and now the sacred grove burns anew.”

He cleared his throat then turned to the warriors behind him and gave a signal. “Bring him forward,” he cried. “Let us see if the idiot’s claim is true.”

From the rear of the company two mongooses came, holding some wriggling thing between them and, although he could not see over the plumed heads of those who barred his view, Woodget clapped his paws in delight when he heard a familiar voice whimpering in woeful dismay.

“Oh Lordy, you’ve landed yerself in enough hot water now to boil an effylump—a right picklingfixbunkeredholepinchingcleftstick this is and no mistake. Oh my, oh my, oh my! What’ll become of me?”

“Dimmy!” Thomas and Woodget shouted with one voice.

Before Captain Chattan, Dahrem Ruhar was hauled, but into the innocuous and unassuming role of Dimlon, the simple young mouse, he had once again slithered and slipped.

As Mulligan had lumbered through the meadow, spilling his frothing blood over the spring flowers, the consummately vicious and irredeemably evil servant of the Dark Despoiler, Dahrem Ruhar, had crowed with devilish glee and leaped after his staggering prey.

Then, through those lidless, reptilian eyes he had seen the one-legged mouse stumble straight into Thomas and Woodget and his fangs glistened in the early sunlight as Dahrem contemplated the sport he could have with two further victims.

Flourishing the curved blades upon his claws, he had stolen through the grasses, saliva dribbling from his jaws in eager anticipation of the ghastly entertainments that would be his to relish. First Thomas would feel the deadly swipe of his talons, but the fieldmouse was another matter—what delight there would be in harrying that puny yokel.

Cackling softly to himself, Dahrem imagined the plaintive cries as the irritating bumpkin pleaded for his life, and when he tired of his squeaky grovelling, he conjured up a hundred horrendous horrors to inflict upon him before he perished.

But, even as the infernal disciple of Scarophion had crept closer, glimpsing the faces of his enemies through the stems of the yellow flax and preparing to pounce and strike them down, his schemes were dashed and toppled in total ruin.

Up the sandbank, the armoured warriors came striding and through the hedge they burst with their spears blazing in the sun. Hastily, Dahrem withdrew, squirming back through the grasses, slinking upon his belly like a wriggling serpent and a bitter curse hissed from his quivering lips.

Away from those fierce soldiers he fled, for he recognised them well enough and knew from whence they came. But now his malicious strategies were in disarray and the triumph that was so nearly his was fading fast. There was no way he could fight such a company of armed warriors from the city of Hara, so he organised his malignant wits and set his treacherous mind in motion to plot and consider his next move.

Swiftly that base, iniquitous brain worked and when he formed a grotesque and guileful plan, like a repulsive spider, Dahrem took up a position at the edge of the wood and there he waited in a cringing, curled up ball—ready for the troops to discover him.

There would be time enough later to contrive a way to fulfil his ultimate goal and claim the ninth fragment. Cunning and stealth had always won him his desires and this would prove no great challenge; even warriors needed sleep and attacks were always best received when least expected. No, for the present at least, his dignity would have to suffer further affronts and injuries as he reforged the disguise he had worn upon the Calliope.

The two halves of his forked tail joined together again and his reptilian vision dimmed as his eyes changed back into Dimlon’s innocent, heavy-lidded and docile features.

Now, when the guards brought him before Captain Chattan, he was staring wildly in mock fear at the bright spears that surrounded him and his head lolled feebly upon his long neck.

“Oh Dimmy!” Woodget rejoiced, rushing forward to fling his arms about the pale grey mouse’s neck. “I didn’t think I’d ever be cheered on this awful day, but I’m so glad to see you I could burst!”

“However did you manage it?” Thomas cried, shaking him vigorously by the paw and clapping him on the back.

Dahrem squeaked with feigned joy to see them, whilst at the same time he laughed inside, scorning their friendship. Those fools were his guarantee of safety from this proud, parading rabble, they would confirm his false identity and so place him beyond the suspicion of that haughty captain.

How ironic that these self-same creatures whom he had been most eager to slaughter would now be his deliverers. Yet still Dahrem yearned to murder them and he prayed to his foul master that the opportunity would present itself again. Even while Woodget hugged him, the desire to rip out his throat burned within his black heart and he ached to drape himself in Thomas’s entrails and lop off his snout.

But such luxurious pleasures would have to wait, for the moment he had to humble himself once more and wear the guise of Dimlon.

“W... W... Woody!” he cried, gibbering with fake emotion. “And Tommy too! It’s a miracle, a blessuspinchmewakefulstonkingwonder this is—a real finominy! I thought you pair were goners for sure, me an’ old Mulligan both did.”

With his suspicious gaze trained upon Dahrem’s expertly elated face, Captain Chattan spoke to Woodget and Thomas, but not once did his eyes leave that beaming mask.

“Then this dunceling is known to you?” he addressed them. “We found him by the eaves of the wood, quivering like the spawn of the swamp frogs. I did not believe his tale—he claimed to have been washed ashore with the Irish nomad and together they ventured to the Shrine of Virbius. There they were attacked by a single member of the Scale and Mulligan was wounded, but this craven lout did flee and soon became lost in the darkness.

“He says he knows nothing of what happened to Mulligan after that, nor what became of the enemy who assailed them. His speech is peculiar and I soon tired of it but I do not trust him. There are ramparts of deceit behind his eyes—he knows more than he says.”

Thomas laughed and shook his head. “Don’t go accusin’ poor Dimlon of conspiracies an’ such,” he told him. “Why, there’s nothing sinister ’bout him. We should know, we’ve travelled with him fer days. Your trouble, Captain, is you’re too busy lookin’ for enemies at every turn—you done forgot what friendly folks are like.”

“He’s right,” Woodget put in. “Dimmy’s as harmless as we are—more so in fact, and Mulligan done trusted him.”

The mongoose stared at the prisoner a moment more, then gestured to the guards to release him and at once Dahrem hugged the others in a show of deliriously happy greeting.

Lifting his paws, Captain Chattan held up Mulligan’s precious fragment and studied it with a morbid fascination as though he was looking on something hideous and thoroughly evil.

“I do not need to tell you that the piece long kept within the Shrine of Virbius had been taken by the pagan curs,” he breathed to Karim, “so now their High Priest possesses seven of these baneful things. If we had departed when I first desired that might not have been.”

Breaking off from greeting Thomas and Woodget, Dahrem turned to look at the device in Chattan’s gauntleted paw and the livid light that pulsed within the gold-encased jade inflamed his black and merciless being.

There it sparkled, the ninth fragment—the missing piece that for so long had confounded the lore masters of his infernal brotherhood. No trace of it could ever be found in any manuscript ransacked from the temples they had despoiled, and far over the globe had the murderous agents ranged to discover word of it.

Now that very fragment glittered before Dahrem’s eyes, yet it was out of his reach. How he longed to put on the poisoned talons that were hidden inside his satchel and cut off those defiling paws which held the hope of his insane, fanatical kind.

If he could only return to the Black Temple, where the glorious statue of Scarophion reared in demonic splendour and dreadful majesty, with this, the long lost answer to all the empty years without their Lord. Then would there be a new High Priest to overthrow he who stood behind the prow of the golden ship and ordered the rising of the tempest. A new tyrant under the command of the Coiled One would emerge and all would wither before his pitiless armies.

Dahrem blinked and dismissed the delicious daydreams; there would be time for such fancies later when the skulls of his enemies lay piled about him. Now he must remember the role he had set himself and, with a shake of the head, became Dimlon again.

“Right,” Thomas was saying, facing the mongoose captain squarely, “time for some answers. I want to know exactly what’s going on and what is that thing of Mulligan’s anyway? All this talk of Dark Despoilers—we done heard that afore, yet we was told it were nowt but a legend from ancient times. Me an’ Woodj got a right to know and we won’t be fobbed off no more.”

Captain Chattan smiled faintly.

“There is much we both wish to learn,” he said, “but first let us sit and eat. Tales are digested better if they accompany more tangible nourishment. Come, we shall prepare a meal and you three shall sit with me.”

Thomas could not argue with that. He suddenly realised how hungry he was and agreed to wait a fraction longer to discover the answers to his nagging questions.

So, upon the shore, five fires were lit, made from the shattered wreckage of the Calliope that had already dried in the baking sun. Around the flickering flames, groups of warriors sat and from their mist enshrouded ship, the Chandi, provisions were fetched and cooked over the scorching heats.

Woodget, Thomas and Dimlon sat in the largest group of nine mongooses, which counted Captain Chattan and Karim amongst its number, and the fieldmouse hummed happily to himself as a great iron pot was filled with vegetables, herbs and wonderfully fragrant spices that tingled in his nostrils when he sniffed them.

As Thomas began their story, Chattan and the other warriors listened attentively, the captain halting him on occasion to question him more closely about some point or detail. When Thomas touched upon Simoon—the prophet, a curious expression flitted across the mongoose’s face but he made no comment and let the mouse continue. Thus the entire journey, from the skirmish upon the quayside, right to the destruction of the Calliope, was related and at the end of the tale Karim let out a low whistle of admiration.

“Then an agent of the Scale was indeed aboard your ship,” Chattan murmured. “It is clear to me that Mulligan was aware of this. No doubt he intended all along to entrust the fragment to you should anything befall him.”

“Now it’s your turn,” Thomas prompted. “Just what is going on?”

The captain stiffened and his face became grave. “A desperate road have you travelled,” he began, “and some horrors have you witnessed along the way. Yet they were but glimpses—the merest snatching glance at the great turmoil which confronts the present world. A corner of the fearful curtain which cloaks that evil from prying eyes have you twitched upon your voyage, but no one I fear is strong enough to behold all the secrets which it conceals.

“Yet know this and be glad that the sun is shining for the recounting of it—for the dark is no place to hear such nightmares.”

At that he paused, for the meal was ready to eat and Karim served it into bowls which he passed around the group.

Woodget’s pink nose thrilled at the aromatic scent which steamed from the stew, but he was too enthralled by Grattan’s words to attempt any sampling mouthful and he waited for him to resume.

“Whilst generations of your families have slept at peace in your remote, contented land,” the captain murmured, “a stinking blight has crept over the other regions of the earth and if it is not checked, one day it shall reach even your blissfully ignorant shores.”

A loud slurp interrupted him as Dimlon sucked on his spoon and the loathsome creature actually managed to blush before returning to the meal with more dainty manners, but all the while his ears were alert and he revelled in the discomfort the tale of his glorious brotherhood brought upon those who sat beside him.

“In secret has the peril grown down the uncounted ages,” Chattan told them, “spreading like a black, creeping fungus over the face of the land, but now openly does it go to war and our defences are found wanting. Can you but imagine a tenth of the evil that now rises in the East?”

“Are you really telling us that this snake god is still worshipped?” Thomas muttered sceptically. “Even the jerboa said it happened ages ago and I didn’t believe all that stuff he told us anyway. Demon serpents—it’s all rubbish isn’t it? Like the myths about Hobb and the two-headed ratty thing in Deptforth or wherever, back home.”

“Oh I don’t know, Tom,” Woodget broke in, blowing upon his first spoonful of stew to cool it. “Simoon was pretty convincin’—had me believin’, he did.”

The mongoose shook his head. “Doubt is ever a ready weapon of evil,” he declared to Thomas. “Only when it is too late does the cynic realise his folly and thus is he brought to ruination. Know now the truth of Suruth Scarophion. He whom we in Hara name Gorscarrigern—the Coiled One. You have said that Simoon the prophet told you some of the tale. Let my tongue relate it all and you will understand the events in which you have been embroiled.”

Thomas and Woodget put down their bowls and, although he was famished, Dahrem copied them. It was strange hearing the ancient scriptures from the mouth of this filthy snake-biter—but he swallowed his revulsion and assumed the same rapt expression as the others.

“Upon the steps of his most ghastly temple was Gorscarrigern finally assailed,” Chattan uttered. “Then, by the enchantments of the many worthy sorcerers and cunning folk that dwelt in that age of the world, his terrible might was bettered and into the tumbling ruin of his shrine did he flee. Then were the spells which knitted his repulsive flesh finally broken. His black blood was spilled and, caught in that gushing tide of death, the magicians and seers who had wielded the power of the Green were cruelly slain.”

“Like Mulligan...” Thomas breathed in consternation.

“Just so,” the mongoose starkly affirmed. “For later it was discovered that the few detestable disciples who survived the bloody battles of the time crept back into the unroofed temple when the hosts of the Green had departed, and from the reeking corruption of their slain master’s carcass they gathered up the venom. Undoubtedly, after all these ages they must still have great store, for the self-same poison was used upon the Irish nomad.”

“Then the Scales do exist,” Thomas whispered.

“Assuredly they do,” Chattan said. “Nothing is more certain to we who dwell in the Eastern Lands. For many years now we have known that the heathen creed were multiplying and baptising more newborn unto their evil cult. I fear that somewhere, in some secret, distant region a new temple now stands and the rites of Gorscarrigern continue under the auspices of the cruel priest and priestess.”

Narrowing his eyes until they became dark slivers, he lowered his voice as though enemies surrounded them and muttered, “Yet the worst horror I have still to tell. For now I speak of Mulligan’s burden and you too shall know of the dread that has plagued our thoughts for centuries.”

Woodget shifted uncomfortably. He was not certain that he wanted to know after all, but he couldn’t very well ask the captain to stop now. So, with his mouth dropping open and a chill creeping up his tail, he learned the awful truth about the glittering fragment and his flesh crawled as though a horde of ants was swarming beneath the skin.

“When Gorscarrigern had finally expired,” Chattan told them, “and the terror of his momentous corpse’s ghastly presence had dimmed, the bravest of the Green host which had surrounded the barren, scorched hill upon which the vast, unsanctified temple now stood in ruins, stole forth. Into that terrible place they crept, avoiding the rivers of venom which still flowed from the corrupting flesh of the gargantuan demon, and made search amongst the destruction for any members of the Coiled One’s retinue which might have survived.

“So it was they discovered a hidden stair that wound deep into the earth and countless dungeons and cavernous pits did they find. Then, housed within the bottommost grot was unearthed a hideous, great altar and there the most ancient and jealously-guarded secret of Gorscarrigern was finally revealed.

“Atop that pagan altar which flowed with hot fresh blood and the hearts of those sacrificed, was kept his last and greatest hope.

“Long had he laboured over it, instructing the countless high priests who served him down the years upon its construction, and the skill of thousands was poured into its making. From the bowels of the earth, from the bones of mountains and the flesh of stones was it crafted.

“Nine segments of precious jade, carved and polished by dedicated claws, did he command to be brought before him. Nine priceless pieces in tribute to the nine stars which burned in the heavens during the length of his blaspheming reign and which blaze still when his unquiet, banished spirit draws closest to the living plane.

“In the dark years of his hateful sovereignty, when his power was waxing, he weaved terrible spells about those fragments—instilling his inglorious might into each and every one.

“Then was gold gouged from deep mines and in the furnace of his throat he smelted it and spewed it over the ground for his wrights to work into the shapes of his malevolent desiring. So were the fragments of jade clad in gilded traceries, and when the puzzling pieces were brought together his devoted servants knew what they had built.”

“What was it?” Thomas urged.

Chattan held up the fragment that Mulligan had kept hidden for so long and everyone gazed at it, mesmerised yet repelled by its uncanny beauty.

“See the intricate golden fronds that twist and bud around the edge,” he said, tracing the shape with his finger and grimacing unconsciously. “Profane arts wrought them and the other eight pieces are similarly devised. But it is written that when the nine are brought together, the gold writhes with life and the carven images reach out and join until the final shape of Gorscarrigern’s unhallowed design stands whole again and is sealed with neither crack nor gap.”

Dahrem pretended to look afraid and in a quailing voice asked, “So what is this shape? What does Mulligan’s baublingsparklytrinket become—what is it a part of?”

“It is the hope of his followers,” the captain replied. “For before his flesh was vanquished, the Coiled One vowed to return. But only when the Green host discovered that infernal pit did they realise his threat was founded in truth.

“Upon the gore-dripping altar, guarded by the last of his adepts, they discovered the united fragments—and the joy of their victory was diminished.

“For there, nestling within the scarlet bodies and drenched in their hot, fresh blood was a sight to darken the doughtiest of spirits. At last the grand schemes of the Dark Despoiler were revealed to those outside his priesthood and in that desperate hour the ancestors of all free folk were mortally afraid.

“Fashioned in jade and covered with ornate patterns of furling gold was the object that would cheat them at the last—a great green and golden egg!”

“An egg?” Woodget cried. “How come—what fer?”

“From his withering corpse, the foul spirit of Gorscarrigern had meant to flee and into that glittering shell he no doubt purposed to enter and thus would his fleshly body be reborn into the miserable world—refreshed and seething with new, burning life.

“Yet his striving with the magicians upon the temple steps had weakened him more than he had bargained for, and their mastery had sent his dark soul out into the cold void from whence it originally came. So, when that final cavern was reached, the warriors of the Green host found that the egg was still empty—nurturing naught but stale air and the hopes of his remaining disciples.

“Then was the altar thrown down, but in the ensuing destruction the egg would break only into its nine elements and no hammer nor force of violence could smash them.

“To the upper airs were these invulnerable pieces taken and the decision was made to keep them separate and divided, for then the Coiled One could have no chance of returning.”

Chattan turned Mulligan’s secret treasure over in his paws and frowned deeply. “So it was,” he muttered. “Eight pieces were entrusted into the care of the mighty kings and generals who were gathered there and their armies bore them back to their cities in triumph. Yet little faith was put in the enduring strength of fortress walls, for time levels all strongholds and they knew that the influence of the fragments would speed the decay.

“Thus did they resolve that the ninth and largest piece of the egg should not remain in any lone place forever and into the custody of one faithful to the Green was it given. Such was the unending doom placed upon that loyal house; every nine years it was decreed that the fragment must be conveyed to another place of sanctuary—one year for each unhallowed element. So, throughout the tireless ages, that is what the descendants of that virtuous bloodline have done, voyaging across the globe, visiting each holy shrine in turn—bearing this glittering thing of dread.”

Thomas sucked his teeth and scratched his head, bewildered. “Are you telling us,” he began, “that Mulligan...”

“Mulligan was the last of that honourable ancestry,” Chattan said firmly, “heir to the terrible burden of the ninth fragment.”

Woodget stared down at the ground, immersed in a terrible rush of guilt for ever having doubted the Irish mouse’s motives. How could he have suspected him of stealing? Everything he had done since they had first met now became clear and he reproached himself bitterly.

“But,” Thomas uttered in a wavering voice, “you said that the Scale now have seven of these bits. Are they really trying to find them all?”

“They will not stop until the egg is reassembled and their demonic master is reborn,” the mongoose told him.

“Is that really possible?”

Chattan fixed him with his eyes. “Oh yes,” he answered in a sombre, sepulchral tone. “For though the unclean spirit of Gorscarrigern has long been exiled and shuttered from the world, there are times, when his constellation shines in the night and we brush close to the realms of the dead, when the way opens for him to return.”

“So where’s the eighth piece?” Thomas breathed.

Chattan glanced at Karim before answering. “In the city of Hara,” he said simply.

Thomas chewed his bottom lip. “Mulligan told us to go there,” he murmured.

“Indeed,” the captain nodded, “and when we set sail you shall accompany us aboard the Chandi. But now I have spoken long and the food is growing cold. Yet before we eat, I must return this foul thing unto its rightful custodian.”

Lifting the golden fragment, Chattan reached across and placed it in Woodget’s cringing paws.

“To you the Irish nomad entrusted this horrible legacy. Guard it well and let no member of the Scale discover your secret. To my city you were bidden to journey, yet what counsel you shall be given there, it is not my part to judge. May the Green watch over you, for in the terrible time to come I fear you will need his blessed protection.”

Woodget stared aghast at the gold-encrusted jade that sparkled in his grasp and with a look of fear upon his stricken face he gazed up at Thomas, whilst at his side, Dahrem Ruhar smiled slyly to himself.

11 - The City of Hara

In a subdued silence the meal was finally eaten, but neither Thomas nor Woodget were in any mood to savour the new and unfamiliar flavours of the eastern spices. They ate merely because they knew they had to; all thoughts of hunger had gone and any enjoyment they might have had was lost.

Both were too absorbed in what Captain Chattan had told them to pay attention to anything else. The world now appeared to be more full of shadows than before and they almost wished they had never met Mulligan. It was he who had opened the entrance to this dark and sinister world and they found themselves yearning to slam the door shut again and escape to some carefree land where none of these horrors had ever been heard of. Yet even as they considered this, they knew that should Suruth Scarophion ever return then nowhere would be a refuge from him.

Miserably, the mice emptied their bowls and stared dolefully into them as if the solution to their troubles might be hidden there.

Eventually Thomas lifted his eyes and, turning to the captain, said, “If we have to go to this city of yours, then we’d best make a start. The sooner Woodj and me get all this over and done with, the better.”

“And me!” Dahrem pleaded. “Don’t forget Dimmy—what’d he do stuck out here all on his lonesome? Let me come with you.”

”Come then!” Chattan declared, rising to his feet. “Karim, see that the fires are doused, whilst I take our honoured guests to the Chandi.”

Down the shore the captain strode, towards the waiting wall of mist and, with his gauntleted fingers, he beckoned the three mice to follow.

“Do not be afraid,” he told them as he stepped into the outlying wisps that flowed over the sands, “the fog is but a simple enchantment and will not harm you.”

In spite of his assurance, Thomas and Woodget ventured forward cautiously and Dahrem eyed the vapour with trepidation. What if the magic arts of this uncouth rabble were capable of detecting his true identity? Would that cloaking mist permit a member of the Scale to pass?

There was only one way to find out. Chattan was already becoming lost in the enshrouding fog, fading to a vague outline and so, with his paw clasped upon his satchel, Dahrem rushed forward and leapt after.

Thomas coughed nervously as the pale grey mouse was swallowed up by the obliterating cloud, then with a nod to Woodget they both entered the swirling mist and its furling fingers wrapped close about them.

Woodget shivered. It was cold inside that encircling fog, where the hot Cretan sun failed to penetrate and it was as though he had been struck by a sudden blindness. Only a dense, white blankness reared before him and at his side even Thomas’s sturdy shape was veiled and blurred.

In his paws Mulligan’s fragment grew chill, the gold glinted like ice and the pulsing light dimmed within the jade.

“I doesn’t like this, Tom,” the fieldmouse murmured, but his voice fell flat and dead against the billowing cloud.

“Don’t worry,” his friend uttered, although the sound seemed to come from a long distance away. “Just keep on walking.”

Woodget obeyed, faltering only when his toes found the water’s edge and he jumped back in alarm.

“It’s freezy!” he cried.

Thomas’s dim silhouette was a little way ahead of him. “You get used to it,” he promised, wading a little deeper into the water, “but I don’t think there’s much further to go. The mist’s breaking up here.”

Ignoring the goosebumps which prickled over his body, Woodget went splashing after until the waves were lapping against his middle then, suddenly, the fog parted and he emerged into the warm sunshine once more.

“Oaks and Ivy!” he declared, gazing around him in wonder.

Before him, bathed in a shaft of brilliant sunshine, Thomas stood spellbound by the sight that met his eyes and, beside him, Dahrem was similarly transfixed—yet envy and malice gnawed at his heart when he looked on the lovely spectacle unveiled before them.

Only Captain Chattan turned when the fieldmouse emerged from the mist and he grinned at him with a proud light twinkling in his dark eyes.

“Behold the Chandi,” he said.

The fog bank was in the form of a great, wide ring and in its centre, sitting with immeasurable grace and symmetry upon the glimmering sea was the most beautiful ship Woodget could ever have imagined.

A quarter of the size of the Calliope was she, for here was a galley built by the shipwrights of Hara, whose only crew were the folk of that great, fabled city.

White as winter frost were her shapely timbers, resembling an exquisite sculpture chipped entirely from a single and immense block of ice. Over her slender prow and bluff stem, an intricate, overlapping latticework of images, symbolizing the beneficent powers of the world, clustered—richly embellished with the brightest silver.

Two great emeralds which burned with a fire like the unstoppable, bursting might of spring, blazed in the eyes of the large and lifelike figurehead that was carved in the shape of the Green Mouse, and they shone brightly over the sea, guiding the Chandi through any waters, however fierce the weather or dark the night.

All around the elegant vessel, seeming to hem it within a fence of upraised spears, the long, lean oars pointed out and upwards and from the deck, like tall and stately trees, three masts rose into the clear blue sky. Each tapering trunk was bound with further examples of the silversmith’s art and from the ornate bands a delicate web of fine rigging was strung.

Yet surmounting all of this, and sitting atop the main mast, was a crescent moon, also of silver, and it sparkled and glittered above the rest of the ship like a fallen star, whose glare was so bright that it pained the eyes to look on.

“She’s beautiful,” Thomas marvelled. “Makes the Calliope look like a rusting bucket.”

Captain Chattan laughed, then he raised a tiny whistle to his lips and blew three short blasts upon it.

In response, from the galley there appeared a small rowing-boat which swiftly came towards them. At the oars of this craft there was another mongoose but this one wore no armour, only a light blue cape and a belt to which was attached a long, pearl handled knife.

“Hail, Mahesh!” Chattan declared. “See, I have brought three guests to accompany us on our return.”

When the rowing-boat pulled alongside the captain, its occupant stared intently at the mice but said nothing and merely bowed politely.

“Now my friends,” Chattan told them, “you must climb into this craft if you are to board our ship. Let me assist you.”

One by one the mice were helped into the rowing boat. First went Thomas, then Dahrem who made a ludicrous fuss as he scrambled over the side and nearly capsized it entirely before finally sitting down. Then, with Chattan’s aid, Woodget clambered in beside him and the captain joined them.

With an expert dip of one oar into the sea, the boat was whirled about and the serene shape of the Chandi grew larger as they swept towards it.

Into the centre of the open space, which lay concealed from all outside eyes within the mysterious bank of fog, they went and soon the white timbers of the galley’s smooth hull filled the mice’s vision until their little craft came to a halt with a gentle bump.

From the deck above, a rope ladder was lowered and Captain Chattan ascended it first in order to show them how it was done.

Eventually they were all standing upon the Chandi’s upper deck, where the rest of her crew were gathered in two regimented lines awaiting the return of their captain.

All wore blue capes about their shoulders and, to Thomas and Woodget’s surprise, they saw that, as well as mongooses, there was a complement of small, long-tailed creatures, with dark bars striping their fur, which they later discovered to be palm squirrels whose agility in the rigging was unparalleled.

Once he had introduced the three mice to the curious crew, Chattan gave instructions for the other rowing-boats to return to the shore and bring back Karim and the rest of his warriors.

“Well my young friends,” he beamed at his guests, “you are most welcome and the freedom of the ship is yours.”

Thomas and Woodget thanked him, and with an ingratiating grin fixed upon his face, Dahrem babbled idiotically.

“Splendiforouscruisydreadnoughtslooper!” he yapped, wagging his head up and down. “Lor—if only my Aunty Lily could see her Dimmy now!”

“What I don’t understand,” Thomas began, staring round at the enveloping mist, “is how you manage to see where you’re going?”

At that Captain Chattan laughed out loud. “The Chandi knows all waters,” he replied, “yet her mariners have many charts to consult if she should stray and there is still the sky above, for we steer for the most part by the stars.”

“But I still don’t see,” Thomas grumbled. “How do you know where the shore is? How do you avoid the rocks and reefs?”

The mongoose grinned. “When we set forth I shall show you,” he promised.

Just then Woodget, who had been scowling to himself as his thoughts troubled him, asked, “How long will it take afore we reach your city, Captain?”

“My land is far from here,” he replied, “yet the Chandi can travel with great speed when the wind fills her sails. If we are fortunate then the journey will not take much more than fifteen or sixteen days.”

“As long as that?” the fieldmouse murmured unhappily and, clutching the fragment, he wandered to a corner of the deck that was covered with a canopy of white silk and sat down upon a heap of cushions.

Chattan watched him then turned to Thomas who was standing with his head tilted right back, admiring the towering masts and shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.

“It is a difficult burden that has been given to your friend,” he said.

Thomas looked at him then peered over to where Woodget was sitting with his chin in his paws. “Oh it isn’t Mulligan’s treasure, nor what lies ahead that’s bothering Woodj,” he commented. “Once he says he’ll do something that’s it and no complaining. No, the Scale and all the dangers we might face are the furthest things from his mind at the moment. I know what’s bothering him, he figures that it’ll be at least a month before he can get home and see Bess again. Poor Woodj, if it wasn’t for me none of this would’ve happened and he’d still be back at home.”

“Do not condemn yourself too sternly,” the mongoose told him,” ’for I believe it was meant to be this way. Destiny has a way of guiding the paths of those she requires to do her bidding—if you had not led him to this point she would have found another method.”

“All the same,” Thomas shrugged, “I wish Mulligan had given me the fragment instead, then Woodj could’ve returned home straight away.”

Chattan’s eyes narrowed as he considered the little fieldmouse and he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “He would not have deserted you, even as you do not desert him.”

Listening to all that they had said, Dahrem suddenly bounded forward. “I’ll go sit with Woody!” he cried. “Dimmy can cheer him up.”

“Wait!” Thomas snapped, pulling the pale grey mouse back. “Let him be for a while.”

An obedient grin spread over Dahrem’s face but he raged inside and he wondered how he could bear to remain upon this hateful ship with the ninth fragment so tantalizingly close without being able to claim it.

“A chance will present itself,” his seditious mind thought, “a moment will come when the vigilance of these fools is wanting. Then shall I strike and the agonies of My Lord’s blood shall eat into them.”

But Dahrem was not permitted to dwell on these delightful musings, for Karim and the others were climbing aboard—their armour clattering and clanking as they hoisted themselves onto the deck.

Then Captain Chattan called for the anchor to be raised and the sails to be unfurled and Thomas watched the crew set about these duties with great interest, wondering if during the length of the voyage they could teach him some of their skills.

With a ruffling of the canvas overhead, the wind filled the sails and the mice saw that they were of the purest white and embroidered with a pattern of intertwining green leaves about the edge. Then, gracefully, with the surrounding mist moving with her—the Chandi began to skim through the water.

“Just think, Dimmy,” Thomas murmured excitedly to the evil creature at his side, “we’re setting off again, to a land I’ve only heard of in old tales, one of the most mysterious and fabulous places there is—India.”

A distinct sneer formed upon Dahrem’s face before he could stop himself, then he gave a theatrical sigh and said, “Yes, but who knows what might happen ’tween here an’ there?”

In the days that followed, the white and silver ship of Hara steered first towards Egypt and passed secretly through the great canal one early morning, like a shred of dawn mist.

Yet its crew and three passengers saw little of the lands that they voyaged past. Only the snowy walls of the enchanted fog which enveloped their vessel could they see, and the mice quickly tired of it.

But, keeping his promise to Thomas, Captain Chattan showed them how they could peer through the cloaking vapours if they so wished. To a place directly behind the figurehead he brought them, and where the light that shone from the emerald eyes touched the ethereal, obscuring curtain in front, they could see vague images as if they were gazing through a hazy window. Dim outlines of desert hills they saw and enormous figures hewn from stone, worn smooth by the scouring of thousands of years and abrasive, sand-filled winds.

But the temperature became horribly hot and both Thomas and Woodget were amazed that the mongooses could even contemplate doing any work, let alone pull on the oars when the breeze dropped—for all they were able to do was lie beneath the silken canopy, wiping the sweat from their foreheads and panting wearily.

Dahrem however was unaffected by the extreme heat. He was well accustomed to arid climes and with his heavy lidded eyes, he slyly spied the ways of his enemies, contemplating what his next action might be. To his overwhelming disappointment he soon realised that a constant vigil was kept upon the deck and even in the middle of the night five mongooses stood fore and aft—alert and watchful.

No, to consider taking the fragment by force whilst surrounded by this despised throng was an insane notion and he bided his time, amusing himself with thoughts of murder and hideous cruelty.

Down the Nile, the Chandi journeyed—then out into the Red Sea.

When the sun dipped below the rim of the enshrouding fog and the air became cooler, Thomas would wander around the galley and chat to the crew, learning from the squirrels the art of rope weaving and, with much merry laughter at his expense, how to hitch up the sails.

Sometimes Woodget accompanied him, and the fieldmouse excelled in climbing the rigging, but mostly he preferred to stand behind the figurehead and hear tales of the foreign lands they had passed from any who was willing to tell him. Occasionally the galley would drift over shoals of brightly coloured fish and once a porpoise delighted them all by leaping in and out of the mist, seeming to derive much amusement from the curious, chill cloud. For an entire afternoon, it travelled alongside the ship, calling up to the faces which gazed down upon it and emitting a high pitched chatter in its peculiar clicking voice. Then, after accompanying them for many miles, it gave a final call of farewell and plunged out through the fog—never to be seen again.

At night the temperature dropped dramatically and, when the starlight glimmered cold and white upon the deck, the captain would join his guests and tell them stories of his city. But it was Karim who brought the stories to life, colouring them with descriptions of those who dwelt there and Woodget’s homesickness ebbed a little as he looked forward to the prospect of visiting the fair sounding place.

Of Hara’s history and legends they learned much, how it was founded many ages ago in the deeps of the Coiled One’s reign by a wealthy warrior king who wished to build a stronghold in the mountains. But coming there, he beheld a vision of the Green and thereafter the monarch renounced his riches and power, and though his kin built the city around him, he remained on the mountain communing with the Green spirit until the day he died.

“Always in the years after,” Chattan continued, “has there been a Holy One—a sadhu, at the top of the thousand stairs. They are a most blessed order and the one who sits there now is counted amongst the wisest.”

“Some say he is the embodiment of the Green himself,” Karim put in. “The mother of my dear wife believes him to be a divine spirit clothed in mortal flesh, but then she is the sister of Nakir, the fruit merchant who once spent three months living in the banana trees to see if he could catch a glimpse of the Green spirit.”

“And did he?” chortled Thomas.

Karim pulled a woeful face. “Poor Nakir,” he murmured drily. “He eventually returned with a raving tale of whispering voices and insisted that the bananas spoke to each other in the night, plotting how to take their revenge upon the macaques who devoured them. Ah—you may scoff, my little friends, but to this day no one has ever seen Nakir eat a banana and he will not suffer the very name to be mentioned in his lunatic presence, neither does he sell them upon his stall.”

Woodget smiled, then became thoughtful. “Do you think your Holy One will know what to do with Mulligan’s fragment?” he asked.

Chattan nodded. “If the sadhu does not, then no one can,” he answered. “For he is the head of the Green Council and all revere his words—they are few and seldom, yet never without value.”

And so the days melted into weeks and across the Arabian Sea the Chandi voyaged. Then a day dawned when there was much excitement, for through the enchanted mist a distant coast had been sighted and their charts told them that there at last were the shores of their homeland.

For the rest of the morning the squirrels leapt about the rigging, ensuring that the sails caught every breath of wind to speed them on their way, and the vast strip of land upon the horizon gradually grew closer.

Standing behind the figurehead, Thomas, Woodget and Dahrem looked on the breathtaking sight in silence. It seemed as if a limitless continent of solid darkness was spreading over the sea, stemming the wide expanse of the immense waters, declaring an end to the deep’s untame realm and usurping it with another, equally wild and hazardous region.

“That is my home,” Captain Chattan’s voice breathed softly behind them, “a land most beloved in my heart. Never can my eyes look on her without great emotion stirring in my breast. Lovely is she, yet deadly to the unwary traveller. The forests are filled with monstrous beasts of tooth and talon, but the main peril creeps along the ground or swims through our rivers—even the sea writhes with them.”

“The Scale?” Woodget asked nervously, gripping a leather bag that Karim had given to him and in which he now kept the fragment.

“Not they,” Chattan assured, “yet in every country do the servants of Gorscarrigern have a foothold. I was speaking of the lesser serpents, though they can still maim or kill with fang and constriction. Yes, my homeland is plagued with such base creatures; in all places do they thrive, all perhaps save one.”

Breathing deeply, as if he was able to inhale the airs that flowed down from the as yet unseen mountains of his country, the mongoose half closed his eyes. “But in the haven of Hara,” he said, “the paradise that the Green fashioned in the beginning of all things has come to pass once more. No serpents stray too close to its outer walls, for the virtue of our city repels them and keeps their slithering evil at bay. That is well for they have ever been the instruments of the Scale, for that foul creed exert a horrible influence over them and can instruct them to do their bidding. If the power that sustains our fortress should ever perish then I tremble to think what would befall us.”

“But what if the forces of the Scale themselves attacked?” Thomas asked doubtfully. “Could you keep them out?”

“They have never tried,” came the pensive reply, “but our sentries would sight their approach before they came within many miles of Hara and our defences are strong.”

Dahrem raised his eyebrows and, summoning a casual tone, to disguise his true scorn, muttered, “I does feel a tidy lot safer knowin’ that.”

The Chandi made good progress and the great continent that spread over the waters slowly became a lush and verdant green and beyond the immense shores there began to form ghostly blue hints of forest-covered mountains.

By the late afternoon the galley had almost reached the coast and Chattan told the mice that they would soon enter the mouth of the Periyar River.

With the sun setting behind them, saturating the circling cloud with deep hues of crimson and rose, they could see its rays moving over the tall trees that covered the hills of the Western Ghats and Chattan declared that hidden deep within those steaming forests lay the stronghold of Hara.

With his chin resting upon his knuckles as he leaned on the carvings behind the figurehead, Thomas watched entranced as tall, spindly palm trees reared around them and a sultry breeze fanned into his face.

“Where’s Dimmy?” he asked, turning to Woodget. “He should see this. We’re finally here.”

The fieldmouse looked back to the galley’s stern and saw that their pale grey friend was slouched over the edge, seeming to stare glumly into the water that rippled in the Chandi’s wake.

“I reckon he’s feelin’ a mite homesick too,” he murmured. “Best leave him alone.”

Leaning upon the silvered stern, Dahrem Ruhar gazed down into the darkening waters that flowed into the estuary of the Periyar River, but not a single thought concerning the mythical life he had invented for Dimlon occupied his mind. No, at that precise moment he was taking a great risk and if the others had discovered him then his true hideous nature would certainly have been revealed.

A fierce golden light was burning in his eyes and his pupils had narrowed into needle-like slits once more, for down in the water, churning through the ship’s wake was a large and repulsive sea snake.

With lithe and powerful movements of its glistening, flat-tailed body, the serpent easily kept pace with the Chandi, yet from the waves it had raised its head and was gazing up at Dahrem—transfixed by the baleful forces that beat out from the mouse’s gleaming eyes.

“Hear me, little brother,” Dahrem hissed down to it, “seek out the disciples of Scarophion, tell them that the time to assail the walls of Hara has come at last. Tell them Dahrem Ruhar—the double-faced master of artifice—has sent you and that he will be waiting with a prize which will bring an end to the Green’s insipid and inglorious reign.”

The ugly head of the sea snake swayed from side to side as the instructions drove into its brain. Dahrem’s strength of will was overwhelming and the authority that rang in his repellent voice was absolute. The serpent was utterly his to command—even if he ordered it to destroy itself, it would obey without the slightest flicker of rebellion. Such was the vile art of Scarophion’s adepts. Control of all others was their black ambition, and with a jerk of his head, Dahrem dismissed this newly-devoted messenger.

Into the waves the snake dipped its head and, with a furious thrash of its body, sped quickly away.

A horrific leer formed on Dahrem’s face before the golden glow diminished in his eyes and he became Dimlon again.

When he returned to the others a bright half moon was shining in the heavens, turning the enshrouding mist to a milky silver and the air was filled with the strange calls of wild beasts and the alarming shrieks of native birds.

The sound of the sea, which had become so much a part of their lives over the past weeks, was now forgotten and left far behind as the noises of the jungle rose about the forested banks of the Periyar.

“I ain’t never seen trees like those,” Woodget was saying to Captain Chattan. “Them’s so dense and huge. Be black as pitch under that leafy roof. You’d not get me setting so much as a toe in there, and like as not I wouldn’t last more than a minute—what with tigers and spiders as big as me and more.”

Hemmed in on all sides by the lofty, jungle-clad hills, the river wound slowly southwards, glimmering like a mirrored thread through the darkness until the captain shouted an order and the galley turned mid-stream.

Towards a narrow tributary she veered, but it was a grim, dreary-looking place, overhung with drooping branches that formed a tunnel of leaf and bough and about which swarmed a choking cloud of mosquitoes.

Both Woodget and Thomas’s spirits sank as they understood that the Chandi was going to venture into that forbidding entrance, for no chink of moonlight filtered through the matted evergreen ceiling and it looked as like a monster’s lair as they could imagine.

“Here we press into the very deeps of the jungle,” Chattan told them, “and from here the secrecy of the concealing mist will hinder rather than aid us. Presently it shall thin and disperse and your view will be obscured no longer. Here our sails will be of no avail so our progress will be up to the strength of those who pull on the oars. But the way ahead is heavy with gloom and though we shall light the lamps, perhaps you would prefer to retire beneath the canopy, for the flames will draw many creatures to us and hungry insects may drop from the branches overhead.”

This unwelcome thought mortified Woodget and set him itching immediately, but he did not want to appear afraid and, as Thomas did not wish to miss any stage of their journey, the fieldmouse remained at his side.

Into the leafy cave mouth the galley sailed and for several, uncomfortable minutes the mosquitos flew thick and angrily about those on board, buzzing shrilly in Woodget’s ears, but he clamped his eyes and mouth shut and waited until they were clear of the awful swarm.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the surrounding mist was already dissolving and being stripped away by the gnarled boughs of drooping rhododendron trees that they journeyed beneath. Like wizened and arthritic crippled claws, the twigs snatched at the shredding vapour, capturing it within the knots of their branches until all of the enchanted fog had been torn away, and behind the Chandi it clung in tattered skeins over the gurgling water, resembling the mournful spectres of ancient willows.

Gazing around at the darkness which now pressed in around him, Woodget suddenly felt horribly visible to this hostile world. When Karim came striding up with a great silver lantern, the fieldmouse wanted to rush over and extinguish the light that was announcing their presence so brazenly and a tide of panic mounted within him.

“I really doesn’t like this,” he uttered miserably.

“Do not fear,” Chattan said kindly. “It is not far.”

Thomas took hold of his friend’s trembling paw and gave it a gentle squeeze, but at that moment a tremendous, trumpeting roar shook the very air and a chorus of agitated cries reverberated throughout the jungle.

“What be that?” Woodget whimpered in horror.

Hanging the lantern from a hook on the main mast, Karim chuckled. “Only the bellow of a bull elephant,” he laughed. “Old Tusker likes to hear his fine booming voice now and again, that is all.”

“An elephant,” Woodget echoed, his fears pushed aside. “I’d like to see one of them. Hey Dimmy, did you hear? There be elephants near here. Didn’t you want to take a statue of one back to your aunty? Now you can tell her you actually heard one!”

Dahrem looked at him blankly, as though he did not have the first idea what Woodget was saying, then he gave a gushing giggle and nodded enthusiastically.

For nearly an hour the galley journeyed through the tunnel of leaves and, with a growing sense of unease, the mice gradually became aware that they were being watched.

In the corner of his eye, Thomas thought he saw small figures dart through the branches and once Woodget caught a glimpse of two tiny eyes gleaming down at them.

Disturbed, they voiced their fears to Karim who grinned broadly and told them that what they had seen were only the scouting sentries of his city who observed everything that moved along this stretch of water.

Then, abruptly, the overhanging boughs cleared, the forest became less dense and, as they followed the narrow river around a twisting bend, both Woodget and Thomas let out gasps of wonder.

“There is Hara,” Chattan said proudly.

Surrounded by a prodigious, high wall that was fortified by lofty towers and whose smooth, lime-washed stones gleamed pale and white under the moon, a bare mountain of rock swung into view and climbed into the night—its jagged summit appearing to touch the vaulted heavens.

All about the slopes of that rearing peak clustered the dwellings of those who lived within the confines of the city walls, and though the buildings were still a great distance away, the passengers and crew of the Chandi could plainly see the cheering glow of the lighted windows and their cares were eased.

But over all there was a faint, livid glow that Thomas could not understand and when he questioned the mongoose about this, Chattan merely told him that he would see soon enough.

Ancient was the city of Hara, one of the true hallowed places upon the Earth—built in the deep shadows of the past to glorify the spirit of the Green and, as the river curved around further, Thomas and Woodget gazed up in dumbfounded amazement.

Above the winding streets and the huddled rooftops, a flight of steps had been cut into the mountainside and high that zig-zagging stair soared. At last it ascended to an incredible sight that was carved into the solid rock and which made Thomas and Woodget shake their heads in disbelief and gawp like idiots.

There, hewn into the mountain and towering over the city, was an image similar to the one which stared out from the prow of the Chandi—but a hundred times greater.

Many ages had the masons and sculptors of Hara toiled over the gargantuan spectacle that gazed across the jungle roof. For, looming above the city, like a guarding sentinel to inspire hope in the hearts of its people and dread into its enemies, was a magnificent, almost worshipful portrait of the Green Mouse.

To the East its graven eyes stared, forever locked within an expression of challenge, towards that place whence the threat of Gorscarrigern had first arisen.

Inside its open mouth a fire burned constantly, tended and fed by the daily gift of a stick of fuel from each of Hara’s inhabitants. Over the city the light of this beacon leaped and danced, steeping everything in a delicious warmth, yet above the flames a second source of illumination glimmered and glowed and it was this that had sparked Thomas’s curiosity.

Set in the middle of the immense, sculpted forehead of the momentous Green Mouse was a single green stone that Thomas reckoned must have been at least as tall as Chattan. The livid, bleak light which shone from its depths reached every corner of the city, and not even the furthest, cramped alley-way was free of its pervading light.

A look of comprehension appeared on Dahrem’s face when he saw it and though he detested the very sight of the mountain he stared at it unflinchingly.

But it was Woodget who put his thoughts into words.

“That light,” the fieldmouse whispered, “’tis the same as the one what shines in Mulligan’s fragment.”

Chattan nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Behind the jewel that sits upon our Green Lord’s brow there is a chamber gouged into the mountain and there the eighth piece has been kept these untold ages.”

“Yet not only were chisels used to forge his holy likeness,” Karim continued. “It is written that the enchanters who did battle with the Coiled One upon the steps of the Black Temple, and who perished in the spilling of his black blood, came to this place ere they took that desperate road and by their arts blessed the mountain and aided the masons in their labour.”

Chattan nodded. “So, of all the shrines which harboured such evil as lies inside the nine fragments,” he said, “our city has remained unharmed. Although outside its walls the jungle has become wild and filled with peril, we have been spared the fate that claimed the other sanctuaries.”

Then the vision of the mountain was denied them, for the galley had rowed up to the city’s walls and barring their way was a huge gate of iron set into an enormous stone archway that spanned the entire width of the river.

Flanking the sides of the arch were tall figures carved in stone depicting heroes and kings of old, and Woodget was intrigued to see that amongst the bold warriors and stern-looking mongooses were many images of mice.

But he did not have time to study the figures further, for above them, at the apex of the archway, there came a rusting squeak and a metal shutter was thrown open.

From a small window, a furry face was peering down at them—holding aloft a guttering candle.

“Who comes to Hara in the dead of night?” called the stranger.

Captain Chattan strode into the light of the silver lantern and in a loud, formal voice declared, “’Tis I, Chattan Giri—returned with the Chandi.”

“Speak the passwords,” demanded the gate warden.

“From Sagara, through Vana have we journeyed,” the captain sang out. “Tirtha we have passed and now we would seek Parvata.”

A peevish grunt echoed down from above and at the top of the archway the shutter was slammed shut once more.

“What be happening?” Woodget asked Karim.

The portly mongoose grinned. “That was Fikal Khatmal,” he replied, “a tree shrew. Most seriously does he take his duties, and so he ought for this is the only way to enter the city unless the walls are clambered and breached. Yet the small fellow has no humour in him—vinegar is sweeter than he. For thirty-seven years he has attended the Eastern Gate and seldom leaves his post. Yet my dear wife’s mother has heard that in all this time, Fikal has never bathed and I am thinking that if she is correct in this, then when his time is over, who will be brave enough to take the gate warden’s place? Not I for one, for they say that even the flies refuse to enter his quarters.”

But all further talk was hushed, for there came the sound of cogs and wheels being turned with a slow grating of rusted, scraping metal, followed by the rattling clink of heavy chains and, with a juddering motion, the iron bars of the gateway began to lift from the water.

Up, into the stone arch, the barrier was hoisted and beneath it the crew of the Chandi pulled on the silver-tipped oars and the galley journeyed back to the place where she was first constructed.

As the ship rowed into a tranquil, crescent-shaped harbour, the spectacle of the mountain reared once more before its passengers and crew and behind them the iron gateway came rattling back into the water with a resounding splash.

Woodget jumped and glanced back at the barricaded way, but Thomas was already staring about the harbour with great interest. It was crowded with many vessels; from those of comparable design to Chattan’s ship—although none were as large or as ornately embellished—down to the humblest river boat with awnings of woven straw.

“What a place,” was all he could find to say.

Presently the galley drew up alongside the quay and the mice saw that a second, inner wall surrounded the city, but this was not a smooth fortress of impenetrable, unscalable stone like the first—this obstacle was crusted and laden with a myriad carvings, all jostling for attention.

Whilst they tried to absorb the countless patterns and likenesses, Captain Chattan leapt ashore and, as was the custom of the Haran mariners, bowed in gratitude to his crew as they filed past him.

Bringing up the rear came Karim and the three passengers, and when he had thanked everyone for bringing the ship safely back to port, the captain led them all up to a pair of great wooden doors set into the ornate, inner wall and situated at the top of a wide flight of white marble steps.

Discs of beaten silver studded the imposing entrance but, even as they climbed the stairs to reach them, the doors swung open and the crew gave a great cheer—for the streets beyond were filled with their families and friends who rushed forward to meet them.

Joyous cries rang through the steeply sloping streets as mothers met sons, and the warrior husbands threw their arms about wives and children. Reunited families of palm squirrels leapt high into the air and above them, from high, garlanded balconies that were strung with many tiny, tinkling bells, marigold petals were thrown and they cascaded down like a sumptuous blizzard of golden snow.

Karim’s wide bulk was obliterated by a horde of eight youngsters who pounced upon him—squealing deliriously to see their father again.

His great, rumbling laughter rang throughout the adjoining streets and with two infants clambering onto his shoulders, another trying on his plumed helmet, three more squabbling over who could hold the spear and the remaining two tugging at his paws, the chubby mongoose was a joyful sight.

Thomas smiled as Karim threw one of his daughters into the air and caught her again in his powerful arms. Then Woodget nudged him and pointed at two females who stood waiting for the children to move aside. One was roughly the same age as the lieutenant, but the other was elderly and clucked to herself disapprovingly.

“That’ll be his ma-in-law,” the fieldmouse giggled.

But Thomas was looking around them at the unfamiliar buildings that towered over the steep and narrow street, admiring the detail of the carving. Nowhere was spared the skill of the sculptor; statues of every living creature covered all available space and in between them ran beguiling patterns or groupings of stone fruit and flowers.

What Thomas found peculiar however was that no sense of scale had been used, meaning that upon the crammed walls elephants were the same size as small birds and voles rubbed shoulders with rhinoceroses. It was one great, extravagant jumble of images, where even fanciful beings flourished in abundance. There were rats with six arms and two-headed leopards and he even discovered a three-eyed mouse amongst the thronging sculptures.

Thomas’s mind reeled at the thought of how long it must have taken to build. Even the steps on which the streets were founded were inlaid with gold—it was a staggering, ostentatious display and he thanked his stars that he had not missed it.

“Isn’t it glorious?” he shouted to Woodget above the din of the merrymaking crowd around them.

“I’ll never be able to describe it proper to Bess,” his friend replied. “What do you think, Dimmy?”

Dahrem had often heard of the magnificence of this much-vaunted stronghold of his enemies yet he had never believed half of it. Now, looking on the opulent grandeur, his malice boiled within him and he lusted to hurl down every stone and bring death to all these witless fools. Yet he found malicious satisfaction in the knowledge that the end of their precious city was already assured and he sniggered to think of how these winding streets would shortly overflow with blood.

“Oh,” he burbled, “a real bobby dazzlin’spanglydog’sdinner this is. I’m sure to buy Aunty summink realposhshutuptheneighbours here.”

“But first,” came Chattan’s voice behind them as he stepped out from the happy assembly, “we must climb the thousand steps to the Holy One. I have no doubt that he will wish to speak with you this night.”

“That suits me,” agreed Woodget. “Sooner he tells us he’ll take old Mulligan’s fragment off me the better. This is a fair city you got here, Captain, but I’d still prefer to sit out the rest of my days in the field back home.”

“Come then,” the mongoose instructed. “We shall leave the festivities and ascend.”

So, up the sloping streets the captain led them and gradually the mirthful sounds of the celebration they had left behind grew fainter. Always there was something new and wonderful to delight their eyes, whether it was a pretty little courtyard decked out with colourful hangings, a fragrant, flower-filled garden or the elfin gleam of small, multi-coloured and faceted glass lamps which were occasionally strung across the confined alleyways.

Each new turning brought them a further fresh perspective of the city and though their path led only upwards, the mice’s heads were soon confounded as to the way back and they knew they would never be able to retrace their route to the main doors without assistance.

High the spiralling way took them, and it was not long before their legs began to ache. Then, as they passed under a marble archway decorated with the likenesses of two pouncing tigers, the ornate dwellings suddenly came to an end and the bare mountainside rose before them.

“Here begin the thousand steps,” Chattan declared. “Far above, behind the fire that burns within the idol’s mouth, the Holy One sits.”

“Lordy!” Dahrem squeaked as he stared up at the stairs cut into the rock. “I’se breathless already. Dimmy won’t never make it up all them clamberers, he ain’t no billygoatingdanglebeardedbuttingbottom.”

“If you wish we can rest a while until you are recovered,” the mongoose suggested.

Dahrem shook his head emphatically. “No, no,” he insisted. “Dimmy can’t face it. You three go climb—I’ll stay here and wait till you come down. The very thought of goin’ so high up makes Dimmy’s head spin and his tummy go poorlysick.”

“Very well,” Chattan said, but he turned to the others and asked them if they desired to rest a moment.

“I don’t,” Thomas answered. “Let’s get on with it.”

Woodget agreed. Although his little legs did ache, he knew that of all of them it was he who had to go up there and speak with the Holy One.

“I doesn’t reckon this’ll take long, Dimmy,” he told Dahrem, “and we’ll be back as soon as ever we can. You sure you’ll be all right here on your own?”

“Course I will!” Dahrem announced. “I hasn’t got any think to be fritted of in this place. Safest I’ve felt in a long time I feels here. I might even have a nice little dozeynapper while you’re gone.”

And so Chattan, Thomas and Woodget set off up the thousand steps and as soon as they were out of sight behind a bank of solid rock, Dahrem whirled around and hared off back into the city, clutching his satchel and cackling to himself.

12 - The Holy One

It had been a long and strenuous climb, but eventually Thomas and Woodget found themselves at the summit of the thousand steps and were standing upon a wide, rocky ledge. Above them the huge stone face of the Green Mouse towered upwards and from the great open mouth, where the beacon fire constantly crackled, there blazed a bright flickering light which glinted in the mice’s fur and shone over the polished surface of Grattan’s armour.

With his heart pattering in his chest, Woodget gazed around him, leaning against the wall of sheer, solid rock to support his wobbling legs.

“That were some hike!” he exclaimed. “We sure are far up, Tom! Look, you can see clean over the forest from here.”

Thomas was too out of breath to answer and so, still puffing for air, he gave a feeble nod.

The top of the thousand steps afforded an excellent prospect of the city which shimmered way below. Its cramped, narrow ways and ornamented buildings seemed childishly small when viewed from that giddy altitude and Woodget’s head began to spin as he realised just how high they had climbed.

Wrenching his eyes away from the seemingly miniature rooftops, he fixed his gaze to a point beyond the outer defences where, from that towering height, the dark mass of the crowding jungle appeared no more than a wild, untended garden.

Taking deep breaths of the thin, warm air which flowed and eddied about the mountains, the fieldmouse’s sensitive nose tingled to the fragrance of sweet-scented burning wood. Lifting his face, he saw that from the idol’s great open mouth a plume of smoke was gently rising, floating high into the night where it became a livid green as it wafted before the glowing stone set into the sculpture’s brow. Then up it soared, winding around the craggy peak’s tapering spire—to drift and curl before the bright half moon.

“Come,” the mongoose told them when he saw they had regained their strength. “The Holy One will be waiting.”

From the ledge, a ramp of stone led up to the carved mouth and into this large, fire-lit cave where the beacon steadily burned, Captain Chattan led them.

With his paw before his face to shield him from the intense heats of the leaping flames, Woodget peeped around the large, light-filled cavern and saw that it had been shaped into a perfectly smooth dome. But ages of unrelenting, scorching smoke had smothered the stone with a thick mantle of soot that occasionally crumbled to the floor to form a soft, black carpet.

“Why don’t nobody never sweep up in here?” the fieldmouse asked. “It’s so deep it looks like I got me a pair of black socks on now.”

Chattan stared briefly into the flames before offering any reply. He put down his spear and unfastened the sword which hung at his waist and leaned it against the wall.

“The fire which burns here is sacred,” he eventually said in a reverent tone. “Since the founding of Hara, it has blazed here, springing from the very torch the first Holy One bore when he explored the mountain and beheld the vision of the Green. Should the beacon ever be utterly quenched then my city shall fail.

“But every nine years, in tune with the errand of your friend Mulligan, the mouth of the idol is cleansed—yet the soot is not discarded. When mixed with cement it is used in the strengthening of our homes and boundaries and even the ash which is raked from the heart of the flames has a purpose, for it is deemed by us to be a most holy substance.”

“What do you use that for?” Woodget asked.

“You shall see,” the mongoose answered, turning and stepping carefully through the down-like, sooty dust, and leading them to the rear of the cave where a low archway opened into a low passage which divided into two tunnels.

Thomas and Woodget glanced at them both; the left path descended into darkness but the other sloped upwards and was lit by lanterns suspended from the rocky ceiling.

“That way leads down through the mountain,” Chattan said as the mice peered into the blackness of the unlit tunnel, “into the silent tombs and out to the rear of the city. But let us not talk of cold graves or the chill marble effigies which lie down there. Our road leads us upward still, for the sadhu abides in a chamber above us, behind the eyes of the great likeness, within the very mind of the Green, if you will.”

Up the well-worn, twisting path he then took the mice until the winding way turned a final corner and ended abruptly. Before them a richly embroidered curtain was draped across the rock and Chattan cleared his throat to call out and announce their presence.

Yet before he could even open his mouth—a dry, wheezing voice barked out from the room beyond.

“Enter and be blessed, Chattan Giri.”

The mongoose hung his head respectfully and, with a glance to Thomas and Woodget that told them to follow him, he drew the ornate drapery aside and passed within.

After him the mice trailed and found themselves inside a small, sparsely furnished chamber that was entirely enclosed by the mountain—with no window or opening to the outside world and illuminated only by the light of one meagre lantern. Upon the floor, palm leaves were strewn and, piled in a corner, with flowers arranged around it, was a heap of grey ashes. Across one wall another tapestry had been hung, but that was the only decoration in the solitary hermitage, which did not even boast a table or any manner of chair.

Yet sitting in the middle of the bleak, secluded room, upon the ground with his legs crossed and his paws placed lightly upon his knees in an attitude of meditation, was the Holy One.

There he sat, the head of the Green Council, he who was counted amongst the wisest of all living creatures who, above all others, purported to know the will and intent of the Green spirit.

For many, many long years, since the building of the city in the dark age of Scarophion’s reign, a Holy One had resided in that very chamber and learned the ways and mind of the divine life-giver and he who occupied that most revered position in the time of Thomas’s youth was held in great esteem.

A great span of years, beyond the number accorded to lesser mortals was granted to those who were chosen for that most venerated calling, but it was a solitary existence which few could endure. When a Holy One assumed the exalted office he had to renounce his past and all former attachments to live in austere and dedicated isolation for the rest of his life, seeing his ministers only at times of trouble and seldom dispensing counsel even when it was desperately sought.

Such was the separate and estranged nature of the Holy One; all respected him and the folk of Hara were extremely proud of the present incumbent, yet not one of them envied his lonely, disciplined existence.

Now he sat in the centre of the room, he who had first climbed the thousand steps nearly three hundred years ago when the echoes of the horn which sounded the death of his predecessor were still resounding over the jungle, and to Woodget’s consternation he found that the sadhu’s eyes were fixed upon him.

The fieldmouse had never seen anyone like him before and so he stared straight back—greatly intrigued.

The head of the Green Council was a loris, a small kind of lemur. Once the fur that covered his withered, mottled flesh might have been a pale brown but now it was patchy and white and made even more startling by the application of ashes, for over every part of his body, the Holy One had rubbed and smeared the ash taken from the beacon fire—to purify him and bring him closer to the Green spirit.

As a pale, crouching phantom he appeared; a colourless, shrunken spectre that patiently sat through the endless passage of time, growing old with the mountain and wasting with the world.

Two great, saucer-round eyes, that were dimmed and clouded with age occupied most of his flat, white-whiskered face, and upon his crown, his long snowy hair had been wound into a tight ball which was encircled by a garland of dried marigolds and beneath the small, crabbed mouth a long wispy beard trailed onto the floor like a ghostly column of smoke.

Beneath the small, papery ears and around his bent shoulders, the Holy One wore a necklace, or mala, made of amber beads which symbolically protected him from the distracting influences of the outside world, but as far as Woodget could see the creature did not appear to have any neck. The gaunt head seemed to be attached directly to a stunted body from which two long arms, so emaciated that they resembled hairy sticks, sprouted—ending in wrinkled paws that clicked and crunched with rheumatism at the slightest movement.

The toll of prolonged years weighed heavily upon the withered creature’s back, for it was bowed and hunched and the upper body dwindled down to narrow, bony hips and a pair of thin, spindly legs.

When they had entered, the Holy One raised a paw and dangling from a cord that was bound about his scrawny wrist was a large rusted key that swung like a pendulum.

“Less than a moon has passed, Chattan,” his dry, whispering voice began as his staring eyes scrutinised the mongoose captain. “Hardly any time at all since you gainsaid my advice and took to your ship to follow in the wake of Kaliya—the golden ship of our enemies.”

The mongoose stiffened and Thomas realised that here were the smouldering embers of an old argument. Karim had hinted that their captain had set off after the marauding worshippers of Scarophion without the proper authority to do so and it was now clear that he had done this against the wishes of the Holy One.

“Yet our quest was not in vain,” Chattan protested, abandoning his deference and humility. “If we had not departed, then never would we have discovered the companions of the Irish nomad.”

Before he could say any more, the frail loris held up both paws.

“Please,” he murmured, gesturing for his guests to join him upon the floor, “sit with me. It pains my joints to have to stare up at you in this fashion.”

Chattan and the mice did as they were bid and the captain placed his fingertips upon his brow when he next addressed him as though he were at prayer.

“Sadhu,” he began in a calmer and more respectful manner. “I bring grave tidings...”

“I know all you have to say,” the Holy One interrupted. “The Temple of the Twelve Maidens has been defiled and the seventh fragment stolen. So the doom which we all dread creeps a step nearer. Did I not tell you it would be foolish to pursue the ship of the Scale? What did you achieve, Chattan Giri? Naught became of your wilful determination to prove my counsel false. The Shrine of Virbius was destroyed—I knew you could not prevent it.”

“Yet that is not all,” the captain continued. “Mulligan is slain but the ninth piece did not fall into the claws of the enemy.”

To his surprise, the Holy One chuckled softly to himself. “Chattan,” he muttered. “Do you think the sadhus of Hara have sat within this mountain these many years, blind and deaf to the turmoils of the world? I know all that has passed, more so than you do yourself. I may be old, Captain; my sinews might be shrivelled, my bones dry and brittle and when I walk I have need of a prop to support me—yet that does not signify that my mind has mouldered also.

“Every day the attendants come in here to fuss and ensure I am well, but I need them not and I know what is in their thoughts. Though they dissemble and are pretty of speech I can read them well enough. Always they wonder how much longer I can endure and marvel that I have not yet taken my place in the tombs under the mountain. But for the present sadhu of Hara there are still many years above the ground, perhaps even long after you have charged into your last battle, Chattan Giri—captain of the Chandi.

The mongoose stared remorsefully at the ground. “Forgive me, Sadhu,” he begged. “Always you have proven your great wisdom.”

“No, no, no,” the Holy One muttered, with a weary shake of the head. “There is naught to forgive. You have done well, Chattan, and may your heart rejoice in what you have accomplished, for indeed nowhere in my foresight did I glimpse these two most honoured guests from a distant land. So be at peace. You were fated to set forth and bring them here and perhaps other forces beyond my vision were at work.”

Slowly shifting his weight upon the ground, and wincing as if the movement caused him pain, the aged loris finally turned to the two mice and raised a paw to them in greeting.

“Hail to you, Master Stubbs,” he said, “and to you, Master Pipple—you must excuse the rantings of such a terrible beast as I. Age strips one of much and gracious manners are amongst the first to be lost. I ought to have welcomed you sooner but my over-ripe concern was directed solely upon the captain here. Now I remember the courtesies and crave your pardon.

“I am the sadhu of Hara, a seeker after truth and one who wishes to understand the mind of our noble Lord. I am well versed in all the unhappy misfortunes and ill chances that have dogged your unwary footsteps since the festivities of spring. You have deserved better than to be met by such a cantankerous old terror as I.”

Thomas fidgeted with his neckerchief, feeling a trifle awkward but the round eyes of the loris were trained upon Woodget and the fieldmouse was not at all comfortable under their intense inspection. It was as if the creature was weighing him up and delving into his mind—probing deep inside his thoughts and challenging him. Then, with a shiver, the unnerving sensation was over and the Holy One was smiling at him kindly.

“So fieldmouse,” he breathed. “Unto you the Irish nomad entrusted the terrible burden. A curious choice, yet Mulligan and his line were no less curious.”

“That’s why we be here,” Woodget said shyly. “Mister Mulligan told us to bring it to you.” Gingerly, he dragged the leather bag onto his knee and began untying the fastenings, but the Holy One stopped him with a click of the tongue and a stern expression furrowed the hoary face.

“No,” he said. “Do not bring out the fragment yet. Come, Chattan, I have need of your arm.”

The loris’s joints creaked and the gristle snapped in his hip, but eventually, with the mongoose’s help he rose to his feet.

“The time has come,” he declared, “for you to see that which few have ever gazed upon, the topmost chamber—where the Green Council first assembled long ago and where the burden of our city is bestowed.”

Across the room he went to where the second tapestry was hung, and with his gnarled paws he dragged it aside.

Beyond lay a dark stairway, worn down by the accumulated footfalls of every sadhu since the city was founded and, still clinging onto Chattan, the Holy One began to climb, closely followed by Thomas and Woodget.

At the top of the stone steps was a wooden door with sturdy iron hinges and from the keyhole of a large and secure lock there streamed a fine pencil of green light.

Woodget stared at it thoughtfully, then, from the cord which bound his wrist, the loris lifted the rusted key.

With a snap, the mechanism turned and when the Holy One pushed it, the door juddered open with as much creaking protest as his own arthritic joints.

At once a sudden radiance flooded out into the dark stairway, bathing everything in a ghastly, putrid light that chilled the blood in their veins and Woodget clutched his bag in astonishment, for it seemed to him that it gave a violent jerk and tried to work itself free of his paws.

Into this new chamber Chattan strode, followed by Thomas who noticed by the expression which had crept over the captain’s face that this was the first time he had ever ventured there. Then, behind them, clutching tightly to the bag’s leather straps, Woodget hurried after.

Like the inside of the idol’s mouth below the sadhu’s chamber, only far larger in size, this room had been carved into a perfect dome. Yet here the concave surface had been covered with enormous sheets of burnished bronze and, opposite the doorway where they all stood, the curved, gleaming wall was dominated by a great oval translucent stone. Then the mice understood that they were now standing behind the green jewel they had seen at the centre of the immense sculpture’s forehead.

Yet all eyes were drawn into the middle of the cavern, for there was a pool of gurgling water and, rearing like a glittering stalagmite from its centre, was a plinth of solid crystal—carved with mysterious symbols and spells of abatement and restraint. Surmounting this was a silver dish and Woodget let out a little gasp when he beheld the object which stood upon it.

Encased within a complex tracery of gold, was an irregular shaped piece of jade.

“Yes,” the Holy One declared. “Here is the eighth fragment of the shell Gorscarrigern made in the deeps of time. To Hara it was brought when the Dark Despoiler’s fleshly body was finally destroyed and here, wrapped about with such enchantments as were in the power of our ancestors, it has remained.”

“It’s just like Mulligan’s piece,” Thomas breathed.

“You are mistaken,” the loris corrected. “The ninth fragment which the Irish nomad bore is the largest of them all. That is why it could not remain in any one region permanently, for its corrupting influence would lay the land waste with more speed than all the others.

“Great was the hope in those early times after the Coiled One’s downfall; all thought the world was free at last—but one by one the sanctuaries decayed and the strongholds vanished into dust. All the groves and shining cities—crumbled and plundered by the heathen hordes. The hallowed places are lost and only we are left—one bright glint of light and reason. Here in this beleaguered corner of the world Hara stands alone and around us the darkness has returned.”

Woodget stared at the fragment and shuddered, for it was the source of the livid green light which filled the chamber and when he dragged his eyes away he found that the loris was studying him again.

“Now it is time, Master Pipple,” the Holy One said coaxingly. “Bring out the legacy of our departed friend Mulligan.”

Nervously, the fieldmouse unfastened the top of the bag and reached inside, closing his wary fingers about the cold treasure which the seafarer had given to him.

Into the repulsive glare the ninth fragment was lifted and at once the unwholesome radiance was doubled as from the gilded jade in Woodget’s paws a second brilliance welled up.

“Step a little closer to the pool,” the Holy One instructed. “I would have you witness the foul arts of our great enemy.”

Tentatively, Woodget moved towards the babbling water and with every movement, as the fragment in his grasp drew nearer to the one upon the plinth, he became aware that a horrific change was taking place.

Fearfully, he stared down and let out a frightened squeal.

“Woodj!” Thomas cried. “What is it?”

The fieldmouse turned a stricken face to him then held the fragment a little higher so that he could see and Thomas shrank away—sickened.

In the horrible light, to his disbelief and revulsion, he could see that the intricate golden latticework was actually moving. The twisting fronds and curling arabesques which covered the jade shell were rearing up and wriggling like glittering worms. It was as if they could sense that the eighth piece was near and were straining to reach it.

Thomas grimaced and his skin crawled, but then he saw that upon the silver dish, the other fragment was behaving exactly the same. Each segment of golden scrollwork was writhing abhorrently and the entwining patterns blindly groped the air—striving to join together and be one.

“It’s hideous!” Thomas blurted.

Hastily, the fieldmouse stuffed the object back into the bag and the harsh green light was immediately diminished. As he moved away from the pool, upon the plinth the eighth fragment ceased its frantic squirming and the golden designs returned to their former state and were motionless once more.

Captain Chattan folded his arms and nodded grimly. “So it is proven that the evil might of Gorscarrigern has not decreased over the ages—its potency is still strong.”

“The power of the living gold is certainly unaltered,” the Holy One muttered with a peculiar, almost delighted gleam in his large eyes.

“Was it ever in doubt?” the mongoose cried. “Never shall the world be free of his threatened return whilst the pieces remain in existence.”

Woodget finished tying up the bag and bit his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“What is to become of Mulligan’s fragment now?” he asked. “Tom and me have brought it to the city like I promised, but what next?”

The wizened loris took a deep, rattling breath and in a resolute voice announced. “The fragment shall abide here.”

“Here?” Chattan repeated in disbelief. “What are you saying, Sadhu? I know the lore of Gorscarrigern as well as any.”

The Holy One held up his paw and Chattan fell silent.

“If you would permit me to finish, Captain!” he said tersely. “You are not privy to all the schemes of the Green Council so you cannot comprehend our intent. I have said that the fragment shall remain here and so be it. There is yet a chance of which you are ignorant, but in which we have poured all our hopes.”

“What chance?” the mongoose asked and a trace of scorn crept into his voice. “This evil can never be vanquished, or do you purpose to send it back over the waters to the land of Greenwich? Would the Handmaiden of Orion receive it and keep it there forever—or until the forces of the Scale besiege and destroy her realm? I see no chance or hope in that.”

The aged creature glared back at him and the atmosphere in the chamber became charged with tension until at last the Holy One looked away.

Always Chattan pushed and strained to know more than his rank warranted and the sadhu knew that the mongoose would have to be dealt with cautiously. It would be a grave error of judgement to disclose too much to this obstinate captain, yet to deny him utterly might prove even more calamitous.

“A little only am I permitted to impart,” the loris finally murmured in response. “Did you not wonder why the Irish nomad was travelling to the Shrine of Virbius when it was not the appointed time? His journey was at my instigation. There at the temple he was to have met with one who might have put an end to our anxieties.

“You, yourself, have already touched upon it, Captain—when you spoke of a world free of this fear which plagues our existence. If but one of the fragments were to be destroyed then the Coiled One would forever be denied entry to this plane. Reflect on that. Is it not a most wondrous thought?”

Chattan frowned. “I do not understand,” he said stubbornly. “The pieces are impervious to any violence. Are you suggesting that it is now possible to damage that which was made in the dark years? Who is this one of whom you speak? How can you believe this unlikely claim?”

The shrivelled creature at his side shambled unaided towards the great oval stone set into the curved wall and gazed through its rippling translucence, down at the blurred, indistinct shapes and lights of the city that were vaguely visible far below.

“His name is already known to you,” he muttered, “and, I think, familiar to our young guests. Although I was pronounced head of the Council, he is not lesser than I—in fact in some ways his strength is the greater.”

Thomas glanced at Woodget and shrugged, but the eyes of the fieldmouse were sparkling.

The Holy One fingered the mala about his neck. “I speak of the wanderer of the ancient pathways,” he chanted, “obeah pilgrim, far seer, chanter of spellcraft, mage and prophet.”

“Simoon!” Woodget declared delightedly.

The Holy One nodded.

“That jerboa!” Thomas exclaimed incredulously. “But that’s ridiculous—why, he’s no more than a bogus fortune teller and common trickster!”

“There is nothing common about the treader of the forgotten track,” the Holy One reprimanded him. “You have seen only that which he has permitted you to see.”

Woodget clapped his paws excitedly. “I knowed it!” he cheered. “I knowed old Simoon was an honest-to-goodness magician! He bain’t no phoney after all, oh that do make me happy—on account of the fortune he told me.”

“Well even if he isn’t a sham,” Thomas said slowly, “there’s nothing he can do for anybody now. I saw Simoon get washed into the darkness when the Calliope went down.”

“Did you indeed?” the Holy One murmured, growing a little tired of Thomas’s doubts and objections.

Chattan narrowed his eyes. “Sadhu,” he said, “are you saying that Simoon is not drowned?”

“The briny deeps will never claim that one,” came the answer. “Our two visitors and the friend they have left at the bottom of the thousand steps—yes, I know all about him, they were not the only survivors of the tempest. Others escaped and Simoon was one of them.”

“Then we should have remained on Crete a while longer until we found him!” Chattan said. “If the jerboa has truly found a way to destroy the fragments he must be brought here without delay. I shall rouse my crew and set sail with the dawn to fetch him.”

The mongoose hurried past Thomas and Woodget but, with a commanding snarl, that was impossible to disobey, the Holy One called him back.

“Captain, Captain,” he said. “Always you steam ahead and go haring off without thinking. Simoon was not washed up onto the Greek shores. He is far from those waters now and is at present bound for Singapore.”

“Then I must go to him,” the mongoose exclaimed.

“No you will not,” the Holy One said tetchily. “When Simoon has done what he intends, and only then—he will come to us. He needs no one to convey him hither, certainly not you, Chattan Giri.”

The captain looked at the floor abashed. “I desire only to see our city delivered from the threat of the Scale,” he explained apologetically.

Listening to all that had been said, at that moment Thomas muttered sceptically, “What I don’t see, is why Simoon didn’t just go up to Mulligan when they were both on board the Calliope?”

To his dismay the Holy One’s response was alarming.

“Be silent!” he snapped, his frail frame trembling with anger. “The sadhu of Hara will not be questioned in this fashion. You should give praise that you are ignorant of the great matters which darken my waking thoughts and torment my dreams!”

Scowling, the loris drew a paw over his eyes, then mastered his temper and, when he was calm, chided himself for his harsh outburst.

“Again I crave your indulgence,” he said to Thomas, “but I am worn by this great care and an end is approaching which we have long looked for. Of the Council’s plan I can say no more. Here at the culmination of our designs it is vital no mistakes are made.”

Brightening a little, he shuffled forward and laid his paws upon Thomas’s shoulders. “Yet this much I can tell you, Master Stubbs. Your role in this hazardous undertaking is finished and you may depart for your home as soon as you are ready.”

Thomas looked at Woodget uncertainly and the Holy One knew what he was thinking.

“The fieldmouse is also liberated from all obligations,” he said. “Now, Master Pipple, the time has come for you to lay aside the burden Mulligan entrusted into your care. Place it here upon the floor, as far from the eighth fragment as is possible. It will be safe enough there. If we can but keep them from the clutches of the enemy a little while longer, until the constellation is come and gone then all will be well again, for a time at least—until the next appearance of the nine heralding stars.”

As he said this, the Holy One became lost in thought and an expression of overwhelming remorse settled within the deep lines that scored his age-ravaged face.

“Sadhu,” Chattan said, concerned. “Are you unwell?”

The loris peered at him as though through a mist then muttered thickly. “Alas, there are times when my mind remembers that it is joined to this decrepit body,” he explained.

“We have fatigued you,” the mongoose observed. “Come my friends, the audience is over. By your leave, Sadhu.”

“Go with blessings upon you,” the Holy One said. “Leave me here to meditate on the peril we all face. I shall make my own way back to my chamber.”

And so Thomas and Woodget bade the withered creature farewell and he thanked them for all that they had done.

“Will we see you again before we go back home?” the fieldmouse asked as he headed for the door.

“You may,” came the cryptic reply. “You may indeed see me before the end, Master Pipple.”

With that Woodget followed the others down the stairs and the Holy One was left alone in the glimmering room.

“What we have done is for the good of all,” he whispered to himself as he raised his shaking paws to the mala and began running the amber beads through his bony fingers. “We agreed it was the only solution. I cannot quail now. In the past my heart was resolved and so it must remain. Ignore the fears, expel the mercy from my breast. The decision is already made and sealed, it is only my part now to conclude it—once and for always.”

“Even though you know the cost?” came a sudden, but not unexpected, croaking voice from the doorway.

The Holy One turned and framed in the entrance was a tall, gangly shadow.

“Did you hear what was said?” he asked.

The figure nodded. “I did, I was standing at the foot of the stairs listening and hid when they returned. You did well to assuage the mongoose’s suspicions; I feared for a moment that he would ask more questions than you could answer.”

“Chattan is a valiant warrior,” the loris admitted sorrowfully, “and he loves this city above all else. If he so much as guessed the truth of our plans then he would have attempted to put a stop to them.”

“And that would never do, would it?” the rasping voice muttered.

“No,” the Holy One confessed. “Better that he knows naught of the carnage that is to come.”

Into the domed chamber the figure came and the glare of the eighth fragment glinted in the rat’s beady black eyes.

“It would’ve been better if you hadn’t dragged the jerboa into it,” he muttered. “It was a stupid risk telling the captain where he’d gone.”

“Chattan Giri is not a fool,” the loris said. “A sprinkling of the truth was the only way to alleviate his doubt. But you heard me, I made no mention that Simoon’s destination is where the Black Temple has been built once more. No doubt if I had, then the impulsive captain would have mustered our strength and set sail without delay—and we cannot afford to have our warriors alerted this night. Let them carouse a while longer and be lulled off their guard. Though even now my heart screams that I should warn them all and turn aside from this heinous path.”

“It’s a bit late to start dithering now,” the rat remarked.

The Holy One looked at him, then shook his head in a resigned manner.

“Yes, you are correct,” he said hollowly. “The lot is cast, there is now no turning back. The remaining two fragments are here waiting to be taken, and already the adept of the serpent, whom Chattan and the two mice unwittingly brought with them, has paid a murderous visit to the gate warden.”

The loris’ voice trailed off and he closed his eyes as a bitter tear trickled down his wrinkled face and disappeared into the fine whiskers of his beard.

“Fikal Khatmal lies slain,” he uttered hoarsely. “Even now his corpse is withering as the black blood of Gorscarrigern devours it. As I speak, Dahrem is operating the mechanism which raises the barrier from the river, leaving the harbour open to attack. This night the forces of the Scale will storm through the outer defences and assail the inner wall and find it undefended. I have given orders that the sentries should keep a vigil elsewhere. They do not question the wisdom of their sadhu, never has it proven false—not until now.”

The rat sucked his teeth and grunted. “If I’d known that grey mouse was an agent of Sarpedon,” he said, “I would have let him get to Mulligan sooner.”

“It would have changed nothing,” the loris answered, “except perhaps those two merry friends from a distant land might have been spared this horror, but the plundering of Hara was inevitable.”

“Be a proper night of slaughter,” the rat stated coldly.

“I know it,” the Holy One whispered with dread. “Help me to the steps, there is one final task I must complete. No, say nothing, the deed is mine to accomplish, this I determined from the beginning. Earlier this night I told Chattan that I might outlive him—that is a prediction I shall take great pleasure in disproving. I have betrayed my sacred trust and therefore go to my death gladly. My final act is to be one of ultimate treachery, and so the sooner I embrace death the better. Now, come!”

Reaching out his spindly paws, the ancient loris clasped the other’s strong arms and Jophet, the rat, helped him to the doorway.

Woodget stirred in his sleep then found himself wide awake and sitting up in a darkened room.

At first the unfamiliar surroundings confused him but, as he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, he heard the reassuring snores of Thomas rising from the other side of the bedchamber and he quickly recalled all that had happened since the audience with the Holy One.

On their return down the thousand steps, the mice and Chattan had discovered Dahrem waiting for them and, in the gabbling guise of Dimlon, he quizzed them on all that had taken place.

Passing back into the city streets the mongoose had offered them the hospitality of his home and they accepted gladly. The Giri household was a two-storied, lime-washed building with flowers spilling from the balconies and there they were greeted and made most welcome by a pretty mongoose maiden whom they learned was the captain’s sister.

After a bite of supper they mulled over all that had occurred, but it was not long before Woodget began to nod and so the guests were shown to their rooms.

Now the fieldmouse wondered what had awoken him, but he suspected that Thomas must have given an extra loud, piggish snore and he hoped he would remember it in the morning so that he could tease him.

It was a warm night, but Woodget snuggled back under the sheet and plumped up the pillow as he tried to get comfortable again and return to sleep.

After several restless minutes, to his annoyance, he was still wide awake and sitting up again, he hugged his knees.

“Must be all the excitement,” he murmured, careful not to disturb Thomas. “P’raps my poor noggin can’t quite believe that it really is over and soon I can head back home. Well, Woodget lad, you’ve seen a tidy bit more of this ’ere world than you ever thought was likely. Still, you’ll be a lot happier with one of your mum’s hot dinners inside you and a certain pretty paw a-holding yours.”

The fieldmouse twitched his whiskers; it was no use trying to get to sleep. His head was too stuffed with thoughts and he tutted in vexation.

“Maybe a little stroll and a breath or three of air will bring on the drowse,” he decided, and so he slid from the sheets and padded noiselessly over to the door.

Past the room where Dimlon was apparently sound asleep he pattered, then down the stairs and in a moment had slipped out of the house.

The night was still and strangely silent. No jungle noises were carried upon the slight breeze and the deserted city streets were engulfed in shadow. All the buildings were dark and blind. No cheery glow shone from the picturesque houses, all the windows were shuttered—their occupants deep in slumber and even the twinkling glass lamps which were strung overhead had burned themselves out.

Yet over all, the baleful light that shone out from the jewel, high upon the mountain, cast a ghastly sheen and Woodget’s meandering steps instinctively led him away from that reminder of his recent burden.

Down a narrow alley he wandered, keeping track of the way he had come so that he would not forget and spend the rest of the night lost in some remote quarter of this sprawling city.

His pace was slow, for he was not anxious to explore; the excursion was merely an effort to induce sleep, so he was able to study the buildings around him in detail and appreciate the skill of the folk who had built them.

It was undoubtedly the most beautiful and harmonious place in all the world and he felt content that he was soon to return home, for nowhere else could ever compare or match the wondrous city of Hara.

Just when he thought it was time to start retracing his steps, the sweet sound of running water came to his large ears and he determined to press a little further to discover its source.

Beneath an archway festooned with flowers he went and, to his delight, found himself standing in a charming, high-walled garden with a silver fountain in its centre—surrounded by trees that bore all manner of different fruits and from which dangled delicate wind chimes that jingled faintly in the breeze.

For some reason the ghastly pallor of the eighth fragment did not invade this pleasant area and over everything that grew there, the vines which covered the walls, the deliciously scented blooms, the heavily-laden trees, even the lichen that sprouted between the paving stones, shone the bright, milky radiance of the moon.

Stepping between the fruit trees, Woodget gazed at the water that flowed from the fountain. It was sparkling with frosty stars, catching and reflecting the moonlight and dappling the garden with soft, argent ripples.

Enchanted, and realizing that he was thirsty, the fieldmouse walked through the lush, daisy-speckled grass and cupped his paws, noticing as he bowed his head to drink that the fountain was fashioned into the shape of a horn of plenty.

The water was icy to the touch and he drew his breath sharply, yet when it passed his lips Woodget felt a marvellous peace and contentment flood through his being and he wiped his mouth, chuckling unaccountably.

“You are far from your field, little master.”

Woodget jumped and peered around him to see who had spoken.

The voice was rich and softly spoken, and though he was not afraid in that fair garden, the fieldmouse was perturbed that he was unable to find anyone nearby.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“Do you not know me?” came the silken reply and there was a quality in that voice that reached deep inside Woodget’s soul and instilled a sublime feeling of awe.

“Few have ever found their way to my garden,” the voice continued, “and fewer still have quenched their thirst at the fountain.”

Woodget glanced into the dim shadows behind the trees. “What you be hiding fer?” he called.

“On such a night as this even the greatest may hide and not be ashamed,” came the response. “For in the dark before the dawn, terrible deeds shall be committed and there is naught I can do to prevent them. My pity reaches out to the folk of this city and yet how can that avail them?”

“What does you mean?” Woodget asked, straining his eyes towards the farthest corner where he thought the owner of the voice was lurking. “What be going to happen?”

Around him, the leaves of the trees rustled upon the branches, the fruit quivered on the bough and the wind chimes jangled in discord.

“Much that I do already lament,” the velvet voice said forlornly. “The path of life is strewn with many perils and the folly of knowledge is one of the greatest dangers. Wisdom is a treacherous weapon, little master, for it is sundered from compassion. All too often the end of the journey gains more import than it should and the wise become blind to the road and the method of their passing.

“Thus it is here, and I mourn the act which will be done in my name. Remember this, you wanderer who have drunk at my fountain; it is the journey itself that matters and how you fare upon the road. If you falter and cannot gain the end of the path it is no failure. I am watching, I gather all unto me—whether they stumble or no.”

Woodget scratched his head. “Well I does want to get to the end of my journey,” he said, “’Ain’t nowt more important to me—I doesn’t know what you be blatherin’ on about and I doesn’t want to know neither.”

“Then perhaps there is hope for this land yet,” returned the voice and Woodget fancied that its sorrow was now tinged with gratitude.

“Well I can’t be stayin’ here for what’s left of the night, gabbin’ to someone who I can’t even see,” he declared. “Goodnight, whoever you is.”

“Till the next time we meet, little master.”

Shrugging, Woodget gave a cursory wave, stepped through the trees once more and passed under the flower-covered archway.

Behind him, within the deep shadows that lay beneath the rambling vine, a pair of gleaming, green eyes shimmered between the leaves and the garden suddenly burst into blossom, before fading into nothingness—returning to an empty, neglected courtyard where the faint jingling of wind chimes hung briefly upon the air before that too disappeared.

About the city the darkness deepened as storm clouds rolled across the stars and, from the depths of the jungle, there began the solemn beating of many drums.

13 - The Betrayal of Hara

Returning through the empty streets, Woodget plodded, his small shape dwarfed by the tall, sculpture-encrusted buildings which hemmed in the cramped, slanting ways. It was all so grand and marvellous but he doubted if he would ever learn who the figures that clustered around the doorways and upheld the balconies represented. Despite his travels and adventures he still felt lamentably rustic and untutored and, as he continued to wend his solitary way, a terrible sense of loneliness and insignificance overcame him.

Now the adventures were over and soon he would be returning home to startle and amaze Bess with his incredible tales. But he reflected that, in the years to come, these terrible events would fade into the past and be only a dim memory of his reckless youth which perhaps in time even he would begin to doubt as his mind became fuddled with age.

“Least I been a part of summat exciting and important,” he told himself. “Though I don’t s’pose I’ll ever know what’ll happen in the end. Not unless the enemy wins o’ course, then we’ll all find out right enough.”

In the ghostly light that beat from the jewel in the mountain, his russet-coloured fur was ashen grey but soon the shadows began to deepen as the moon was hidden behind the rolling clouds. Then Woodget’s sharp ears heard the distant, rhythmic pounding of drums and he wondered what they could mean.

To him the unceasing beat sounded unpleasant and even threatening, but perhaps such noises were commonplace here in this strange land. All the same, the desire to return to the Giri household became uppermost in his thoughts and he consciously quickened his pace.

Overhead, the dense clouds continued to drift and gather—blotting out the stars and circling about the craggy peak of the mountain.

“A nasty old storm’s a-brewing,” the fieldmouse muttered to himself and he considered that the relentless drumbeat might be a warning, telling everyone to beware the approaching severe weather.

Then the first rumbling of thunder boomed out over the jungle and beyond the city walls the horizon flared white with a crackle of lightning.

Woodget hastened down the sloping paths that led to Chattan’s dwelling and another flash exploded in the thick clouds above. For a blinding instant the city flickered beneath the harsh glare and the darkened streets were flooded with a shivering light.

At once the fieldmouse stumbled to a halt and he stared ahead in disbelief.

For an instant, revealed under the jagged lightning, he thought he had seen the frail and shambling figure of the Holy One hobbling slowly down the stepped street which led to the great doors of Hara’s inner defences. Then just as quickly the scene was engulfed in shadow and the fieldmouse tutted at his own credulous senses.

“You be a-dreamin’, Pipple,” he mumbled, “’twere only the lightning a-playing tricks. What would the likes of he be a-doing out tonight? You’d best get in afore the downpour starts.”

Hurriedly, he darted aside and found at last the home of Chattan and his sister. Pushing open the door, he silently crept inside and gingerly climbed the stairs.

A minute later, Woodget entered the room given to him and Thomas and, after fumbling around in the gloom then stubbing his toe on one of the bedposts, slipped back into bed.

“Where’ve you been?” asked a sleepy voice from the other cot.

“Only out for a walk and some fresh air,” the fieldmouse replied. “Did I wake ’ee Tom?”

“Probably,” his friend grumbled, “but I don’t mind, I was having horrible dreams. I thought we were back on the Calliope again—right in the middle of the storm.”

At that moment another dazzling bolt of lightning blistered from the skies and through the fenestrated shutters which covered the window there stabbed countless brilliant rays that punched into the room like shooting spears of intense white flame.

“Good grief!” Thomas exclaimed loudly, his face momentarily caught in silhouette before the darkness sprang back.

A second later there came the sound of heavy raindrops clattering on the roof slates as the deluge fell from the heavy clouds—followed by a tremendous clap of thunder.

Outside the bedchamber, across the landing, they heard footsteps, followed by a gentle knocking upon their door.

“Is all well with you my friends?” Chattan’s voice asked. “I heard you cry out.”

Woodget giggled. “That were just Tom being scared of the storm,” he answered.

“There is nothing to fear,” the captain’s calming voice told them. “Often the weather changes without warning. It will swiftly pass.”

“I was not scared!” Thomas hissed but Woodget was not listening.

“Well I done heard a warning,” he chirped. “I done heard them drums a-beating out yonder in the forest.”

At that, the door opened and Captain Chattan entered the mice’s room with a lighted candle in his paw which he lifted until its gentle beams played over the fieldmouse’s face.

“Drums?” he asked, a slight frown puckering the dark mask of fur around his eyes. “What do you speak of?”

“Afore, when I went out for a stroll,” Woodget answered, not liking the anxious tone that now rang in the captain’s voice, “there were a beatin’ an’ a bangin’ of drums.”

In the glimmering candle glow, Chattan’s face clouded with concern—his eyes now almost completely hidden beneath the deep scowl which furrowed his brow.

“You ought to have awoken me at once,” he said crossly. “Let us pray no evil will come of this. It may yet prove to be nothing and you were mistaken, but now my heart is uneasy and I must go seek out the sentries on watch to hear their tidings.”

“I’ll come with you,” Thomas suggested.

“And me,” added Woodget, feeling horribly guilty as if he had failed the trust the captain had placed in him.

The mongoose stared at them a moment then shook his head and bid them to remain.

“If there were indeed such drums as you claim,” he told the fieldmouse, seeing the nervous, anxious look on his little face and trying to reassure him, “then the guards would most certainly have sounded the trumpets to alert the city. “No, most likely it will prove to be no more than the beginnings of the storm which you heard. I will not be gone long and I would rather you were here in case the thunder awakens your friend Dimlon and my sister.”

With a nod to each of them, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

“Tom,” Woodget whimpered unhappily. “I knowed what thunder sounds like and what I heard weren’t that. Them were drums out there in the jungle—I be certain of it.”

Thomas clambered from his bed and opened the shutters, ignoring the rain that splashed into the room and fell onto the back of his head as he gazed down into the street.

“I hope you’re wrong Woodj,” he murmured. “For all our sakes.”

Girding a sword about his waist, Captain Chattan descended the stairs. There was no time to struggle back into his armour, so he simply wrapped a light blue cloak around his shoulders to ward off the worst of the rain, then out into the city he went.

The stepped streets were already flowing like mountain streams as the rain rapidly gushed down them and, glancing around him, the mongoose saw that here and there, in the surrounding buildings, lights began to glimmer in the windows as the thunder continued to crash overhead.

Turning left and cutting westward across the city, he ran—heading straight for the inner boundary wall and the nearest sentry tower.

Like a pale phantom, driven by the ravaging squall, his cloaked figure darted—the ankle-deep rainwater splashing wildly around him as he charged through the narrow, rushing rivers that the streets had become.

Then he saw it, the inner wall, carved with the images of countless exotic creatures and, rising high into the turbulent night, a round tower covered with a foliate pattern skilfully chiselled from stone and painted a warm orange, delineated with broad white lines.

Squinting up into the battering rain, he gazed at the high, covered ramparts, straining to see the sentries—but upon the silver-roofed platform at the topmost turret, not a soul was stirring.

With the thunder blasting in his ears, Chattan barged through the entrance at the base of the tower and glared around the guard room.

There, slumped across the mess table, fallen from stools or slouched against the walls, were over a dozen mongoose sentries and to his anger, each one was fast asleep.

In nearly every paw there was a drained goblet and upon the flagged floor were pools of spilt wine. Chattan ground his teeth together furiously—the guards were drunk.

Wrathfully he strode up to the table and slammed his fist down upon the board. With a shudder, a goblet leaped into the air, losing what was left of the wine it contained and, though the heads of the snoring mongooses jarred and jolted under the violence of the captain’s blow, not one of them stirred.

“Get up!” he bawled, cuffing the closest to him about the ears. “How dare you leave your posts! Up I say!”

The inebriated sentry did not move and, in a rage, Chattan kicked the stool from under him and the mongoose dropped heedlessly to the floor, his chin striking the ground with a horrible crack.

Yet still he was not roused and Chattan’s outrage turned icy cold as a dreadful suspicion formed in his mind.

With growing unease, he snatched up one of the goblets and sniffed it warily. Masked by the rich fruity scent it was impossible to tell, but his instincts told him that this was no ordinary intoxication which had overwhelmed the guards.

“How many others have supped this way tonight?” he asked aloud, staring accusingly at the drinking vessel as though it might answer. “How many other guardrooms bounding the city contain this same terrible scene? Are there no patrols outside our borders—are they lying drugged also?”

Frantically, he hurled the goblet to the floor and rushed to the spiralling steps that ascended to the lookout turret. Yet all the while his misgivings grew and he feared that the worst nightmare of all the folk who dwelt in Hara had at last become a reality.

Breathless, he lunged through the trapdoor which led to the high platform at the top of the tower and, with blinding spikes of lightning erupting in the troubled heavens all around him, flew to the western side which overlooked the wide, orchard-filled gulf between the outer defence and the inner boundary.

All was lost in the obscuring torrent of rain that lashed from above, but with every livid, electric flash, the horrific scene was finally burned in upon his senses.

Where the outer wall curved around, towards the crescent-shaped harbour, he beheld a great, golden ship come sailing under the stone archway.

About its hideously-shaped prow, the threads of storm which had survived the tangled passage of the overgrown river still rampaged, and bolts of energy went hissing into the water.

“Kaliya,” Chattan croaked in horror, “the ship of the Scale has come. It has passed the iron gateway—what treachery is this?”

A horde of ugly, yammering creatures filled the slave-worked vessel’s upper deck, and they jeered at the top of their raucous voices, brandishing bright swords, flaming torches and curved scimitars in the air—thirsty for blood and slaughter. But behind the ghastly figurehead, standing silent and sinister as he looked up at the reviled city which rose before them, was the cloaked figure of Gorscarrigern’s pitiless high priest.

Long had he waited for this moment and, closing his bright yellow eyes, he breathed deeply to savour the unholy rapture that consumed his sable soul.

At last the impregnable refuge of the vainglorious Green was about to fall and he let loose a shrill cackle of evil, gloating laughter.

High in the sentry tower, immovable as the marble sculptures which crowded the inner walls, all Captain Chattan could do was look on in despair.

Into the harbour the Kaliya came and the water boiled and steamed with her passing. At first Chattan thought that was merely because of the lightning which snaked about her glittering hull, but then he saw that dark shapes were swimming alongside and toiling in her putrid wake.

Under the stone arch poured a thousand disciples of the Dark Despoiler, with knives and daggers clenched in their teeth, and flanking them, churning their wriggling bodies through the frothing tumult was a seething mass of cobras, pythons and sea snakes—all under the high priest’s command.

Then, bringing up the rear, drifting like fallen, ulcerous trees, came fifty monstrous shapes whose bulging eyes barely skimmed the surface of the water. Into Gorscarrigern’s service the high priest had seduced the crocodiles of the Periyar River and their mighty tails pounded against the stonework of the archway as they streamed through the Haran outer defences.

For several minutes, the captain watched them, too aghast and stunned to move. Past the white fleet of the city the loathsome Kaliya sailed, ploughing straight through the small barges and straw-canopied river craft which were moored in her way until finally she reached the quay—coming to a juddering stop alongside the Chandi.

At that instant, the horror that had rooted Captain Chattan and frozen his limbs, suddenly thawed and he knew what had to be done. There was still a chance. If his folk could be roused then the inner walls might yet be defended.

Leaping to the turret’s central pillar he wrenched a silver tipped horn from its hook and, running to the eastern window which looked out onto the city, blew three piercing blasts upon it.

Gulping down the tempest’s pummelling air he put the instrument to his lips a second time and again the blaring notes trumpeted across the roof tops.

Then his thoughts flew to the main entrance. In their endeavour to break in, the Scale would launch their first attack upon those two great doors and his mind reeled as he tried to calculate how long they could withstand the battering fury before they were splintered and torn from their hinges.

Looking south he strove to see what was happening, but the entrance was hidden behind the huddled roofs, so, sounding the horn three times more, he leaped for the stairs and fled down them.

Through the guard room where the sentries still slept soundly, unaware of the peril that assailed the city, he hurtled. Then out into the pelting rain, noticing with scant satisfaction that several more lanterns had been lit in the surrounding windows, and in a fierce, shrieking voice he cried a further alarm.

“The Scale are here! The Scale are here! Awake folk of Hara! The hour we have long dreaded is upon us! We must fight!”

As he sped down the spouting, flooded streets those who had not partaken of the wine that night came scurrying out, with spears and bows in their trembling paws and frantically they charged after him to defend their city.

Startled and afraid, Thomas and Woodget had heard the horn blasting over the city and, peering from their window, had seen the captain go racing by in the street below.

Fearfully they scampered down the stairs and hurried outside, where they were quickly joined by the mongoose’s sister and, with a wicked sneer threatening to erupt onto his face at any moment—Dahrem.

The adept of Scarophion had remained awake throughout the night, listening to the approach of his hellish brotherhood and relishing every dark moment. Now he was eager to look on the slaughter that would ensue, but another more appealing thought loomed large in his malignant mind and so he determined to remain as Dimlon a little while longer.

“What’s happening?” Thomas cried to a nervous looking musk shrew that went puffing by with a quiver of arrows in one paw and a bow in the other.

“The enemy have come!” came the urgent, squeaking reply. “Nearly all our great warriors are drugged; only a handful and we smaller ones are left to defend the walls. Arm yourselves—come aid us.”

Thomas stared at Woodget then looked back at Sobhan.

“Are there any weapons in this house?” he asked grimly.

The mongoose maiden made no reply but raced indoors and returned, bearing a long knife for each of them and a sword of her own.

“Bless us!” Woodget whimpered, gripping the knife in his little paw and staring at the glinting blade.

“Stay by me, Woodj,” Thomas told him. “I’ll make sure those devils don’t get you.”

Into the streets they ran, joining the throng of frightened mice, shrews, marmots, voles and palm squirrels that rushed after Chattan.

Down toward the main entrance, the captain raced; already he could hear a squawking clamour of evil voices as the nightmarish host of Gorscarrigern leapt ashore and surged up the steps behind the fearsome menace of their High Priest.

With his heart hammering upon his ribs, the mongoose heard a thin, hideous cry cut through the thundering storm and the great doors reverberated with a thousand blows before an ominous silence fell that was followed by a single, horrible, shivering crash as a battering ram smashed against its silver-studded timbers.

It was not far now, Chattan thought, leaping through the deluged streets—around the next bend the gurgling thoroughfare dipped sharply and he would see the main entrance rise in the sloping distance.

With his saturated cloak flapping madly behind him and his sword in his fist, he hared around the corner—but the sight which met his eyes caused his bounding stride to falter and he slithered to a standstill.

A long, agonizing time it had taken him, and the journey had been slow and painful. Every brittle joint complained and pronounced its grinding protest but finally he was here.

Soaked to the mottled skin, leaning upon a short staff, his fine wispy beard hanging like dripping, bedraggled threads and his long, scrawny legs bowed almost as much as his back—was the Holy One.

Many years ago, he had resolved to do the deed which now lay before him and nothing, save a blade in the breast, could have stopped him now.

As Chattan and those who flowed into the street behind him watched, the ancient loris shuffled through the rushing flood-water, right up to the huge double doors.

“This cannot be,” Chattan breathed, staring at the scene, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing. Into his unblinking eyes drove the stinging rain but still he could not wrench his gaze from the awful, deranged spectacle and all around him the stricken crowd whispered in fear.

“What’s he doing?” Thomas muttered. “I don’t understand.”

Behind him Sobhan’s grip tightened on the hilt of her sword. “He is betraying us all,” she said bitterly.

Around her the other folk had also guessed what the Holy One intended, yet no one wanted to believe it.

The colossal doors of the city were barred by three stout and sturdy beams, but the manner of their release had been conceived by the same minds who constructed the iron barrier which spanned the river. Thus each of those mighty shafts could be drawn by the pulling of a single lever, positioned in the stone to the right of the entrance—and it was to this mechanism that the Holy One now shambled.

“NO!” Chattan yelled and he plunged down the stepped street with his sword raised, ready to strike down the aged sadhu if he had to.

But it was no use. He had not travelled half the distance when the wizened loris took hold of the operating lever in both bony paws and, summoning the last reserves of his withered strength, threw it down.

Iron wheels turned and the ages-old apparatus began to clank inside its stone housing.

With a blank expression upon his rain-stung face, the Holy One picked his way to a point directly behind the sweep of the doors and waited—waited—watching as the first of the massive beams were drawn across the timbers and slid into the gargantuan wall.

“He is in league with the Scale,” Chattan murmured wretchedly. “Our sadhu has surrendered us to the enemy!”

It was too late now to attempt to reach the entrance and reverse the mechanism, already the second beam had rumbled free of the doors and in a moment the third would follow.

Chattan thought wildly and strove to quell his panic. All that was left to them was battle, but of that he held little hope. Behind him the assembled city folk had crammed into the winding street like so many tightly squeezed sheep and he knew that if something was not done, then their foes would find them easy prey. They had wedged themselves into a confining space which would take precious time to clear and the captain’s dismay came close to mastering him.

But if they were to die then it would be as warriors and in a mad, screeching voice, he bawled.

“Make way there! Disperse the ranks. Take up your arms! We must stand and fight—this night shall decide all our fates. Into the jaws of death we are staring but let us not waver or show the hated foe any sign of fear.”

The faces that looked to him, however, were truly frightened. But there in the crowd, the captain saw a chubby, red-bearded countenance that was flushed with anger and he cried aloud in rejoicing.

“Karim!” the mongoose called. “A thousand blessings upon you! My heart soars to see that you did not drink of the wine this night.”

Through the crowd the lieutenant came, arrayed in his gleaming armour, wielding his spear and his sword and a defiant, deadly fire blazed in his eyes.

“Captain!” he bellowed. “My blade is yours to command. Many of the heathen filth shall fall before I do.”

Even as he said it, the third shaft was clear of the doors and with a dreadful creak they swung open.

All eyes were trained on the ever-widening space that lay between them, many small voices wailed with terror and knives went clattering to the ground as the horrific legions of the enemy were gradually revealed.

With torches held above their heads, the flames spitting in the rain, thousands of red-rimmed eyes were shining in amazement at the opening doors, fearing some unexpected trick. Poised outside the entrance, blinking suspiciously and licking their fangs, the assembled forces of the Scale were an abhorrent, petrifying sight.

Standing in an avenue of dagger-wielding creatures, a hundred great rats held a huge battering ram in their claws but their dribbling jaws lolled open at the sudden unbarring of the entrance and they stared upwards and about them for any hidden traps.

Behind them the first of the crocodiles had already clambered from the harbour and were glaring into the city, and all around their repulsive, scaly feet twisted a knot of venomous snakes whose reared heads were swaying from side to side as their tongues flicked in and out of their mouths to taste the unfamiliar airs.

But standing before the entire host of this pagan, murderous rabble, with a hood overshadowing his face, stood a figure of infinite menace and eventually all eyes, those of Hara and those of Scarophion’s followers, were drawn to look on him.

Hissing in the shade of his cowl, as the lightning blasted overhead, the High Priest peered across the threshold and looked on the frail form of the Holy One who stood there—shivering from the great age of his bones rather than from fear.

For over a minute the two sides, good and evil, regarded one another and not a voice uttered a word. Only the thunder and the noise of the teeming rain disturbed the silence. It was a balancing moment of fate—a destiny that had long been awaited by both forces, and the march of advancing doom was felt by everyone present.

Then, with an arrogant swagger, the High Priest strode forward until he was standing in front of the Holy One and the unnatural calm was shattered as his shrill voice mocked the ancient sadhu.

“Witless ape!” he shouted with a hissing scorn. “Your line has ended and the time of your false, grubbing deity is over. Death has found you out at last—you and the rest of your squalid rout who infest these dirty, middenish hovels!”

With that he raised his claws from the folds of his cloak and all saw that upon them he wore two golden talons.

“The Lord Suruth Scarophion is the one true god—may every unpledged mind tremble at his worshipful name!”

Screeching with hideous laughter he lashed out, but the loris did not flinch and when the poisoned blades ripped through his throat it was exposed and ready for them.

Like a rag doll, the Holy One crumpled to the floor but with his last breath he gave thanks and then perished—his blood mingling with the seething rain-water.

Crowing in ghastly delight the High Priest sprang aside and leapt onto the base of a nearby statue then, with a high-pitched yell, gave the order to attack.

At once the demonic army came charging through the entrance, whooping and screaming bloodthirsty oaths.

But before them, at the summit of the stepped thoroughfare, Captain Chattan had not been idle. Quickly he had made his plans and, whilst the High Priest was cackling with foul glee, he barked instructions to Karim.

At once the lieutenant led a division of spearbearing voles and the handful of other mongooses down an adjoining alleyway. Swiftly they hurried along, for the path wound around a block of two-storied buildings, emerging once more halfway down the sloping street, where they lay in ambush ready for the marauding devotees of the Serpent to go stampeding by.

Then Chattan ordered a detachment of squirrel archers to climb onto the balconies above and shoot at the enemy from there. The rest of his host he told to stand firm and beware the blades of their foes.

Yet that was all he had time to say, for the enemy was already upon them.

Up the stepped street the invading disciples of the Coiled One surged, slashing the lightning-rent night with their scimitars and shrieking with savage voices.

Into their berserking midst a hail of arrows fell from the bows of the palm squirrels who began leaping from balcony to balcony to evade the barrage of missiles and poisonous darts which immediately ensued. In the street below, ten of the fork-tailed devotees were slain, with feathered shafts buried deep in their necks and over the fallen bodies of their dead confederates the infernal horde rampaged—trampling and crushing the corpses under their relentless, screaming advance.

As a thickly-flowing tide of claw and cutlass, the hideous creatures came rioting up the thoroughfare and crashed viciously upon the city’s defenders.

Into the soft flesh of tree shrews their poisoned knives swiftly sank; arms were hacked from shoulders and faces raked with venom.

Yet Chattan was at the forefront of the assault and his slashing sword wove a barrier of steel that none could pass.

Before his bloodied blade seven great rats had already fallen, but more came leaping to take their place and their scimitars rang against the mongoose’s sword, chiming and clashing with powerful strokes—the razoring edges barely missing his face.

At his side the shrews were faring less successfully, and many died in the first horrific moments of the battle. But as soon as any breach was made in the Haran barricade which blocked the street, another of the small animals jumped in to replace the dead and their little swords proved just as deadly as the weapons of the enemy.

Several rows behind the main conflict, Thomas and Woodget prepared themselves for the onslaught as the ranks began to thin and the ferocious army of the Scale drew ever closer.

At their side, Dahrem eyed the brutal proceedings with intense interest—it was immensely satisfying to see the dark forces drench the marble stairs with blood and when they had charged through the entrance he had had to bite his tongue to prevent himself cheering. Yet now he was faced with a difficult problem and he sought for ways to solve it.

It was he who had discovered Mulligan’s fragment and he certainly wasn’t going to let anyone else steal the credit for that. But how could he flee to the mountain without being challenged?

“Dimmy’s mortalafearedfraidycat!” he whined piteously. “’He ain’t no soldier. He can’t stay here, he wants to go and hide in darkcubbyholeunderstairsorindraughtylofty. Let him go, let him through.”

“Keep the fool silent!” Chattan’s sister demanded, pushing forward to be at her brother’s side. “Behind our lines there are infants and babes in arms with more courage than he.”

Thomas glowered at the pale grey mouse. “Pipe down!” he shouted. “Where d’you think you could go anyway? There’s no escape from these horrors. Just do the best you can when your time comes.”

At that moment the evil host sent up a great clamouring as Karim sprang his ambush and, at the head of the mongooses and voles under his command, plunged deep into the right flank of the vile, scrambling horde.

The creatures dedicated to Scarophion shrieked in confusion as this unlooked-for hazard drove clean across the narrow street and those caught between the two Haran forces squealed in dread. Ahead of them Chattan and his sister were dealing out death to any who dared lunge at them and even those hateful little squeakers at their side were doing nasty damage with their sharp daggers. Now a new front had opened behind them, cutting them off from the rest of their kind and Karim’s tassled spear had already impaled four burly rats whilst his sword had hewn the arms off another and chopped the legs from under a sixth.

But their snarling panic at their perilous predicament only fuelled the fires of their madness and they threw themselves upon their enemies with more savagery than before.

Dodging the mongoose captain’s sweeping sword strokes, a large, slavering, black rat burst through the defending shrews, his claws raking their tender flesh as his snapping jaws bit out their throats. In a crimson-spattering instant he was behind the front line and, standing in his ravaging path, gazing up into his hate-filled eyes, was Woodget’s small and frightened form.

With a thrash of his forked tail and a curdling screech of delight, the brute dived straight for the fieldmouse’s head, his claws outstretched—ready to rend it from his body.

Woodget squealed and woefully held up his knife, but before he knew what was happening, Thomas dragged him aside and grimly took his place.

Yelling hideously, the black rat cannoned into him and Master Stubbs collapsed beneath the crushing weight of the vile-smelling beast, yet even as the venom-soaked claws came reaching for his neck, he thrust up with his dagger and pushed the blade clean through the fiend’s windpipe.

A horrific, bubbling gurgle issued from the beast’s choking maw but to Thomas’s dismay his stroke had not been fatal. Rearing off him, the rat grasped the knife’s hilt, wrenched it from his throat and a fount of hot blood went flowing over his matted fur.

Groggy, but inflamed with cruel purpose, the creature raised Thomas’s own knife and, lying sprawled and winded upon the flooding street, the mouse knew the end had come.

“You leave him be! You scaly heathen scurvy scum!” Woodget’s high voice shouted, his fright blossoming to courageous fury and finding Mulligan’s favourite curses the only words suitable in such a dreadful plight.

Baring his teeth and gripping his own knife vehemently, he pounced upon the rat’s upraised arm, jabbing him in the side and biting the scabby skin until he could taste the unclean blood in his mouth.

Enraged, the wounded creature flung its arm wide and the fieldmouse went spinning through the rain-lashed air, landing bruised but otherwise unharmed, way up the street and a dozen anxious paws helped him to stand.

But it was too late. The rat was now towering over Thomas and there was nothing his friend could do to save him.

Then, to Woodget’s astonishment, Dimlon jumped to Thomas’s aid, flourishing a silver-hilted sword retrieved from one of the fallen shrews.

“Keep back!” the pale grey mouse blurted.

At first the rat chuckled darkly, and then a strange, shocked expression struck his ugly face as he leered at Dahrem and he blinked in bewilderment. Then his lips trembled and he opened his jaws to speak.

But whatever he had been about to utter was swiftly curtailed, for the treacherous mouse squeaked in mock horror and swiped the sword across the rat’s neck. A moment later, a lifeless body slumped to the ground as the severed head went tumbling down the street to bounce back into the throng of his comrades.

“The villain were goin’ to get us!” Dahrem sobbed, throwing the sword down as though it, and what he had done, appalled him.

Thomas scrambled to his feet and muttered his thanks, as Woodget came running up to fling his arms about them both.

“You was so brave, Dimmy!” he cried admiringly. “Weren’t he Tom?”

But Thomas recalled the last expression that had formed upon the rat’s face as he peered at their companion. It was not that of a callous, taunting killer, but fear had registered there and, unless Thomas was mistaken, a look of recognition.

Around them however, the uproar continued to blare and, unable to dwell on the ghastly experience, Thomas picked up the sword Dimlon had cast aside and dashed across the rat’s headless body to stop up the breach. But the number of hellish disciples trapped between Chattan and Karim was dwindling and overhead the squirrels’ arrows found many foul targets.

Yet their fortune could not last much longer. Behind Karim the remaining host of the Dark Despoiler were too great a number to hold back and around the stout lieutenant many of the mongooses in his company had been killed and the complement of voles had diminished to under twenty.

Yet despite the odds, Chattan and Karim met across a mass of corpses and with renewed vigour they meted out death to all who came.

Beside her brother, Sobhan fought as well as any warrior but when her sword crashed against a heavy axe wielded by a yellow-throated weasel the steel blade splintered in a flurry of sparks—yet she drove the remaining shard into his breast and he toppled backwards bowling over those who yammered behind him.

Desperately, Sobhan searched for another weapon but Chattan pushed her back.

“We cannot win this!” he cried. “They are too many.”

“I will die at your side!” she shouted defiantly, wrenching a scimitar from a dead rat’s claw.

Her brother glared round at her. “You would do better to spend the last moments of your life elsewhere!” he yelled. “See to the city’s children. Take them from this peril if you can—you might yet escape this foulness.”

The maiden stared at him but even in the heat of that awful moment saw the wisdom of his counsel. Blinking away her tears, she sought for words but there were none to express this parting and so with a brisk movement, she touched his arm in farewell then disappeared behind the lines and hurried back up the sloping street.

Plunging his spear deep into a powerfully-built mole’s gullet, Karim heard his captain’s instructions and prayed that his own infants would be spared the violence of this night. To allow them time to escape was the only thought that consumed him but even if they did, what manner of world would they find? When the nine stars next appeared in the sky to herald Gorscarrigern’s approach, his loathsome servants would possess every fragment of his diabolic shell and into the living plane would his soul be reborn.

Bellowing like a trumpeting elephant as he battled on, Karim shouted to his captain.

“This night all our hopes shall fail!” he boomed. “But you could still cheat the designs of the Coiled One.”

“I?” Chattan answered, splitting the skull of a ravening rat. “What riddles do you speak, Karim? Against this filth we cannot prevail.”

“Maybe,” the lieutenant barked back. “Yet what of the evil treasure they have come to claim? Are we to let them steal it so easily?”

“The fragments!” Chattan cried. In the height of the battle he had given no thought to the remaining pieces. “They must be taken from this place!” he roared. “Yet who can I send to bear them away?”

Karim staggered backwards as a cudgel rammed into his breastplate but he rallied at once and the club dropped to the ground still clutched in a dismembered fist.

“None!” he bawled in answer to his captain’s demand. “So send yourself and take the three mice with you if all still live. Their fates are bound up with the fragments, that much is plain to me.”

“I shall not desert and flee the battle!”

Just then, agonizing screams issued from the attacking host as through the gaping entrance lumbered the largest crocodile and up the narrow street it came trudging, heedless of the creatures in its determined, destroying path—squashing everything beneath its pounding, splayed feet.

With its immense, tooth-filled jaws it callously scooped up seven shrieking cult members and devoured them with a toss of its head.

Standing a safe distance away—upon the base of a statue, the High Priest rubbed his claws together triumphantly. The lesser servants were dispensable, they had served their purpose. Now the inhabitants of Hara would see that their paltry struggles were in vain and with the unholy power that was in him he spurred the huge, grotesque reptile on.

Chattan drew a paw over his brow as the grinning apparition advanced. Then, at the crocodile’s side, he saw the heads of fifty serpents rear above the screeching mob, their lidless eyes fixed upon the animals of the city and, as one, the cobras stretched wide their eye-patterned hoods.

“We are lost,” Chattan muttered.

Karim whirled around and shook him by the shoulders. “Then keep our memory alive!” he begged. “Gladly will I give my life if I can hope you have denied them what they wish.”

The captain looked at him. Already the ground was shaking beneath the approach of the great crocodile and the cobras were spitting their venom at the squirrels who quailed upon the balconies before dropping like ripe fruit into their tangling midst.

“In the Green hereafter, your place shall be set high, Karim Bihari,” Chattan said quickly.

The lieutenant held his gaze then nodded briskly. “Go now,” he instructed. “I will hold them for as long as I am able.”

Swiftly, Chattan leaped from the front line and shoved through the squealing shrews behind, calling for Thomas, Woodget and Dimlon.

Skulking a short distance away from the battle, Dahrem heard the urgent summons above the rumbling thunder and splashed forward to bring the other two from the fray.

Thomas was proving to be most proficient with the sword, and with every parrying thrust or slicing blow, his skill and confidence soared.

Hovering behind him, feeling completely inadequate and miserably insignificant, Woodget hopped from side to side, brandishing his knife in readiness. But no further incursions into the defences had as yet been made and his courage was rapidly subsiding as he beheld the terrible abhorrence which came marching towards them.

“Quick!” Dahrem cried to him, pulling on the fieldmouse’s arm. “Mongoosiecaptain calls for us. Listen! Tell Tommy!”

Woodget whisked about and saw Chattan beckoning to them feverishly.

“Tom! Tom!” Woodget squeaked. “This way! This way!”

Locked in combat with the enemy, Master Stubbs did not hear his friend. His arm was tiring and, with anguish, he wondered how long he could continue. He too had glimpsed the advancing nightmare but was too afraid to look upon it fully. Better to swipe and hew the rats and weasels before him until he perished by their swiping claws than contemplate such a horrendous apparition.

“Tom!” Woodget cried again.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder.

“The captain needs us!” the fieldmouse called.

Master Stubbs gave a final, scything sweep with his sword then sprang back and his place was immediately filled by two valiant musk shrews.

“Hurry!” Woodget urged, following Chattan’s retreating figure through the petrified crowd.

At his side Dahrem pranced excitedly, babbling in Dimmy’s plaintive tones about how glad he was to be leaving this awful place.

Hurriedly they caught up with the mongoose captain and, sombrely, Chattan told them where they were headed.

“We go to the mountain,” he said. “Though the city of Hara might flounder, the forces of the Scale must never take the fragments. Here at the end we shall deny them the sweetness of their unhallowed victory.”

With his satchel slung about his shoulder, Dahrem said nothing but the hour of his greatness was fast approaching and when Suruth Scarophion was reborn into the world, it would be due to him.

From the grisly scene of the battle, through the pouring, lashing rain, the mice and Chattan Giri raced, vanishing into the storm-drenched darkness—ascending the terraced paths that wound about the slopes of the mountain.

Below them, within the beleaguered street, the repellent form of the crocodile finally reached the Haran forces and with a croaking hiss, it swung its massive head from side to side, shattering the bones of those not quick enough to get out of its way. Then, the enormous mouth gaped open and into its crunching jaws it shovelled a dozen, shrieking defenders.

Only one stood his ground, undaunted by the oncoming terror and when the shadow engulfed him, Karim Bihari called upon the Green for aid. Then as the reeking, dripping maw yawned closer, he leaped over the gore-gouted teeth and, standing upon the scarlet-stained, fleshy tongue, rammed his spear straight into the monstrous reptile’s throat.

Braying in torment, the horror thrashed wildly, its mighty tail crashing into the ornate buildings—smashing through the stone sculptures and demolishing the houses.

Around its flailing torso, nearly a hundred followers of the Serpent were utterly crushed and in the ruin of the toppling masonry, countless more perished.

Scrabbling at its own jaws, the crocodile flipped over, exposing the pale flesh of its belly and, seizing their chance, the surviving archers strung the last arrows to their bows and took aim.

In the volley of feathered shafts that followed, the monster screamed once more, then his struggles ended. But from his lolling jaws the broken body of Karim Bihari tumbled—his pulverised armour twisted and rent about his mangled corpse.

From his vantage point upon the base of a six-armed statue, the High Priest looked on the horrific scene with no emotion save amusement and summoned through the entrance further abominations of scaly hide, who went waddling up the death-strewn street, clambering over the carcass of their vanquished brother.

At last the age-old city of the Green was defeated and the time had come to claim the eighth fragment for the glory of his master. So, leaving the main body of his infernal host to finish slaughtering the inhabitants, he took a legion of rats and poisonous snakes and, with his dark cloak whirling about him, set off towards the mountain.

Up the thousand steps Chattan and the mice had hastened, not pausing for breath nor to glance down at the turmoil which ravaged the city streets below. The steep mountain way had become exceedingly treacherous, for the rain cascaded down the stone stair, forming a rushing waterfall, causing their feet to slither and slip and many times Thomas and the others lost their footing.

Now, with the fierce gale plucking and dragging at their fur, those dangers were behind them, for they had reached the summit where the rocky ledge led to the great carving’s open mouth.

But within the sooty cavern all was dark, for the sacred fire had been extinguished by the gusting rains of the unnatural storm. The mouth of the Green Mouse’s likeness was flooded with water and the ash floated in a thick, charred scum upon its turgid surface.

Through this, Chattan waded and the mice followed him to the rear of the cave where the passage divided into two tunnels, one leading up to the Holy One’s chamber and the other plunging into darkness.

“The downward road must we take,” the mongoose told them. “It leads deep into the mountain’s roots, through the catacombs—then out beyond the inner boundary. There we must trust to providence and avoid capture, for what we shall carry from here this night is beyond price.”

“The fragments,” Thomas muttered. “If you stay here on watch, me and Woodj’ll go and fetch them.”

Chattan drew his sword once more and shook his head. “No, Master Thomas,” he told him. “You have proven your skill with a blade and must remain with me—lest the Scale are swift in pursuit. We must buy time for the fragments at the price of our own lives if need be.”

“S’all right Tom,” the fieldmouse said. “I can manage on me own.”

The mongoose narrowed his dark eyes. “One fragment is burden enough,” he warned. “Dimlon can go with you. Give the other evil to him and be as quick as you can. There is no time to waste.”

“Oh no,” Dahrem nodded deliriously. “Dimmy not dawdle—he help Woody gladly.”

And so the fieldmouse scurried up the spiralling path that led to the windowless chamber above, and at his side, with his black heart rejoicing in the knowledge that the two precious fragments would soon be his, went the adept of Sarpedon.

When they had gone, the mongoose ran back into the flooded fire chamber and peered out of the stone mouth—to look down upon the troubled city.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he saw that as yet, the thousand steps were clear and he turned to Thomas who came splashing after him.

“It is better than I hoped,” he said. “We have put a good distance between ourselves and the Scale. If we can but keep the pieces from their possession a little longer, the next conjunction will pass harmlessly.”

“I don’t fancy turning into another Mulligan,” Thomas muttered despondently. “Flitting across the globe, lugging those evil things in tow.”

“Perhaps it will not come to that,” Chattan told him. “Unless all of the sadhu’s words were false.”

Thomas looked at him quizzically but then, cutting through the air above them, there screeched a horrendous, terrified squeal.

“WOODGET!” the mouse cried, spinning around and charging back through the cavern. “What’s happening up there?”

As the fieldmouse’s screams floated out into the night, Captain Chattan brandished his sword, but before he followed Thomas, he saw that far below, dark shapes were racing towards the bottom of the thousand steps.

The Adept of Sarpedon

Up to the Holy One’s chamber, Woodget had led Dahrem. Then through that bare room they had hurried, pulling aside the tapestry curtain and climbing the flight of stairs beyond where they discovered, to the fieldmouse’s relief, that the wooden door was unlocked.

Into the livid green glare he scampered, over to where his bag lay propped against the curving wall.

“Here be the piece old Mulligan kept,” Woodget declared, peeping inside to check it was still there. “I’ll take this, you get the other one, Dimmy.”

As one in a beautiful dream, Dahrem stole into the domed, bronze-plated chamber, his pale grey fur steeped in the ravishing glow which beat out from the eighth fragment in its centre.

Bathed in the cold gleam, flickering starkly as the lightning continued to crackle about the mountain, its flashes blazing through the large oval stone set into the far wall, he crept forward—entranced.

Dahrem’s outstretched paws quivered with emotion as he beheld the gorgeous spectacle of the wondrous treasure. Here at last was the culmination of his yearning desire—the fulfilment of every, fantastical wish and his eyes sparkled greedily.

To the middle of the chamber he went, crossing to the circular pool and reaching over to the silver dish that stood upon the crystal plinth.

From the days of his infant youth, ever since he had been dedicated into his master’s profane service and his tail mutilated upon the altar, Dahrem had tried to imagine what it would be like if Sarpedon were ever truly to return. To that glorious end, every zealous member of the cult had toiled over a thousand generations but he suddenly realised that he had never quite believed it would happen, or that he would live to see it if it did. Now his lord’s rebirth depended solely upon him and his eyes grew moist at the awesome prospect.

Wrung with emotion, he gazed on the splendour of the eighth fragment which the early inhabitants of this accursed city had stolen and carried back here in triumph.

Although for many years the Scale had managed to reclaim most of the divided pieces, only the high priests and priestesses had been permitted to look on them and Dahrem often lusted to steal into their private sanctum to gaze on the mysterious fragments.

Now, to his adoring eyes the cunning work of his beloved, dark sovereign was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Even the great, golden image which dominated the Black Temple was nothing compared to the exquisite, spellbinding skill that had gone into the making of this. The intricacy of the scrolling gold was bewitching and the lurid light that pulsed from the jade instilled him with pride and an avenging passion to destroy all who opposed Sarpedon the Mighty.

Holding his breath, Dahrem opened his twitching fingers and the moment he had longed for throughout his wicked life took place.

About the twisting lattice of gold he closed his paws and the touch of the cold metal tingled through his palms, invigorating and exhilarating his corrupt soul—inspiring him to fresh acts of violence and despair.

Reverently, the pale grey mouse lifted the eighth fragment from the dish and, closing his eyes with pleasure, hugged it to his breast.

“Hurry up, Dimmy,” Woodget’s voice intruded upon his black bliss. “We bain’t got time for you to dilly-dally.”

Dahrem wheeled around and the faintest glimmer of gold gleamed in his heavily lidded eyes.

“Stay a moment,” he uttered huskily. “Dimmy must put this in his satchel. He’ll be quick, you’ll see—you won’t be kept waiting long. I promise.”

The fieldmouse grudgingly consented as Dahrem began unbuckling the flap of his satchel and, worrying over what might be happening outside, Woodget scuttled to the great oval stone set into the bronze and pressed his little face against its glassy surface.

Behind him, Dahrem reached inside the bag and carefully fitted two curved, glittering blades onto his fingers.

“Nearly ready,” he said with a hiss. “Dimmy’s just about done now.”

Oblivious to the adept’s actions and innocently unaware of his murderous intent, Woodget was busily squinting through the translucent stone and down upon the huddled rooftops far below.

Behind him, Dahrem took a prowling step closer, his eyes fixed upon the leather bag gripped in the fieldmouse’s paws, and where the baleful glow glinted in the razor sharp talons they cast bleak slivers of light across those small vulnerable shoulders.

“You finished?” Woodget called.

“Oh yes,” came the sibilant reply, “the time to end many things has come.”

Woodget turned around but his first, unsuspecting thought was that Dimlon had not put the fragment in the satchel after all, for its ghastly light was still glowing in the chamber and he scowled at the simple mouse’s silliness.

“What be you a-playin’ at?” he began. “There bain’t...”

The fieldmouse’s voice died on his lips as he saw the glittering knives and his face was a portrait of blank incomprehension.

Dahrem was almost unrecognisable. Infinite malice disfigured his countenance and a repellent snarl twisted over his mouth, drawing the thin lips back over the deep red gums.

“Dimm... Dimmy?” Woodget stammered fearfully.

Dahrem gave a sniggering hiss. “Dimmy was never here,” he taunted. “His character was but a mask I wore to gain your trust. How easily you accepted him, but then you were almost as much of a prize fool as he. Now it is time to curtail our acquaintance.”

“Dimmy,” Woodget implored. “Stop this, it bain’t funny.”

The adept of the Serpent stalked a little nearer—a mocking cackle rattling in his throat.

Woodget shrank against the oval stone and his eyes grew wide with terror as, behind the pale grey mouse, he saw the switching tail slowly unpeel into two separate halves.

“No,” he cried, “it ain’t true! Green save me!”

At last the fieldmouse understood and his squealing shriek echoed around the domed chamber.

Viciously, Dahrem swept the gleaming knives before his face and the yell was silenced as Woodget shuddered in fear.

“Such arrogance!” Dahrem spat. “To think you could deny us the last two fragments. When His Unhallowed Majesty returns no other creed will thrive in any land. Now, surrender to me the ninth piece, or must I tear it from your poisoned corpse?”

Tears of anguish welled in Woodget’s eyes. “Then it were you who killed Mister Mulligan,” he sobbed.

Only a repugnant cackle answered him and the fieldmouse knew that as soon as he handed the bag over, he was dead.

But then, as the blades shone before his face, from somewhere deep inside him there swelled a fierce resolve. Set against the awful doom which awaited the world, his life was unimportant. If he could only delay the evil creature a minute or two more, if only he could alert Thomas and the captain.

Trembling, he lifted the leather bag that contained Mulligan’s life-long burden, remembering the vow he had made to the dying Irish seafarer. Never would he yield the ninth fragment to a servant of the Scale.

Without a thought for his own safety, the fieldmouse suddenly lunged forward and, using all his strength, shoved the bag in Dahrem’s face—screaming at the top of his lungs.

Caught off guard, not expecting his petrified victim capable of such a desperate action, Dahrem staggered backwards and, still yelling for all he was worth, Woodget fled past him—swinging the bag in his fists as he raced for the door.

But Dahrem rallied swiftly and, screeching with fury, bounded across the chamber to cut off Woodget’s escape.

In an instant he had leapt to the entrance and with a perilous rumble growling in his throat, glared at the fieldmouse who skidded to a stop before him.

“Keep away!” Woodget wailed.

But Dahrem’s anger was boiling and his breathing became guttural and wild as he watched the frightened fieldmouse go scurrying back around the chamber. Over his large eyes flowed a film of gold and his pupils shrank into slits as the dark power which coursed through his veins seized control.

Throwing back his head, he let out a horrific, bestial shout then sprang after his prey.

Woodget’s short legs were no match for his great, leaping strides and a moment later he was plucked from the ground and sent hurtling through the air.

With a juddering smack, the fieldmouse’s flailing body struck the great oval stone and he fell to the floor in a wriggling heap.

Crowing with laughter, Dahrem loomed over him, with the eighth fragment grasped in one set of claws and the curved knives glittering upon the other.

“Shall the blood of the Almighty Lord burn and froth within you?” he hissed. “Or will I dash out your feeble wits first?”

Callously, with the back of his claws he gave Woodget a battering blow across the face and the fieldmouse let out a pitiful whine. But he huddled over the bag in defiance as Dahrem bent over him, and the cruel creature began to tortuously stroke the back of Woodget’s neck with the golden knives—tormenting him with the imminent threat of horrendous, agonizing death.

“I must conclude this pretty play,” he sniggered insidiously. “If this is how you wish to die, grovelling in the dirt, then so be it.”

“SPAWN OF THE SNAKE!” bawled a sudden, ferocious voice.

Dahrem whisked around and standing in the doorway, with Thomas at his side, was Captain Chattan.

“Dimlon!” Thomas spluttered. “What’s happening? Woodj—are you all right?”

The mouse hurried forward but Chattan pulled him back. “Look at him!” the mongoose snapped. “We have been deceived. We have been harbouring a disciple of the Coiled One in our midst.”

“Dimmy?” Thomas mouthed silently, and he stared in disbelief at the forked tail which Dahrem thrashed behind him, then beheld with revulsion the shining, reptilian eyes.

Upon the floor Woodget wept with joy to see his friends but Dahrem’s menacing figure was standing before him, preventing his escape.

Sucking the air through his teeth, Dahrem regarded the mongoose haughtily. “Tell me, Captain,” he hissed, “how does it feel to know the full measure of despair? By the morning your proud city will be in ruins and only vipers shall garland the broken walls to plague the ghosts of your kith and kin. All your paltry struggles have been as dust in the wind. You and all your kind have failed. Sarpedon has proved victorious.”

“Lay down the eighth fragment,” Chattan commanded grimly. “I will not permit you to take it.”

“Permit!” Dahrem roared with derision. “You have no authority here! Do you not have eyes to see? I am no common disciple of He who was banished long ago. An adept in his service am I—with all the power and privilege granted to that glorious and most august order.”

Chattan stepped forward, his sword raised but Dahrem merely grinned hideously and beckoned him closer.

“A contest?” he chortled darkly. “You are as idiotic as the fieldmouse. Presently my brothers shall swarm up the mountainside—if you fled now you might just escape them. Is it your wish to die needlessly, Captain? For against an adept of the Scale there is no deliverance.”

“You waste your final breaths,” Chattan barked. “Are you afraid to face me? Is your courage confined to frightened folk smaller than yourself? What mettle is in you—accursed creature of the Dark Despoiler? None I would guess. A craven worm are you, like all members of your blasphemous, loathsome cult.”

As he spoke, the mongoose stabbed out with his sword, taunting the foul grey mouse and Dahrem’s laughter was stilled.

“So be it,” he swore. “The blade of Hara against the teeth of Sarpedon. May the venom bite you slowly.”

With that he flew at Chattan, lashing out with the golden knives. But the mongoose jumped aside and brought the flat of his sword slapping smartly across his opponent’s back.

“A little quicker next time,” the captain suggested archly. “Not as easy dealing with someone who’s armed, is it?”

Incensed by these jibes, Dahrem spun around and the rage blazed in his eyes.

“Prepare to meet your precious Green!” he shrieked, spitting with hatred.

Like one demented, he sliced the air before him and pounced forward, but Captain Chattan’s sword came singing to meet them and with a screech of metal the weapons clashed together.

As gold rang against steel, Dahrem pushed his head forward and his snapping jaws bit into the mongoose’s chest.

Chattan yelled in pain and Dahrem spat a bleeding chunk of flesh onto the floor.

Fiercely, Chattan thrust the creature away but at once he flew back, the knives razoring madly for the mongoose’s face before the sword parried and knocked them aside.

Still standing in the entrance, not knowing what to do, Thomas watched the battle breathlessly. His own sword was gripped in his paw but he knew that any attempt to help the captain would only hinder him.

Dahrem was a nightmarish adversary; his poisoned talons ripped murderously for the mongoose’s throat whilst his jaws sought to rend and tear. Fortunately for Chattan, the eighth fragment was still gripped in his other claw or the struggle would have been twice as brutal and savage.

Sitting beneath the oval stone, Woodget wiped his eyes. He longed to scurry over to where Thomas was waiting and flee down the stairway, but whilst the battle raged about him, he was too afraid to budge.

A dreadful chiming clamour resounded throughout the domed chamber as the weapons smote each other. Then, with a burst of strength, Chattan hurled the adept from him and when he came marauding back, flung his arm wide and the tip of the blade cut a scarlet arc across Dahrem’s body.

Screeching, the creature stumbled back and glared down at the blood which soaked his fur.

“Very well,” he seethed. “You wish to carve the skin from me. See now the splendour afforded to an adept of the Black Master. Look on me and die!”

With that he raised his claws and, to Chattan’s dismay began to tear at the crimson wound.

Cackling vilely, Dahrem clutched the bloody edges and with a deliberate wrench, tore the fur apart.

By the entrance Thomas lowered his sword, unable to believe the gruesome spectacle unfolding before his eyes. Dahrem was insane. The treacherous mouse was tearing his hide clean away—pulling viciously at his own flesh, and a horrendous splitting noise issued from his back as the fur fell in two hideous, shredded scraps.

From his legs the skin snapped as he yanked it loose, shedding it like a snake and with a final rip, he tore the covering from his head and onto the ground threw Dimlon’s pale grey face—ears, whiskers and all.

Woodget cried out and buried his head in his paws but Thomas could not take his eyes from the apparition which now stood facing Captain Chattan, and the bile bubbled in his throat.

There, his true, inner nature revealed at last, stood the thing that was Dahrem.

As a lizard he appeared, yet it was an abomination of creation. Wet, slippery, dark green scales covered his repugnant body—from the tips of the forked tail to the squat crown of his square, grotesque head.

Two great lidless eyes bulged from the sloping brow, set above a serpent-like snout and within the scale-ringed mouth were rows of needle-like teeth, rooted behind a pair of saliva-trickling fangs.

Yet upon his great claws the knives still glittered and he raised them threateningly, the tatters of his mouse’s skin clinging about the wrists.

Such was the heinous gift granted to the adepts of Gorscarrigern, for when they willed it they could slough off their mundane, warm-blooded raiment and parade their profane devotion in his honour.

Thomas’s terror and revulsion finally overwhelmed him and he staggered through the doorway, unable to gaze on that detestable spectre any longer. Onto the stairs he blundered, struggling to master the nausea swelling inside him, and though he cursed himself, he could not compel his feet to take him back into that chamber.

Down the steps he ran, shaking uncontrollably. Never had he been so afraid and he threw himself into the Holy One’s room, sobbing with fright and shame.

Above him, Chattan looked on the hissing abhorrence of Dahrem and his sword quivered, betraying his fear.

From behind his fingers, Woodget peeped out at the dreadful scene and saw the reptilian fiend take a purposeful step forward, beating the cloven tail upon the floor with relish.

“You do well to quail,” Dahrem spat, his tongue flicking between the fangs. “The wrangling is over and death has claimed you.”

But Chattan’s face grew dark and his loathing for the enemy only increased. Seizing the hilt of his sword in both paws, he charged forward but the apparition swerved nimbly and the stroke missed him.

Then Dahrem lunged, his large, smooth head hunched into his powerful shoulders as his haunches bounded over the floor.

The mongoose whirled about, just in time to meet the golden knives with his steel but, divested of his weak guise and waxing in foul might, his opponent was now possessed of an unnatural strength and the captain was driven back towards the wall where Dahrem intended to impale him.

Gritting his teeth, Chattan pushed the blades aside and ducked under the reaching arm, darting behind the crystal plinth which supported the now empty dish.

After him the reptile sprang and, with the pillar separating them, they fought about the circular pool, the captain valiantly matching every mighty stroke. Then, at last, his blade slipped against the raking gold and went crashing into the column of crystal which chipped and shattered—casting a thousand sparkling diamonds into the pool.

But Chattan’s sword lodged in the splintered stump and, before he could wrest it free, Dahrem gave a triumphant hiss and the golden knives scored the mongoose’s arm.

“Captain!” Woodget cried.

Chattan winced in agony as the venom began its lethal work. Already the blood was frothing from the twin wounds but he steeled himself against the pain and snatched his sword from the fractured crystal.

“Put down your weapon,” Dahrem warned him. “Such folly will only speed your demise. Feel the poison gnawing at your fibres, Captain—soon it will devour you utterly.”

But the mongoose’s face was set and grave and the determined expression caused a flicker of doubt to register on Dahrem’s ghastly face.

“I know I am to die,” Chattan snapped. “But you at least I shall take with me!”

With a yell, he leaped forward, cleaving the air with the sword. Before him, the adept prepared to strike a second time but the tenacity of death possessed the mongoose and his sweeping blows were wild and savage.

Dahrem tried to counter, his glinting blades flashing brightly. But against Chattan’s fury there was no withstanding and the captain’s sword came scything down upon his wrist.

Screeching, the reptile recoiled but the curved blades fell to the floor with the rest of his severed claws and the screams of his anguish shook the chamber.

Yet the effort had proven too much for the captain. The stinking venom was foaming from his arm and his sword clattered to the floor beside Dahrem’s knives.

Then, with a groan of despair, he toppled to his knees and collapsed.

Above him, the adept nursed his bleeding stump and spat upon his withering victim.

“Now we see who is mightier. Your usurping Green has proven to be weak. Go now to his garden in paradise—you will find it rank with thorn and weed.”

At his scaly feet, the captain flinched and the torment of his wounds consumed him.

Then, breathing feverishly, Dahrem turned and his gaze fell upon Woodget.

Still huddled upon the ground, the fieldmouse stared forlornly up at the horror which approached him. The eighth fragment was still clutched in the reptile’s claws and its gleaming eyes were fixed upon the bag which contained the ninth.

Woodget’s glance shifted to the captain’s writhing form and his ears rang with his agonies. Where was Thomas? Why was he not here?

“Give it to me,” Dahrem’s hissing voice demanded. “Your custodianship is ended.”

Woodget gazed at him, then scrunched up his little face as he clung to the leather bag.

“Never!” he wailed.

Dahrem growled, the pain of his truncated wrist had killed any joy this moment might have held. All he wanted was to take both fragments back to the Black Temple, he was not in the mood for any further sport.

“Can you not see the torture that your noble captain is suffering?” he rapped. “Do you desire the same miserable fate? Shall I retrieve my talons and spike your yokel skin?”

Shivering, Woodget made no answer but waited for the deathblow.

Dahrem sneered. No, he would slay this contemptible maggot without resort to poison. Baring his fangs, he drew a deep breath and lunged for the fieldmouse’s neck.

A strangled scream echoed from the mountain and the domed chamber quaked at the dreadful sound.

Quivering, Woodget stared upwards, his terror bursting into relief.

Above him Dahrem’s snake-like face bristled with woeful astonishment as he gazed down at the silver blade which now thrust out from a wound in his breast.

Behind him, his courage mastered at last, stood Thomas.

Woodget sobbed for joy and bolted past the incredulous, gasping reptile to be with him.

But Dahrem was neither finished nor beaten, with the mouse’s sword still lodged between his ribs, he turned slowly.

“Save us!” Woodget cried. “He ain’t dead.”

“You think you have won?” the choking voice demanded. “Only Sarpedon conquers all.”

Glowering at them, he took a heavy step forward, flourishing the eighth fragment above his head and the livid light which beat from the depths of the ancient jade made him appear filled with a power greater than any who breathed mortal airs, and Woodget shrank close to Thomas.

“Into this world His splendour shall come again!” the nightmare exulted. “His black grandeur shall rise renewed and not a corner of the globe shall be free of His excellent dominion. Nations shall fall and under the Dark Despoiler’s guidance I shall govern. Slaughter and death will prevail and He will be supreme. At last the night is falling—an endless darkness to kill the light and this time none shall dare assail him!”

Hooting with vile laughter, Dahrem threw back his head—yet in that moment, as the fragment blazed with evil glory, his labours proved too much.

The golden treasure became a weight that was too heavy to bear and it pulled him off balance, dragging him backwards. His tail lashing about him, he went crashing against the oval stone which he slammed into with the full force of his stumbling fall.

A tremendous, deafening note sang out as the fragment smote the glassy stone. There erupted a shower of fiery sparks and with an ominous shudder, the great jewel moved. Within its bronze setting the stone shifted, and a cloud of dust and stones poured into the chamber as it began to rock precariously upon the crumbling lip of granite beyond.

Outside the mountain, in the middle of the great likeness’s forehead, the glimmering gem trembled and shook.

Inside the domed chamber, Dahrem staggered to his feet. The hilt of Thomas’s sword had been driven deep into his back but with fearful eyes he stared up at the tremulous mass of shaped translucent stone that reared above him and lurched as it juddered and tilted dangerously inward.

Suddenly, Thomas rushed forward and, spending all his strength, gave the reptile an almighty shove.

Back Dahrem floundered, his scaly body crashing against the stone a second time and with that his fate was sealed.

Out from the rock the great oval jewel fell and, flailing wildly upon the edge a moment longer, with the eighth fragment still in his grasp, Dahrem toppled after.

Down the mountainside the enormous stone tumbled, smashing onto the immense, sculpted face of the Green Mouse and a tremendous crack split the night as an entire side of the gargantuan features shattered. With a thunderous clamour of crumbling rock, half of the enormous face dropped down onto the steps far below—hurling tons of rubble into the air.

Thomas and Woodget hastened to the gaping portal, through which the rain was now blustering, and peered down.

Dahrem’s hideous, reptilian form plunged through the night—the glare of the fragment gleaming like an emerald flame in his claw.

His terrified screech carried on the gale, he plummeted down, spinning helplessly, until the squalling rain gusted across the mice’s vision and they could see no more.

Far the adept of Suruth Scarophion fell, the rushing air screaming in his ears and his forked tail whisked wildly about him. Above him the shattered stone face of the Green Mouse dwindled in the sky but always he kept tight hold of the unhallowed fragment and, bathed in its baleful light, his body struck the bottom of the thousand steps.

At the foot of the mountain, all the forces of the Scale were now assembled. Many were already ascending the stone stairs when the great jewel came thundering down and the sculpture’s face split asunder—falling in ruin about them.

In terror they scattered as the steps were broken and buried in an avalanche of rock, then before they had recovered, to their astonishment, they saw a bright green star come falling after and with a bone-crunching crash, Dahrem’s shattered body pounded onto the rocks.

Yammering in fright, the cult members gathered around his broken form, recognizing it to be one of the great adepts. Even they feared to look on him or venture too close, but down the battered, buried steps the High Priest came and he pushed his way through the clamouring press of the mob to gaze upon Dahrem’s corpse.

Into the shadows of his dark hood, the glare of the pulsing jade gleamed and the High Priest let out a covetous hiss.

“The fragment!” he cried.

Stooping over the battered, reptilian body, the High Priest tore the jade shell from Dahrem’s claws but even as he held it aloft, to the foul cheers of his followers, Dahrem stirred.

Though the veils of death were gathering about him and his frame was smashed beyond repair, the one who had portrayed Dimlon so cunningly and inveigled his way into the trust of many, let out a gargling sigh and the High Priest raised his claw for silence.

At once a hush fell.

“You have done well, my devoted agent,” the cloaked figure said. “Your name will be written in the blood of our enemies above the doors of the temple. Our quest is nearly ended. All that remains is to find the ninth and final piece.”

At that, a malignant smile formed on Dahrem’s cut and bleeding face.

“The end is indeed here,” he uttered, his speech riddled with pain. “The last fragment is there—high in the mountain.”

Spinning around, the High Priest squinted up through the darkness then, leaving Dahrem to perish, he swept up the stairs and a legion of Sarpedon’s disciples raced after him.

Alone, but surrounded by a circle of his gawping brethren, Dahrem died—his golden eyes staring fixedly up at the damaged vision of the Green Mouse and his dark, seditious soul went shivering into the void.

High above in the domed chamber, as Dahrem gasped his last, another, more tragic, scene was taking place.

Thomas and Woodget knelt by Chattan’s side. But there was nothing they could do for the mongoose. Tormented by the agonies of the venom, the captain of the Chandi was slipping mercifully into unconsciousness and, pulling the woollen hat from his head, Woodget wept over him.

“Oh Tom!” he cried. “He’s nearly gone—he can’t last much longer.”

Through the great oval hole in the curved wall the wind was howling in, tugging at their hair and Thomas solemnly rose to his feet.

Splashed by the teeming rain he whispered a remorseful prayer over the captain’s body then told Woodget to stand.

“We can’t stay here,” he said.

But the fieldmouse did not want to leave Chattan, not while there was still a spark of life in him.

“Tom!” he protested. “Us can’t abandon the captain to die on his own. He might speak again afore he goes.”

Thomas leaned down and grabbed Woodget by the shoulders—shaking him forcefully.

“Listen!” he declared. “It’s up to us now. We’re the only ones left to keep them horrors out there from getting Mulligan’s fragment. Do you think Chattan would want us to linger and get caught?”

Woodget flinched under Thomas’s scolding and he shook his head miserably.

“Look Woodj,” his friend said more gently, “I know this is all my fault. I was the one who made you leave Betony Bank in the first place and sent us both into this mess—but we’re here now and there’s no way out.

“We can’t just go home and forget what’s happened. There’s a job still to be done and there’s no one else but us left to do it. They’ve all gone—all those who promised to guard us and take this peril off our paws. It’s back to you and me now and we can’t let them down. Everything’s depending on us Woodj—do you understand? Everything!”

Woodget rose and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Right you are, Tom,” he agreed, wrapping his fingers about the bag’s leather straps and hoisting them over his shoulder.

“Let’s take that passage through the mountain, but where to then, Tom? Where’ll we go then?”

Thomas hurried to the doorway, stooping to pick up the mongoose’s sword as he ran. “There’s only one place we can go!” he shouted.

“Where’s that?” Woodget cried, racing after him.

At the top of the stairs Thomas paused. “Singapore,” he said flatly and proceeded to descend to the Holy One’s chamber.

Before he followed, Woodget took one last look at Chattan’s shrivelling form.

“Goodbye to ’ee, Captain,” he murmured softly, then down the stairs he fled.

15 - The Lotus Parlour

Mother Lotus, or Ma Skillet as she was more commonly called by her customers, sat in her creaking chair behind the bar and puffed on the long stemmed clay pipe she held in her podgy claws.

A hazy fug hung in the claustrophobic, stuffy air, made all the worse by the pungent reek of her smouldering tobacco, and she dabbed a scrap of lace about her fat, sweating neck, then tried to cool herself with a colourful paper fan.

It was a humid June night and the Lotus Parlour was stifling and sticky. Narrowing her thickly lashed and almond-shaped eyes, her gaze roved about the dim room, making sure everyone had something in their cup then pursed her vermilion lips tartly.

The proprietor of the sleazy establishment, where the riff-raff of the Singapore River came to drink cheap liquor or gamble in one of the discreet alcoves, was a bloated, middle-aged brown rat. Yet the fur which covered her flabby face was powdered white with flour and three beauty spots peppered her left cheek. Fixed in the hair at the back of her head, above the straggly pigtail which dangled past her broad shoulders, was a lustrous blue butterfly, impaled upon a golden pin and through one of her nostrils she wore a silver ring.

It was nearly forty years since she had first arrived on the island from her native China and by now knew all the sordid histories of each of her regulars. Only when a ship came into the busy port and its unofficial passengers disembarked, did she ever see anyone new come through that grimy door. Yet they were all of the same type; rats and gutter vagrants with meagre coins seeking gut-rotting grog or shady characters who went to whisper in darkened corners.

Drowning their sorrows or carousing drunkenly within the Lotus Parlour’s grubby confines, the dregs of Singapore could usually be found. It was a seedy den of a place—the only permanent fixture of the scruffy shanty town where desperate, destitute creatures from all over the globe eventually found their way.

Set into the harbour wall, lost in the deep gloomy shadows of a rickety wooden pier, just above the mud bank and the level of the highest tide. It was a place of ill repute—haunted by cut-throats, pirates and those sorry souls who were past caring what became of them.

Lengths of old sailing canvas, painted with bright and garish colours festooned the smoke-stained ceiling and, hanging from fine threads was a veritable shoal of tropical fish. But all were dried and withered and their natural iridescent colours faded with the accumulated dirt of many years or hidden beneath haphazard splodges of gaudy pigment.

Upon the walls was a kaleidoscope of what were once brilliant macaw feathers, arranged in rayed patterns—but they too were dulled and sullied with layers of dust.

Suspended directly behind the wooden entrance was a pottery bowl that dripped with stalactites of greasy wax. Within its molten interior a bright, tapering flame steadily burned and when any new arrival stepped through the door, their eyes were immediately dazzled so that the patrons could get a good look at them before deciding whether to remain, scurry through the back door or fling a knife at the unwanted interlopers.

The rest of the bar was dimly lit; only a few paper lanterns glowed upon some of the tables, creating cosy caves of subdued colour—but sinister shadows flitted about the cramped niches which were screened by curtains of glass beads, and where unpleasant deals were being made, contraband exchanged and the spoils of river piracy divided.

That night the Lotus Parlour was relatively quiet; the all too familiar ugly rogues were huddled over their drinks; a muttering group of bamboo rats, a filthy, squint-eyed ermine, three sly-looking weasels with scars on their faces and knives in their belts, a Burmese water vole who’d had rather too much of the shady establishment’s liquor and several black bilge rats who kept to themselves and spoke to no one.

Ma Skillet viewed them all and yawned. Still, there was always a chance that some fresh, unknown face would come through that door, for a cargo vessel had entered the harbour nearly an hour ago and she knew that eventually its complement of low-life would find its way here.

Drawing on her pipe, she closed her eyes and two wisps of smoke drifted from her nostrils as she thought of the great ceremony that would take place later that night. In a few hours she would have to close up the premises and she reflected on the celebrations that lay ahead. But her reverie was interrupted as a slurring voice was suddenly raised in song.

Pouting with displeasure, she glared through the cloying reek and across the room—to where the Burmese water vole was lifting his wooden beaker and crowing some half-remembered ballad.

Ma Skillet rapped the fan upon the slop-spilt bar, but the vole was too far gone to notice and, removing the pipe from her mouth, she looked around for the young rat she had recently taken into her service.

“Kiku!” her clipped, impatient voice rapped. “Kiku! Get you here!”

From behind a ragged curtain which covered the entrance to a rancid smelling kitchen, the face of a handsome rat maiden appeared and Ma Skillet jabbed a fat claw in the direction of the burbling vole.

“Him!” she cried. “Out you chuck!”

Kiku grinned, not understanding her meaning and nodded affably.

Ma Skillet fizzled with exasperation and slid from her chair in annoyance. Pulling her frayed silk dressing gown tightly about her so that it bulged and ballooned even more than usual, she lumbered over to where Kiku’s pretty face was still beaming and spitefully pulled out one of her whiskers.

The rat maiden squealed and sprang back inside the kitchen, only to be hauled out again by her mistress’s strong claws.

“You watch!” Ma Skillet scolded. “Mother Lotus, she out chuck him.”

Waddling between the tables, the proprietor of the Lotus Parlour blustered towards the vole who greeted her with a rousing chorus of his warbling song until she snatched the cup from him, and seizing the scruff of his neck, frogmarched the bewildered creature to the door where she pushed him out onto the slithering mud.

Clapping her paws together, she returned over the sawdust-covered floor of the bar and said to Kiku, “You understand?”

The other nodded. “Ahh, yes Mamma Lotus, he no good—ack! Kiku, she see now, oh yes.”

Ma Skillet rolled her eyes and wondered why she bothered trying to train someone so stupid. There were plenty of others clamouring for the humble bed and board the lowly work offered. Too soft-hearted, that was her failing. Still, keeping such a guileless fool and putting up with her feeble grasp of the common speech amused her regulars and besides, it kept the illusion going for any newcomers and that was all that mattered.

“Empty cups,” she shouted to her, as if by saying it loudly, Kiku would understand it better. “You fetch them—go.”

The ratmaiden had been there long enough to know what that instruction meant, so pulling the curtain aside she pattered into the bar whilst Ma Skillet settled herself back into her seat and puffed on the pipe.

Through the tables Kiku went, peering into every beaker—scowling at a customer if there was only a drop left in the bottom and nudging him to finish it.

The rough clientele muttered and grumbled under their breaths, but they knew her mistress’s eyes were upon them so they made no complaint and yielded their vessels grudgingly.

Kiku collected all she could and returned to the bar where the patrons had to come and pay for them to be refilled.

The young rat maiden was a lovely addition to the Lotus Parlour and that was another reason Ma Skillet put up with her. When she sidled by the tables, those eyes which were not glazed with drink followed her about the dim room.

So far her brief life had been filled with unhappiness and when she had arrived in Singapore, Kiku was alone and down on her luck. Many troubles and heartaches lay behind her and there was nowhere left to run. All she had ever wanted was to find peace and live amongst the friends she had never had, where a warm and gentle sun, that did not scorch or bake, shone over a tranquil corner of the world—that was her dream.

Yet for the moment it seemed impossible and she was grateful for the scraps her mistress left her and, though she did not comprehend all that was said, she strove to learn and improve her comprehension.

Humming to herself, Kiku looked to Mother Lotus to see if there was anything more she could do, but the bloated rat dismissed her with a flick of her paper fan.

Kiku bowed and pattered back into the foul kitchen.

Clenching the pipe between her teeth, Ma Skillet drummed her claws on the bar and those patrons with no cups came sidling over to reclaim them. Smiling, Ma Skillet held out her open palm and not until she had received payment would she refill the beakers with a stinking brown liquid and permit the customers to return to their tables.

Stuffing the coins into a bulging purse attached to the belt of her dressing gown, she leaned back and dreamed of the festivities that she would join later.

Again her musings were curtailed as the entrance swung open and into the light radiating from the suspended candle came two figures.

The bar’s buzzing talk died immediately and every ugly head turned to eye the newcomers with suspicion.

Ma Skillet leaned forward, inhaling a deep breath of tobacco smoke as she too scrutinised the two strangers.

They were dressed in long, dark cloaks, their faces concealed by deep hoods and for several moments they stood by the door blinking in the harsh light until their hidden eyes grew accustomed to it.

The proprietor of the Lotus Parlour arched one of her charcoal-drawn brows. The figures obviously did not want to be recognised, yet she was certain, merely by their stature and bearing, that she had never seen either of them before.

Both were shorter than her usual patrons, so she guessed that they were not rats. The larger of the two seemed quite burly under that mantling cloak but his companion was no bigger than a shrew and curiosity began to burn inside her ample bosom.

Thomas peered about the murky room, his eyes watering in the malodorous atmosphere and looked for an empty table. At his side Woodget gathered the abundant folds of his hood about his crinkling nose, whilst keeping a tight hold of the bag slung over his shoulder.

Twelve days had passed since their flight from the forces of the Scale in India and looking back over that desperate time they could hardly believe they had managed to survive and evade capture.

Whilst the High Priest and his followers were still searching the mountain, the two mice had hastened down the pitch-black tunnel until they finally came to the city’s catacombs. There, among the cold marble effigies of the embalmed dead, they eventually found a climbing road that led to the far side of the city—emerging close to the edge of the deserted harbour.

Fearing they would be sighted at any moment, they daringly stole a small river boat and sailed under the stone archway and into the overgrown waterway.

Behind them in the city, the cult members continued to rampage, burning the buildings, sticking the decapitated heads of the Haran folk onto spears and drinking the blood of those not slain by poison.

Yet in the mountain, though the High Priest hunted and searched, destroying everything in his path, he could not discover the ninth fragment and only when it was too late did he realise the route it must have taken and in fury dragged his forces from their revels before they had time to gorge themselves or explore every chink and corner.

On to the Kaliya they piled, but by that time Thomas and Woodget had put a great distance between them and, concealed by the lashing rain, escaped at last to the coast.

Wary of everyone they met, the mice finally sold the small Haran craft at the nearest port, where they then boarded a ship. Now, two vessels later, they had arrived in Singapore and were both extremely weary, for the strain of their adventures bore heavily upon them.

The unfriendly silence which greeted their entrance continued long after their vision adjusted to the change in light and they had made their way to the place recently vacated by the unmusical water vole.

Uncomfortably aware of every hostile glance, Woodget sat down but did not let go of the bag’s leather straps.

Since departing Hara, neither he nor Thomas had trusted anyone, every creature they met was a possible member of the serpent cult, so they kept their own company and talked seldom in voices above the level of a whisper for fear of being overheard.

“A likelier band of cut-throats I never did see,” the fieldmouse murmured.

Thomas agreed, “Aye, so remember to leave any talking to me.”

“Does you really think we’ll find him here?” Woodget asked doubtfully. “This don’t look the sort of place he’d be at all.”

“No, but someone’s bound to have seen him. There can’t be many like him I’ll warrant. No, if Simoon is in Singapore like the Holy One said, then this is as good a place to start asking as any. But if he’s as gifted in the ways of prophecy as everyone seems to think, then he ought to know we’re here already.”

“And what if he ain’t?” Woodget muttered desperately. “What does we do then? We can’t keep this ’ere nasty bit of goods secret all our lives. Oaks an’ ivy Tom, them evil snake worshippers’ll find us one day! There bain’t no escapin’ em—they’s everywhere! One slip o’ the tongue is all it’d take and that’s it, we’ll end up stone dead.”

Thomas’s eyes glittered in the shadow of his hood. “I know,” he answered solemnly, “but for the moment there’s nowt else we can do. If we’re unsuccessful here then we’ll just have to go somewhere else.”

“But where?”

“There’s always Greenwich, I suppose,” Thomas said softly. “That’s where Mulligan had just come from, remember. He said he’d been to see the Starwife—if we can’t find Simoon then she really is our last hope.”

Woodget sighed. “Least that’s back home,” he said, “an’ old Mulligan did say as how it were a good restful place.”

“Well I’ll bear that in mind,” Thomas commented.

“But it’s a long way back. A long way to keep this ’ere nasty a secret and who knows what Dimmy might have told the rest of his foul folk? Does they know our names? Are they hunting for us?”

“Maafkan Saya!” rang a sudden, terse voice behind them.

Startled, the mice looked up and there was Ma Skillet—standing with her claws folded on her breast, her white face staring at them truculently.

“Good evening,” Thomas said politely.

“Ahh,” the fat rat declared, “you are Britlanders. Many Englishers come here, buy liquor. But they no can stay if no buy liquor.”

Thomas understood and reached inside his cloak for the last of their money. “Forgive me,” he said, “we have journeyed far and are very tired, we were not thinking. Could me and my friend have a drink, please?”

The rat pursed her lips, the stranger’s manners amused her but she was not to be thwarted in her prying quest for knowledge. The cloaked newcomers interested her and she was determined to discover both their identities and their purpose before closing the bar that night.

“Mother Lotus get good strong quenchers for you,” she said. “Mister..?”

Thomas pulled the hood from his head and Woodget followed suit. The rosy light from a pink paper lantern fell upon their careworn faces and the rat gurgled with mirth.

“Mouselets!” she cooed and at once the babble of voices recommenced and the uncouth-looking characters around them returned to their business. Mother Lotus had accepted the strangers and that was enough to assuage any suspicions.

“Very splendid strappling fellows,” she continued. “With good Englisher names, yes?”

The mice looked at one another and Thomas cleared his throat. “This is Master Cudweed,” he announced, much to the fieldmouse’s chagrin. “And I’m...”

“He’s Mister Triton!” Woodget broke in quickly.

Ma Skillet bowed to them both, but gave Thomas a lurid wink. “Triton,” she repeated, relishing the sound on her tongue. “Very pretty,” and with a chuckle, she trundled away.

“She didn’t ask what sort of drinks we wanted,” Woodget hissed.

“I should think they’ll only serve one sort anyway,” Thomas replied. “And what’d you have to go an’ tell her I was called Triton for? You know I think it’s a stupid name.”

“Least you ain’t called after your sister,” the fieldmouse countered. “’Sides it suits you. I told ’ee I likes it better’n Stubbs.”

Thomas shook his head. “Well let’s see if she’s heard of a travelling fortune teller hereabouts,” he murmured.

Carrying two wooden cups which frothed over with a horrendous brown scum-covered concoction, Ma Skillet returned.

“Mouselets travel big distance,” she said. “Liquor of Mother Lotus make you strong—send away tired feeling. You drink, you like.”

Thomas took the proffered cup and lifted it to his lips, blowing a clear space through the foaming head before attempting to sample the noxious brew.

Woodget did the same but the large rat’s eyes were only turned to Thomas so he merely pretended to drink and hastily put the cup down again.

Ma Skillet watched with delight as Thomas spluttered and choked after his first mouthful and clapped him roughly on the back. “It’s good, yes?” she said proudly.

“Delic... delicious,” he lied with a wheeze.

“Clever mouselet,” she laughed. “You very beautiful fellow. Mother Lotus like you.”

Thomas shifted on his seat and fumbled at his neckerchief. “Oh?” he mumbled nervously whilst kicking Woodget under the table.

“What you do in Singapore?” she asked, stroking his fine hair in her claws. “Here, you have more drink.”

She pressed the cup to Thomas’s lips and swigging a second detestable mouthful he shuddered and said, “My friend and me were looking for someone. Weren’t we Cudweed?”

Woodget was too busy enjoying Thomas’s discomfort. Even after all the terrible perils they had been through and all the hideous sights he had witnessed, he was still able to laugh and had to be asked twice before answering.

“What? Oh yes, that be right,” he said.

“Who you seek?” the rat asked. “Mother Lotus, she know every peoples.”

Thomas coughed. “Well,” he began, “while we were on the cargo ship, we were told there’s a fortune teller—a prophet, somewhere roundabouts.”

“Who tell you this?” Ma Skillet asked.

“Oh er... a big stoaty chap, weren’t it, Master Cudweed?”

The rat took hold of Thomas’s paw and held it close to the lantern light. “You no need teller of fortunes,” she told him with a smile. “Mother Lotus, she know what lady fate has in store for you.”

Thomas pulled his paw away and quickly took another drink.

Twiddling with the chewed-looking ends of her pigtail, the rat saw that his cup was nearly empty and went to fetch some more.

“I think we’d best go,” Thomas muttered. “Let’s try somewhere else.”

“She’s took a real shine to you, ain’t she?” the fieldmouse chortled. “But you’re right. This were a daft idea cornin’ in here to begin with.”

Rising, they were about to head for the door when Ma Skillet’s stern voice cried. “Where you go? Pretty Triton no have other drink yet. You not leave till you drink. No need pay. Mother Lotus—she buy.”

“That’s very kind,” Thomas called, edging towards the entrance. “But we have to go I’m afraid.”

The corpulent rat smacked the bar with her fist and at once the other customers leered threateningly at the two mice.

“You’d best sit down an’ have that other sup of grog with her, Tom,” Woodget murmured. “We can’t get into no fights, we can’t afford to have no one stealin’ this bag, now can we?”

Thomas struggled to manage a thin, half-hearted laugh and they returned to their seats.

Ma Skillet grunted in satisfaction. The mouse pleased her and although she had no illusions about her own attractiveness, there were ways to get around that.

Pouring a further cupful of brown liquor, she reached under the bar and took from a shelf a small glass bottle containing a fine grey powder which she secretly sprinkled into the drink.

“Now mousey do anything Mother Lotus wish,” she cackled to herself. “He be liking she very much.”

Whirling around, she sailed back to the table and pushed the brimming cup into Thomas’s paws.

“You drink—then you go, my beautiful mouselet,” she told him.

Thomas took the cup from her and raised it to his mouth.

As soon as the first drop passed his lips, the rat began to whistle a peculiar, haunting tune between her teeth.

It was a mysterious, jarring melody and as she whistled it, her claws weaved through the fug-filled air, tracing weird signs in the drifting smoke.

Woodget watched her curiously. The fat old rat was completely cracked and he wished Thomas would hurry up and finish the horrible mixture so they could get out of there.

The vile-tasting liquor burned in Thomas’s throat, but after the first swig the wretched flavour didn’t seem half so bad and by the third it was almost palatable. Yet all the while he drank, the eerie trilling tune treacled and seeped into his ears and a prickling sensation tingled over his body as though he were lying upon a bed of nettles.

Draining the beaker to its last dregs, he placed it woozily upon the table then stared about him in a daze.

The pink light that radiated from the lantern appeared brighter than before and flooded a blushing glow into his swimming vision. From some great distance away, or so he thought, he heard Woodget’s high voice filled with mounting concern call out, but a wondrous feeling of contentment was seeping into his spirit and there was nothing he could do but yield to its marvellous warmth and welcoming joy.

“Tom!” the fieldmouse cried in consternation when he saw his friend’s eyelids droop and a foolish expression spread across his face. “What be the matter? Wake up, Tom, this ain’t time fer a doze. Tom! Tom!”

But to his dismay, Thomas sank deeper into the trance Ma Skillet was weaving about him and she chuckled softly to herself.

“What you doin’ to him?” Woodget demanded angrily. “Ho, Missus, stop. Bring poor Tom out of it.”

The rat glanced at him and the whistling ceased. “I not harm the pretty mouselet,” she assured him. “Mother Lotus like have play with he first. He hers now. My tune—it owns him. When I whistle he obey.”

Turning back to the mesmerised Thomas, she brought her face close to his and blew lightly upon it.

“Master Triton,” she called coaxingly. “Who you see before you? What fair face you keep in heart?”

Thomas’s head nodded and swayed as he tried to focus on the flabby visage in front. But the rosy, romantic light crowded in on him, creating an aura of splendour about Ma Skillet’s unwieldy features, flickering and lapping over them until they melted and dwindled into a familiar and beloved countenance and he gasped in marvelling surprise.

“Bess,” he murmured.

Woodget stared at his poor friend in misery, how could the rat be so wicked as to torment him in this fashion?

“This bain’t right!” he cried. “Stop it!”

“The amusement end only when Mother Lotus she is bored,” came the harsh reply.

Around the other tables, Ma Skillet’s regulars guffawed into their cups to see her toying with the newcomers. The proprietor of the Lotus Parlour might be formidable and they had reason to fear her, but there were infrequent occasions when she provided a riotous and entertaining cabaret.

“Tom!” Woodget tried again. “Tom—listen to me. This ain’t Bess.”

Ma Skillet cackled softly. “He no hear you,” she said. “Triton, his ear just for me. When he in trance only my voice and my command do he obey. See how happy Mother Lotus make him.”

A glad smile had alighted upon Thomas’s face and with his mind’s eye he gazed on the wondrous vision that continued to grow and unfurl before him.

There she was, Bess Sandibrook, sitting in a sunlit meadow of waving grasses and beautiful wild flowers, but no bloom was as lovely or as rare as she.

In her fingers she twirled her glinting, chestnut hair and the light that flashed and gleamed across her mousebrass revelled in her soft brown eyes.

“Hello, Tommy Stubbs,” she greeted in his dream, tossing her head to one side and grinning at him. “Why’d you go off and leave me all alone like that? I missed you terrible sore I did.”

Thomas’s whiskers drooped and a note of distress crept into his whispering voice.

“But I promised you,” he uttered thickly. “I said I’d go after Woodj. You know that.”

“Well I changed my mind,” the captivating angel told him. “It’s you I want, you’re the only one I could ever love, Tommy.”

Woodget turned away as tears streamed down his friend’s face and he threw the rat a despising look.

Yet around them the other customers were hooting and thumping their claws upon the tables in encouragement.

“Forget about Woodget,” the rapturous vision continued. “Kiss me Tommy—you know you want to.”

Thomas held his breath and reached out to caress the mouse maiden’s comely face, but all he touched was the flour-plastered fur of Ma Skillet who leaned forward, puckering up her lips and fluttering her heavy, soot-daubed lashes.

Still under the hypnotic spell, Thomas kissed her revolting lips, unable to smell the stale stench of her fur or the fetor of the rat’s putrid breath and did not see the flour flaking from her face and fall in crumbling deposits upon the floor.

Braying whoops of delight issued from the other patrons and Woodget glared at them murderously.

“Quiet!” he cried angrily. “’Tain’t funny!”

But they only laughed all the more at his pious squeaking and stamped their feet for further entertainment.

Thomas leaned back dreamily, his nose and cheek covered in white dust and his beaming mouth besmeared with the greasy, vermilion lipstick.

Ma Skillet smacked her lips gleefully and stared around the bar proudly, rocking backward and forward—revelling in her callous teasings.

“You let him go now,” Woodget commanded.

The rat considered Thomas a moment or two more, then shrugged. She had had her fun and there were other, more important matters to think about and arrange.

“Just so,” she nodded. “Mother Lotus set Triton free. He must like this damsel very plenty, yes?”

The fieldmouse said nothing but watched sullenly as she lifted her claws before Thomas’s face to break the enchantment.

“Bess!” Thomas blurted suddenly. “I want to come home! When we get rid of this evil, let me come back to you—please!”

Woodget spluttered and stared at Thomas aghast.

“But I’m scared, Bess,” Thomas continued, oblivious to the fieldmouse’s calls for him to be silent. “We’ve got what the enemy’s after. I don’t want to be caught and be poisoned like the others. I wish we’d never seen the ninth fragment!”

All around Woodget the room seemed to darken and he swallowed nervously. What had begun as a cruel, teasing game by Ma Skillet had ended in disaster. Now everyone in the bar knew who they were and the evil that they were carrying.

Every hostile face turned in his direction as the raucous mirth ceased, and at last Mother Lotus shifted her gaze to look on Woodget with a steady, deadly light shining in her almond eyes.

“Your friend Triton has big mouth, yes?” she muttered but her feverish breathing betrayed the excitement that was mounting inside her.

Woodget grinned sheepishly. “Poor old Tom,” he gabbled. “Gets a bit carried away sometimes, he do. Wunnerful tales he comes up with. You don’t want to go a believin’ any of them Missus.”

But it was too late and he knew it. The rat drew herself up to her full, squat height and, without taking her eyes off the fieldmouse, clicked her claws.

Immediately the stools and chairs of everyone else in the bar scraped upon the floorboards and the customers rose behind her—standing tall and threatening in the gloom.

Ma Skillet pointed at the leather bag.

“You show Mother Lotus what you keep in there,” she said coldly.

Woodget scrambled to his feet and gave Thomas an urgent shove. “Tom,” he cried. “Quick—Tom. Your sword!”

But Thomas was still under the spell, all he could do was gaze lovingly up at the ugly, bloated rat and murmur shyly to her as though she were the lost sweetheart of his life.

“You give Mother Lotus the bag,” she snapped, a horrible edge grating in her voice.

At that, her brutish clientele began to creep forward, their eyes glinting a bloody red in the lantern light.

Woodget backed away. “I won’t!” he answered flatly.

Ma Skillet sneered and, behind her, the sinister crowd hissed. Then to his horror, the fieldmouse saw that each of their tails was cloven in two. The rats, the ermine, the weasels—each and every one of them was a member of the serpent cult and Woodget felt faint from fear.

The white-faced rat laughed horribly as, from beneath the silk dressing gown, her own tail twitched into view and with a loathsome peeling of flesh it divided—just as Dahrem’s had done.

“So,” she crowed hideously. “From Hara you escape and straight to me you run. Such empty heads you is. Did you not know? Did the big warriors not tell you? Was the tongue of Sadhu still? Know now, here the Black Temple has risen again. You have fled to Sarpedon’s own land, Master Cudweed.”

Woodget choked and staggered against the wall in shock. Instead of taking the last fragment to safety, he and Thomas had delivered it straight into the serpent cult’s clutches.

Now Ma Skillet’s blubbery bulk stood between him and the doorway and he glanced fretfully at the horrendous figures behind her—there was no chance of escape.

“The fragment!” she insisted. “Mother Lotus will see.

Advancing with her claws outstretched, the rat checked herself, then tittered as a more entertaining thought struck her.

“But wait,” she chuckled insidiously. “Poor mousey afraid. If you no give bag to me—then perhaps to Triton you will.”

Turning back to Thomas, Ma Skillet commanded him to stand and still under the sway of her foul arts, the mouse obeyed.

The almond eyes glimmered with a golden light as the rat bent her power upon him and slowly, Thomas drew the sword from under his cloak.

“No,” Woodget cried as his friend advanced towards him with closed eyes. “Tom! Wake up! It’s me—Woodget Pipple!”

Ma Skillet cackled. “You give bag to Triton,” she told him.

Thomas strode closer and the tip of the sword blade was brought ever nearer to the fieldmouse’s chest.

“Now,” the rat uttered viciously, “stab he through the heart.”

Woodget stared into Thomas’s face, but he was totally dominated by the infernal influence of Mother Lotus and the blade pressed painfully against his breast bone.

A trickle of blood pricked from the fieldmouse’s skin and seeped into his reddish gold fur as his bewitched friend prepared to thrust the blade deep into his body.

“Tom...!” Woodget wailed. “Please!”

Not knowing what he was doing, Thomas drew back the sword and plunged it forward.

At once there was a blistering light as the sword burst into blue flame and, before it could pierce the fieldmouse’s flesh, the steel vanished in a shower of silver stars, leaving Thomas to stumble forward—blinking and shaking his head in a confused daze.

Woodget wept and rubbed the shallow wound in his chest then turned to Mother Lotus who was shrieking in fury.

“What happen?” she squawked. “Where sword go?”

Behind her, in the bar, the group of bamboo rats suddenly began to snarl and as one they lunged forward—only to fall back in dismay as a burst of emerald light flared into the gloom and tongues of turquoise flame came leaping into their midst. Yowling in terror, the creatures cowered from the scorching fires which formed a searing and impenetrable barrier between them and the entrance.

Confused, Ma Skillet whisked around at their yammering, amazed at the supernatural inferno which separated them—then above the din a resonant voice rang clear and defiant.

“Be still, servant of the twining tyrant—lest you are thrust into the hottest part of the flames and your wickedness melted clean off your bones.”

At the sound of that voice, Thomas was released and he rubbed his eyes to stare about him. “What’s going on?” he cried.

But Woodget was hopping up and down with joy and punched the air with his small pink fists.

Standing in the open doorway, with a great, bulging pack upon his back, was a diminutive and startling figure, but to the mice his presence was more welcome than a whole legion of Haran warriors.

Clothed in the familiar crimson velvet gown, embroidered with golden symbols—was Simoon.

In one paw he clasped his staff, whilst the other was raised to ward off anything that might be hurled at him, magical or otherwise.

Ma Skillet glared at the jerboa with absolute contempt. How dare he interrupt her? Who was he to interfere in the business of the Scale?

Compared to her flabby bulk, he was little more than a sand flea, yet she could see that about the rayed stars which surmounted Simoon’s black and silver staff, a pale light glowed and glimmered.

Obviously there was more to him than his outer appearance suggested, yet she was not afraid or daunted—the same was true of her also.

“I am come to liberate my young friends,” Simoon’s calm, assured tones told her. “Do not hinder me or your hide will shrivel.”

Ma Skillet planted her feet wide apart and took from beneath her dressing gown a golden dagger, decorated with the image of a twisting serpent—engraved with words of power and control.

“It is you should fear,” she hissed menacingly. “You foolish to enter here.”

Growling, she strode toward him, but the jerboa merely chuckled and tapped his staff upon the ground.

To the rat’s astonishment, the dagger flew from her claw and went flying across the bar, plunging through the flames and over the heads of her frightened and scorched patrons, before embedding itself deep into the far wall.

Incensed, she sprang at him but, with a wave of his paw, her bloated body was thrown back by an unseen force which propelled her into a stack of chairs that came crashing about her head.

Ma Skillet slithered to the ground where her obese weight pounded upon the floorboards. Then, with a smile lighting his enigmatic face, Simoon bowed to Thomas and Woodget.

“Come,” he told them. “Whilst the creature composes herself and her crew are held back by the flames, let us depart.”

The mice hurried over to him. “See Tom!” Woodget cried. “I always knowed he were a real magician. Mister Simoon, we got the ninth fragment...”

“Hush,” the jerboa instructed, “save the tale for friendlier surroundings. Your plight is not yet ended—this is a hazardous place and you might have done great evil by coming here. To thine own land you should have returned and taken the Irish nomad’s burden to the Handmaiden of Orion for safekeeping and wise counsel—not into the very den of the enemy and certainly not on this most perilous of nights. Let us pray we can yet repair the damage wrought by your folly.”

“Alas,” came a shrill voice, “the harm is done and you have lost.”

Simoon and the others turned and, striding through the open doorway came the dishevelled figure of the water vole whom Ma Skillet had previously thrown out.

Yet now all traces of intoxication were banished from his bearing and a haughty disregard was upon his face.

“Did you truly believe your journey from Hara was unmarked?” he asked Thomas incredulously. “The lidless eyes of the Scale are not so blind. It was I who allowed you to venture here unmolested, but now the trap is sprung and your emissaries ended.”

Woodget eyed the ragged-looking creature curiously, there was a vile, deriding quality to that voice which was strangely familiar.

Then the vole raised its paw and, over the threshold, dim threads of gloom came seeping. Into the Lotus Parlour they streamed, to entwine and curl about the stranger, gathering into an inky darkness which swiftly enveloped his unkempt form until his shape began to shimmer and stretch.

“Green’s grace, deliver us,” the jerboa murmured, and to Thomas and Woodget’s consternation there was fear in his voice and his paws were trembling.

Before him the unnatural column of swirling blackness reached up to the ceiling and then, with a trembling of the air the blackness fell away in light strangling ripples, but the vole was nowhere to be seen.

Woodget caught his breath, for there, in the creature’s stead there now towered a menacing and sinister figure swaddled in a black, hooded cloak.

With a sweep of his powerful claws he cast the garment from his head and lit by the glare from the crackling turquoise flames, a hideous, sadistic face was revealed and the mice gasped in fright.

Like a piece of the blackest night, he appeared—a living embodiment of darkness, the essence of the deepest well of shadow given visible form and clothed in mortal flesh.

A sable from the remote northern wastes was he, and his sharp, arrogant features were richly clad in his sleek, luxuriant fur.

Within the glossy darkness of that gaunt, raven visage, the two narrow slits of his eyes burned a fierce yellow and gold—blazing with monumental malice and unquenchable hatred.

Above his glowering brows reared a high, domed forehead and scraped tight over his skull, a mass of dark hair fell about his shoulders.

Disdainful and sneering, his awful, wedge-shaped face distorted with pride and unbridled conceit as he stared down at the three forlorn figures and when his thin lips parted, a row of savage, cruel fangs shone white and sharp.

“At the last we meet,” his malevolent, nasal tones addressed the jerboa and the mice cringed at the sound of it for now they recognised that pitiless voice. Upon the steps of Kara they had first heard its discordant bragging—for there, standing before them, was the High Priest himself.

“Many times have I sensed your presence,” his foul voice continued to snipe at Simoon, “striving to part the veil in your furtive yet clumsy attempts to seek me out from afar and observe my movements. Such childish antics you do engage in. I trust my deeds have kept you entertained—for assuredly they have not assisted you in any way.”

Simoon stared up at him, jutting out his chin defiantly. “Hold your duplicitous tongue, shadow of the serpent,” he cried, but his voice was thin and woeful. “Meddle not with the wanderer of the ancient pathways, the treader of the forgotten track will not be merciful to such a one as you. Yet even now, it is not too late. If you abandon the hellish ways of your foul demon and embrace the true giver of life and hope then even you could be spared.”

“Into the eyes of your death do you gaze!” the sable snorted. “Yet you persist in this puerile cant! You have wasted enough time, old one, the days of your flitting across the oceans and weaving your asinine webs are over. The end of your reviled world has come and the second reign of the Glorious Master is dawning.”

Glancing over to where the turquoise flames still blazed, the High Priest muttered under his breath and at once the fires were doused.

From the floor, amid the splintered wreck of the chair stack, Ma Skillet picked herself up and waddled over to bow low before him.

“Forgive me Brother Priest,” she said feeling awkward. “Mother Lotus, she not know you before.”

The sable returned the bow. “You were not meant to,” he replied in a boastful drawl. “When the High Priest of Sarpedon walks in the guise of another, no eyes may pierce the shadows of his deceit. Do not upset yourself, sister. Though perhaps one day I might return the discourtesy of that rude expulsion, the High Priestess has done well. The Mighty One will be most pleased. This fateful night the rejoicing will be greater than we ever imagined.”

Tracing a curious sign in the air with his claws he held out his palm, then, from the far wall, her dagger jerked itself loose and came floating back for him to catch and he returned it to the corpulent rat, before looking back at Simoon.

“Such simple feats are mere party tricks,” he cackled scornfully. “But is that the height of your wisdom, little burrower of the sand? You ought to have remained in the dry desert instead of daring to come between the Dark Despoiler and his rebirth. That was a task beyond the measure of your base talents.”

“Beware the wrath of Simoon the prophet and obeah pilgrim,” the jerboa told him. “If you will never renounce the Coiled One, then the ninth and final fragment of Gorscarrigern’s most infernal work I shall withhold from your grasp. By the power of the Green I deny it to you and though the nine stars may blaze for an eternity, neither you nor your descendants will ever see the egg made whole nor witness any rebirth of ancient horrors.”

Lifting his staff above his head, he called out in a loud, ringing voice, “Neri Arkitchu Berakka!” and at once the room was ablaze with a dazzling explosion of fierce blue energy.

Ma Skillet shrieked in dread as the blinding bolts blistered about her, and the rest of the cult members recommenced their yammering.

Clasping his paws together, Woodget stared about him, transfixed and enthralled by the fabulous display of the jerboa’s strength and at his side, Thomas was finally convinced that the magician was no fraud.

All about the seedy bar the searing spikes of sapphire flame rampaged, driving the rats, weasels and ermine insane with terror, but in the middle of the miraculous, fiery spectacle, encompassed by Simoon’s unleashed might, the High Priest loomed tall and unafraid.

Summoning his dark strength, he reached up with his claws and his eyes were shot with his own diabolic, blighting flame. Throwing back his head, he let out a hideous string of words and the jerboa cried out in alarm.

For a terrible moment the two powers grappled with each other. Around the High Priest, black lightnings burst into existence, clashing ferociously with Simoon’s blistering forces and the prophet yelled in anguish as though tormented with great pain. On they battled and the room erupted with both brilliance and absolute night—but in the end, it was the High Priest who had the mastery and with a piteous wail, Simoon fell back defeated.

With a spitting of black sparks, the tip of the silver-spiralled staff split asunder and even as the jerboa clutched at it for support, the magical device withered and crumbled into a heap of ashes upon the floor.

Darkness returned to the Lotus Parlour and Woodget stared at Simoon in despair.

Out of breath, his strength and power spent, the prophet wilted and fell senseless to the ground—leaving Thomas and Woodget to face the High Priest alone.

The sable laughed, but it was a hollow, mirthless sound and the mice shivered before it.

Licking the blade of the dagger, Ma Skillet eyed them hungrily and her stomach rumbled.

“Curb your appetite,” the High Priest warned. “These two unpledged morsels who have carried the ninth and final fragment must be given over to Our Lord at his renewal. Their blood shall slake his age-old thirst. Take them!”

Obediently, his followers scurried forward to seize Thomas and Woodget by the wrists and with a triumphant leer upon his imperious face, the sable tore the leather bag from the fieldmouse’s paws.

“You can’t have that!” Woodget squealed, but it was no use.

Violently the High Priest struck him across the face and even as Thomas flew at him with his fists raised, they were gripped by the three scar-faced weasels and the fieldmouse was held by two great bilge rats.

“Bind the stupid fools and take them to the boat,” the High Priest said coldly, “and be certain to bring the poor, infirm prophet along. I should like him to witness the magnificence of this night.”

And so, kicking and struggling, the mice were dragged from the Lotus Parlour, then one of the bamboo rats cut the straps of Simoon’s pack and hoisted his unconscious form onto a bony shoulder before following the others outside.

Alone with Ma Skillet, the High Priest lifted the fieldmouse’s bag and, closing his eyes to savour the moment, reached inside.

With a sudden livid radiance, the sickly light that glowed from the jade fragment shone out within the room and the sable let out a great, glad sigh as it flowed over his hatchet-like features.

Languidly, his eyes opened and he gazed enamoured upon the meticulously crafted segment in his claws.

“So, little Dahrem was right,” he murmured. “He did indeed discover the whereabouts of that which our enemies have long kept secret. It is well he perished in Hara for never would I have permitted him to claim the honour of finding this most beautiful thing. Now it is my name that shall be written in blood above the pillars of black marble, my name that Suruth Scarophion shall praise above all others, for now I am the instrument of his deliverance.”

At his side, the bloated, white-powdered rat took a wondrous breath as if trying to inhale the loathsome loveliness of that most miraculous sight.

“Now the tally, it complete,” she uttered. “The Black One—he return.”

A foul grin split the sable’s crow-black face and he stared out of the door into the shadows that lay beneath the wooden pier, then beyond to a patch of the clear ebon night.

“Nine bright stars from out the void, shining up on high,” he chanted in a whisper, “whose banished soul do they call back and augur in the sky? Despoiler of the ancient lands, who baked the deserts dry. Scarophion, Scarophion—the demon is close by.”

Mother Lotus hung her head respectfully. “This night he come back,” she murmured reverently. “The Dark Sovereign, he return.”

“Yes,” the High Priest answered, caressing the gleaming gold traceries with his claws, “after all this long, lonely time, the ages of his exile are complete. The fate of the world is set and a new darkness is about to commence. Come, to the Black Temple!”

Swirling his cloak about him, he strode into the night and, stealing a final glance at the place she had endured for nearly forty years, gathering information and claiming the itinerants whom no one would miss to feed the sacrificial altars, Ma Skillet waddled after.

An unusual quiet descended within the bar; the place which normally buzzed and seethed with the dark underbelly of Singapore life was silent and still. Only the candle flame as it guttered in the breeze which streamed through the open door made any sound, its wax dripping a steady tattoo upon the floor.

Then, at the rear of the dim, lantern-lit place, a movement stirred the ragged curtain and from the rancid kitchen the face of Kiku emerged and fear was frozen upon her features.

Hiding in the back, forgotten by all, the rat maiden had heard everything that had transpired and, peeping through a rent in the curtain, had seen the nightmarish and frightening events that had occurred since the arrival of the High Priest.

In paralysed terror she had remained out of sight and mind but now she roused herself and crept through the bar, mortally afraid.

Even in Morocco, the country of her birth, she had heard the rumours and legends of the serpent cult and though she did not understand everything that she had heard tonight, she had wits enough to piece the meaning together.

Warily, she pattered to the entrance and peered out, pulling her head smartly in again as she saw a long rowing boat being pushed down the mud towards the river’s edge.

Out onto the Singapore River the vessel was drawn by the great bilge rats until it was caught by the tide and lifted upon the water. Before Ma Skillet’s considerable figure, the High Priest sat, his dark form already invisible in the murk and at the front of the craft, trussed up with many ropes and cords, were the small outlines of Thomas, Woodget and Simoon.

As the bamboo rats took hold of the oars and dipped them into the dark water, the boat pulled away from the muddy banks. Into the dim distance it sped and the doom that awaited them all gathered each one into its grim and terrible charge.

When she was certain the danger was past, Kiku looked about her, wildly wondering what she could do and where she could go. It was plain that her brief existence here was over and after everything that she had witnessed there was nothing that could have induced her to stay. Then as her mind raced, she noticed the jerboa’s large pack lying on the ground and cautiously, she scurried over to examine it.

Presently, the prophet’s precious and peculiar belongings were scattered about the bar, as she hauled each new piece of mystical paraphernalia from the pack to scrutinise and speculate on its esoteric function.

Draping a length of richly-embroidered material about her shoulders and inspecting the pictures drawn on Simoon’s cards, she shuddered to think to what terrible end his uncanny profession had ultimately guided the unfortunate jerboa.

In spite of her urgent fears, Kiku wondered what her life would have been like if she had been granted with the divine gift of foreknowledge. The rat maiden drew the patterned cloth about her, assuming a superior, all-knowing pose as though she were cloaked in a mantle of mystical power and sorcery—possessed with the fathomless wisdom of the ancient magicians.

Then the fantasy ended and the embroidered fabric fell from her shoulders as she stood stock still for she was struck by a sudden revelation and in that instant everything became clear to her.

To all intents and purposes these marvellous things belonged to her now. It was no use expecting the jerboa to come back for them, not where he was heading. She could take off with them and who would decry her? Her life could blossom anew; this was her chance to start again and her blissful destiny would soar to staggering heights. The map of her life spread out before her and she knew the path she must tread. A fortune teller she would become, no one could possibly know that she was ignorant of such arts for now she had all the apparatus she needed to fool them. With her sharp wits she would be able to bluff her way through anything and, if the fates were kind, perhaps one day she would be given true power.

Hastily, Kiku stuffed as many of Simoon’s magical possessions as she could into a sack, then hurried to the entrance.

A pang of guilt rankled her conscience as she saw the vague shape of the boat dwindle in the distance. But what could she do for the three prisoners it held? In this savage place there was nothing but brutality and though for a brief moment the wild fancy entered her head that she could follow her former mistress and rescue those unfortunates by herself, with a click of her tongue she dismissed the thought as madness. To add to the captives’ deaths with her own would achieve nothing. No, Kiku would flee—escape that friendless and barbaric region where the fork-tails lived.

Glancing once more at the darkness that lay over the river, the rat maiden left the bar and scampered away, filling her remorse-ridden mind with anything she could think of in order to blot out the awful thoughts that were forming there. A hideous fate awaited those two small mice and the jerboa, but she tried not to dwell on such horrors, for she knew that they would only torment her. So, concentrating instead on the new life that she envisioned for herself, she hurried into the gloom—dreaming up impressive sounding titles for this excellent vocation.

Her real name she would keep, even though Mother Lotus could never pronounce it correctly. But although it was exotic enough, her title needed extra flourish and flair, a grandiose term to impress her clients—similar to the distinctive ‘Mother Lotus’.

“Gypsy?” she muttered, running under the rickety pier’s shadow and scuttling along the shore. “Sayer of sooth? Ack—no. Lady, Witch, Princess, Madame? Hmmmm... yes, Madame—it sound good.”

And with that, Madame Akkikuyu disappeared into the night, leaving the terror of the Scale behind her as she embarked upon her new and lifelong career.

As the rowing boat journeyed out of the river, into the bay and onto the sea beyond, Thomas looked up at the foul face of the High Priest and was engulfed in despair.

At his side, Woodget was sniffling, thinking about how bitterly they had failed. Everything they, Mulligan, Chattan and the entire population of Hara had striven for had come to nothing. The battle to keep the fragment from the disciples of Scarophion had ended calamitously and as Thomas’s forlorn gaze travelled upwards to the black, cavernous night, his desolation and hopelessness deepened.

Overhead, glimmering in the heavens, shining wanly in the radiance of the bright full moon, nine points of pricking light were gleaming in a twisting, serpentine constellation that he had never seen before.

The stars of Sarpedon were already beginning to blaze, heralding the return of the Dark Despoiler’s spirit to the living plane and in that bleak hour, Thomas’s spirits were utterly vanquished.

The cult of the snake had beaten them all.

16 - The Black Temple

Over the waters the rowing boat sailed and when they were far from shore the High Priest unfurled his cloak and gazed lustfully upon the ninth fragment once more, imagining the glory that awaited him under his unhallowed sovereign’s slaughterous regime.

Into the night the lurid glow pulsed, flickering in the gentle waves that surrounded the small craft and, by its ghastly light, Thomas saw the sable’s hideous face flood with an expression of supreme, malevolent delight.

Unable to look upon him any longer, Thomas tried to turn away, shifting his bound body onto its side and in that uncomfortable position, with the ropes that bound him biting into his arms and wrists, he peered over the prow of the boat and stared curiously ahead of them.

Beside him, in a meek and fearful voice, Woodget asked, “Where they takin’ us, Tom? I be real scared. There bain’t no hope fer us, be there?”

“No, Woodj,” Thomas replied sadly. “None at all this time, we’re reaching the end of our voyage at last. I’m sorry I let you down.”

The fieldmouse wriggled his nose. “’Tweren’t your fault, Tom,” he lamented, “even old Simoon weren’t no match fer that there villain. Does you think he’ll recover before—before whatever they got planned?”

Thomas looked across him to where the jerboa still lay in a swoon and muttered under his breath, “It’s probably better if he doesn’t.”

Directly behind them, the bilge rats continued to heave on the oars and the boat shot unerringly through the dense night until Thomas began to see black shapes appear in the shadowy distance. As they drew closer, he saw in the soft moonlight that they were jagged spears of rock which reared up from the ocean bed, clustering in a lethal, bitter reef.

Yet straight towards them the rowing boat sped and with every pull on the oars the danger swept nearer. Such was the hazard of the barbed, biting rocks that many of the outlying perils lurked just below the surface of the waves, as if they were deliberately waiting to rip and tear into an unsuspecting hull. But beyond them, others reached from the water in deadly, spiked pinnacles; some were so large that they were almost like craggy islands and upon their ridges and within the gaping clefts, sea birds nested.

Up to the perimeter of the submerged stone teeth the rats steered the boat, yet this was a journey they had made a thousand times and their wicked, cunning minds knew the location of each murderous rock. Skirting around the edge of the unseen snags and spines, the craft veered in a wide circle until, with a sudden raising of the starboard oars and straining upon those of the port side, they jolted to the left and shot into a natural channel which divided the reef in two.

In spite of his dread, Thomas was forced to admire the skill with which the rats navigated their way through the deadly formations which now reared from the sea around them as they pressed ever deeper into the centre of the rocky continent.

Through narrow waterways, between spires of stone, the little boat went, winding through a maze of secret shallows and not once did the keel touch or scrape against any of the savage, lurking boulders.

With his head twisted to the front, Thomas eventually saw an island of rock, larger than the rest, emerge from behind the surrounding, jagged fences and it was this which they were heading towards.

Like a hill of bare, uneven stone the island appeared; a great and solid mass that sat hunched and immovable in the ocean. Situated at the centre of the vast reef, surrounded by the forest of its inferiors, it was as though that titanic bulk was the grandsire of the lesser formations, as if they had sprung from its vastness.

Thomas hated the sight of it; the island repelled and frightened him. It was as if a dark, malice-filled spirit possessed the very stones of the place; horror and evil flowed across the water from its clefts and crags and, trembling, the mouse hung his head.

Stark and black against the milky moon, the huge, brooding island was crowned with turrets of needling rock that gleamed like the upraised spears of a barbaric host. Over its grim surface, dark caves gaped like sightless eyes and, yawning over the water like a massive, screaming mouth, stretched the entrance to an immense and cavernous interior.

Up to this pitch-dark mouth the rats rowed the boat and as soon as they passed into its sombre shadow both Woodget’s and Thomas’s flesh crawled and they were chilled to the marrow.

Yet under that terrible entrance the little craft journeyed, vanishing into the obliterating gloom as the rock towered over them and all Thomas could see were the eyes of the High Priest glinting with a pale, greedy light.

Deep into the island they travelled and the sound of the oars splashing in the water echoed wildly around the enormous, night-swamped space.

Then Thomas began to see strange shapes glimmering in the darkness. Around them there were the vague outlines of other vessels, all moored to the rocky wall and finally, their own boat sailed beneath a great ship with golden timbers and high over the mice’s heads reared the prow of Kaliya, the ship of the Scale. But its decks were deserted and its glittering anchor cast out upon the rocky bed far below.

“Where are we, Tom?” Woodget’s plaintive voice whimpered.

“Some kind of harbour, I reckon,” his friend answered. “This must be their lair.”

With a jarring bump, the boat drew alongside the roughly-hewn wall and the rats and weasels yanked in the oars.

Then, as the ermine was tying the craft to a rusted iron ring set into the rock, the High Priest rose and his cloak-enfurled figure sprang onto a flight of stone steps which led up from the water’s edge.

Clumsily, Ma Skillet lurched to her feet and the boat tilted alarmingly as her great weight rocked it. Quickly, one of the bilge rats helped her out and with a toss of her pigtail, she gracelessly disembarked.

Ascending to the top of the steep flight, as Ma Skillet lumbered after, the High Priest turned and pointed to the three captives who remained below.

“Bring them,” his shrill voice commanded, and with that the sable spun on his heel and, with his bloated High Priestess waddling in pursuit, he vanished into the darkness and there came a resounding clang of metal.

In the boat, Thomas and Woodget saw the ugly faces of three bamboo rats come leering into view above them and claws as sharp as knives bit into their skin as they were hauled up and flung heedlessly over their shoulders before being heaved up the steps, their heads smacking against the rats’ bony backs.

In single file the rats went, clambering up the stairs, following the path their comrades and their leaders had taken. Along the narrow ledge that ran around the dismal harbour they went; the rat bearing Thomas going first, then the brute who bore Woodget and finally the one carrying Simoon’s limp and senseless body.

“Ha—you poxy maggot!” cackled the green-fanged rat in the middle, speaking in their own foul language and jiggling the fieldmouse upon his shoulder as he pinched him cruelly. “A fine treat yer in fer now, though I don’t suppose it’ll be to your dainty taste.”

“What’s that, Belto?” called the ragged-eared one carrying the jerboa. “An’ you think it’ll be to yours? Didn’t you see what the High One robbed from these three bits of wholetail scum?”

“Gnyarr!” the rat snarled back. “What of it, Seska?”

“It were only the last bit of that treasure they an’ all their blood-curdling adepts have been searching fer all this time. Pyerr! Didn’t that old soak of a father ever tell you owt before he was gutted by Ma Skillet for sickin’ on her floor?”

“So they found what they been looking fer,” Seska snapped back. “Should make it all the easier fer us. Maybe now we’ll get a bit of a rest—some proper grog for a change, not her dishwatery slops.”

Belto snorted and spat a glob of yellow phlegm down into the water. “Always were gormless, weren’t you!” he muttered. “The fighting won’t stop now. The wars are only beginning. Don’t you know what them shiny fragments are?”

“I only does what I’m told,” Seska replied. “It’s best not to go pokin’ your snout into the High One’s affairs—I seen too many get spiked by the great adepts fer doin’ just that.”

Belto grunted. “You’re a fool,” he declared. “From tonight it’ll all change, an’ fer the worse—cause Him’s coming back. Yes, the snaking devil himself. All them old tales, all that plaguey history they ram down our throats at these musterings, where you get soused on blood an’ liquor—they’re all true and tonight you’ll see it fer yourself.”

Seska said nothing, but Woodget could feel him quaking and found it terrifying that even the servants of Gorscarrigern feared the thought of their infernal lord’s return.

The rats lapsed into silence but they did not venture much further before the ledge ended and the way was barred by an iron door.

A clangorous report echoed about the cavernous harbour as the rat bearing Thomas gave the door a fierce kick and it swung open to reveal a slightly wider passage beyond which was lit by flickering torchlight.

Into this dipping way the prisoners were carried and the path twisted and turned for some distance before abruptly, when they turned a corner, a fierce radiance welled up and the tunnel opened out into a monstrous chamber.

Thomas squirmed in the rat’s grip to see where they had been brought and his eyes grew wide in amazement.

In the very heart of the great, lonely island, generations of the serpent cult had toiled with chisels and hammers, quarrying out the rocky centre, expanding the existing caves and creating a monumental cavern in which they had raised again the altar of Suruth Scarophion—dedicating it with the blood of his enemies.

Here then, was the second Black Temple—a shrine of despair to replace the profane cathedral which was destroyed in the great long ago when the combined host of the Green conquered and slew the serpent god’s mortal flesh.

Since that distant, cataclysmic time, the followers had worked long in secret and as their numbers swelled, the devotees and skilled paws of their slaves had laboured with unceasing fervour to recall the diabolic glory of that first and most terrible of heathen temples.

From the floor of solid rock, a wide flight of steps, which spanned the entire length of that gargantuan space, rose with regal majesty to a raised platform where four massive pillars of black marble towered upwards to support the lofty ceiling.

Wide as the trunks of ancient trees was the girth of those mighty columns and bands of gold encircled their stupendous heights. Beyond them, in the main sanctum of the unholy shrine, the walls were set with precious gems and the hellish glare of a hundred ruby-encrusted lamps bathed the place in a scarlet light.

To the rear of the temple, upon a raised dais that was black with the age-old gore of countless sacrifices, stood the altar stone and high above that, where the vaulted roof towered out of the reach of the garish lantern light, the chamber was open to the sky.

A vast and perfect circle gaped in the chiselled rock and through it streamed the light of nine bright stars.

Yet the whole panorama of this awesome, reviled spectacle was nothing compared to that which dominated the entire, horrible scene and Thomas cringed when he beheld it.

Rearing higher than the towering pillars, up to where the roof melted into the darkness, was a colossal and nightmarish statue.

Over the marble floor its sculpted body writhed—coiling about the columns, its tail tapering into a twisting loop before the altar. Yet rising to the ceiling, the arched neck touched the rock then curved down again to culminate in an abhorrent fearsome head which surveyed the temple below with fiery eyes.

Here was the gigantic image of Sarpedon the Mighty—the Dark Despoiler of the Eastern Lands whose name meant death and whose reign was darkness.

Fashioned in loving, dreadful detail, the likeness had taken longer to construct than the temple which housed it. Each of the innumerable scales were painstakingly wrought from the purest gold and the patterns which adorned the length of its frightful body were picked out with emerald and sapphire.

Never had Thomas witnessed such a foul monstrosity as the head which loomed through the central pillars. As great in size as Kaliya, the ship of the Scale, was that repulsive, glittering aberration. The rubies which shone in place of the eyes were as large as himself and the open jaws were crammed with teeth of black steel. But the two huge fangs which protruded from that horrendous mouth were tipped with diamond and from the depths of the throat a great black smoke issued, for fires were constantly kept ablaze in the serpent’s belly and the reek streamed upwards—obscuring the ceiling in a canopy of choking fumes.

Before the face of that hideous idol, the worshippers of Gorscarrigern would fall to their knees and offer up their blasphemous prayers, for it inspired them with terror and the very mention of His evil, exalted name was enough to instil them with dread. It was said that this ghastly image was but a fraction of their lord’s true horror, that his earthly form was many times the greater—and that thought alone filled them with devout, demented despair.

Staring up at the terrifying spectacle, Woodget shut his eyes and turned away, back to the relative darkness that spread before the wide marble steps upon which their captors were standing. Yet when the fieldmouse opened his eyes again he uttered a whimpering groan—the unbounded gloom which stretched below the temple was not empty.

Within that pagan place, crammed inside that tremendous cavern, the assembled host of Gorscarrigern’s followers was gathered, and the sight made Woodget’s blood run cold.

Thousands upon thousands of squint-eyed, malignant creatures were jostling and squirming in the murk. In that great, hollow space their thronging, stinking bodies were crowded and not a chink nor a gap of room was there between them.

With a putrid light their eyes sparkled, glinting in the reflected glare of the fiery lanterns and as a shimmering, stagnant sea it appeared.

Never had Woodget seen so many diverse creatures massed together before. Towards the front the smaller creatures had congregated and in the infernal glare he recognised rats, stoats, squirrels, shrews, martens, weasels, ermine, mice, voles and marmots—to his mournful surprise he saw that there were even some mongooses down there. But behind them, the larger members of the despicable cult were crouched—waiting for the ceremony to begin.

There he saw foxes and hyenas, even a number of monkeys—yet in the deep darkness beyond, his sharp glance picked out the squat shapes of four crocodiles and his mind flew back to the attack on Hara.

Shifting his gaze, he saw that the walls of the cavern were carved into terraces and there too the hordes were pressed and wedged in tightly. Then lifting his face, he saw high above, perched upon shelves of rock, were many flocks of carrion birds.

At appointed times in the year the host of Scarophion’s worshippers would make their way to this unhallowed place to hear the fearsome words of the High Priest as he read the black scriptures and witness the dreadful rituals of their nightmare lord.

That night they had all come expecting the revels to be high and overflowing with blood, for never in any of their lives had the constellation of Sarpedon appeared in the firmament and their pledged souls thrilled to the knowledge that the nine stars meant their evil sovereign was close to the living plane.

The atmosphere within the enormous chamber was rank and stale. The hot, stinking breath of the expectant congregation mingled with the burning reek that flowed from the golden idol’s mouth and the corrupt foulness was so strong that Woodget could almost taste it.

When the pagan multitude saw the three prisoners carried from the doorway at the side of the great steps they jeered and sent up a vile clamouring—yelling gruesome curses and horrific oaths then laughing to see the mice’s terrified faces.

Thomas looked on the mustered legions in dismay, their calls rang in his ears and he wished that he had been spared the sight of them, envying Simoon’s unconscious state. All he, Woodget and the jerboa could possibly hope for now was a swift and painless death but he knew that such a blessing would be denied them. The High Priest would not end their lives so mercifully; no, most likely he would cast them to the mob to be torn to shreds by their claws or perhaps he had contrived an even more terrible fate for them.

Without ceremony the three rats carried the captives up the steps until they were standing between the two central pillars with the ghastly golden head of the statue rearing directly above them. Then the mice and Simoon were thrown to the floor and the rats went scampering back down the stairs to join their comrades below.

Lying face down upon the cold marble, Thomas strained at the ropes that tied him but they held him tightly so he rolled over and managed to raise himself to a sitting position.

Close by, Woodget was attempting to do the same, but all he could manage was to flounder upon the ground like a stranded fish and the crowd roared to see him struggle in vain.

“Tom!” he wailed. “I can’t move, these knots be too tight—I doesn’t want to get killed a-groveilin’ on the floor.”

“Hush,” Thomas said gently, “don’t show this scurvy crew that you’re afraid. At least we’re going together, Woodj, and the next life can’t be any worse than this one.”

Suddenly, there began the beating of drums and the sea of hideous faces which stretched from the bottom of the steps into the distant dark, ceased their raucous shouts and an eerie silence descended.

The fur on the back of Thomas’s neck prickled—the eager, apprehensive stillness was even worse than the previous clamouring and he wondered what the steady pounding rhythm could mean.

But he and Woodget were not kept in suspense for long.

To the right of him, where the near wall of the temple’s inner sanctum rose into the smoky gloom, there was a large, ornate entrance, studded with jewels and, as he stared, the door was swept open.

Louder rang the incessant beating din and from that entrance marched six voles with drums of taut skin about their necks and slender bones grasped in their claws.

Sharp and unharmonious was the harsh noise of those strident drums and into the shrine the voles came, bowing before the altar. Then down the steps they strode, halting midway where their drumming mounted in intensity until with a fierce yell they stopped and raised the bones above their heads.

Thomas grimaced at Woodget, then from the entrance others came and he shrank against the base of the nearest pillar when he beheld them.

Into the temple strode the great adepts—chosen creatures with the power to slough their skin and walk unclad in the scales of their true nature. Dahrem had been one of their number but with his death the count of their order was reduced to eight. Yet even though they entered as beings of mortal flesh, the congregation still feared them and ripples of horror echoed about the cavernous gloom.

Proud and haughty they were, those select few, whose skill and knowledge of the base, occult arts had elevated them to such an infamous rank. The first was a great and odious-looking mole, whose misshapen face held a permanent sneer and in his massive claws he carried an object wrapped around with many peeled and dried skins.

After him the other adepts came; a stoat with a circlet of gold upon her head, a lemur whose chattering jaws lunged tauntingly at Thomas when he swaggered by, he was followed by an Assam rabbit covered in dark brown bristles with grotesquely long teeth. One by one the adepts entered—a squirrel, a twitching palm civet, a long-eared hedgehog and, bringing up the rear, an Indian ratel.

Like the mole, they each bore a bundle of skins and in a semicircle they gathered around the altar and waited.

Woodget stared at them fearfully. “What they doing, Tom?” he asked. “What they got in their fists?”

Thomas had already guessed, but there was no time to answer, for at that moment the drums rolled again and into the temple came the High Priest and after him. Mother Lotus.

To edge of the wide steps, the cloaked sable paced and the flabby rat trundled up to be at his side.

With a triumphant look illuminating his sleek, black face, the high priest regarded the silent masses below and held up his claw in greeting.

“Servants of Sarpedon!” he shrieked and his shrill voice went slicing through the dismal murk, echoing around the deep, vaulted cavern.

“You have come this night to celebrate the rare blazing of the nine stars in heaven—yet the tidings I bring outshine even their magnificence!”

In the darkness the assembly muttered and stirred approvingly. Most had heard the rumours of Hara’s downfall and they thirsted to hear the salacious details of the vicious battle.

“Know now that the fortresses of our enemies have been utterly conquered!” the sable cried. “The Shrine of Virbius has been despoiled and the city of the Green is no more. From those squalid dens of our weakling foes the seventh and eighth fragments of Our Lord’s precious work have been restored unto our keeping.”

At this the multitude roared with exultation—yammering the Dark Despoiler’s praises and cheering the victories of the High Priest.

Basking in their screaming tributes and adoration, the sable stepped aside and with a flourish of his claw gave a signal to the adepts.

As one, they tore the preserved, furry wrappings from the bundles they held and there in their clutches they held the eight plundered fragments.

At once the baleful glow of so many pieces welled up within that hellish place and their livid effulgence burst out into the cavern—drowning out all lesser sources of light until even the darkest cleft was flooded with a sickly, green radiance.

Thomas screwed up his face at the loathsome glare; it was many times greater than the light which had filled the domed chamber in the Holy One’s mountain and hurt his eyes. It was as if the moon had sickened in the sky and had fallen into the temple to shed corrupt and gangrenous beams upon the earth and he felt unclean and sullied at the sight of it.

But when he turned away, the full extent and measure of the infernal cult’s forces was revealed under the repulsive, putrefying incandescence and his mind recoiled at their countless number.

Below him, and covering every available space into the furthest possible distance, the massive congregation were blinking and holding their rancid breaths as they saw for the first time the exquisite designs of their maleficent master.

As the deathly light pulsed and beat from the eight, separate pieces of jade, the chosen ones raised their claws above their heads and gasps of alarm and unease issued from the stunned, thunderstruck crowds.

Thomas glanced back into the intense, unwholesome glare and saw that, within each fist, the fragments were moving.

Surrounding the diseased splendour of the flaring, shining jade, the golden traceries became molten and were imbued with a frightful life of their own. Around the irregular edges the scrollwork was writhing and the intricate lattices were peeling away to search and grope in the air like the raised heads of serpents.

Crowing with dark joy, the High Priest threw back his head.

“Eight pieces we had!” he yelled. “Yet this very night, providence and my own guile and artifice have rewarded these long empty years of waiting. For here, at this critical hour when the heralding stars swing in the sky, I have delivered unto this sacred place, the sanctum of the Black Master, the ninth and final fragment!”

Casting aside his cloak, he brought out the remaining segment which Mulligan and his ancestors had kept safe and secret throughout the ages and brandished it high for all to see.

Like a septic sun, the fragment shone and the gathering shrieked with insane voices.

“At last!” the sable screamed. “The time has come—the Lord Suruth Scarophion shall be reborn. His shell shall be remade whole again and this night of the great conjunction will witness a return to the dark years of the past. No dawn shall rise with the morning—His black strength shall blot out the light and under the ravishing shadow of his being all things will turn to us or rot and be forgotten in the dust and slime of his ruinous wake.”

Thomas stared up at the forbidding figure of the High Priest and winced at the madness that distorted those sharp and cruel features. The absolute devotion to the evil serpent god was horrific to see but he could not tear his eyes away now, for the moment that would pronounce the doom of the present world was fast approaching and he steeled his nerves to witness it.

Flourishing the ninth fragment in his claws, the High Priest whirled around and strode to the centre of the adepts, stepping onto the blackened, blood-stained altar stone and, as though they were controlled by one single mind, the eight creatures closed in around him.

“Too long has His Dark Majesty been banished from the waking world!” he cried, his voice rising to a crescendo of fanatical jubilation. “Too long have our enemies denied us the means for His deliverance! But now the hour is upon us! Sarpedon will rear amongst us again, the eternal night has come at last!”

Lifting the fragment over the altar, he shrieked with rapture and the chosen ones moved their radiant charges ever closer.

Thomas watched aghast, as the golden edges of the reunited pieces thrashed feverishly. With every passing instant that the jade fragments drew nearer to one another, the glittering, encasing metal strove and flailed more violently until, finally, the snaking arabesques seized hold of their opposite numbers and with a resounding discordant note that went chiming through the cavern and out through the portal in the ceiling, the fragments locked together—flying from the adept’s clutches with the violence of their union.

Trembling with ecstatic emotion, the High Priest stared at his empty claws then down at the altar where the great and fabulous shape of a huge, glowing egg now stood.

Over its gorgeous surface, no trace or hint of the edges that had divided the nine individual segments could be seen—only a marvellous and worshipful whole and, leaping into the air, he let out an elated roar.

“Behold!” he screeched. “The vessel which will receive Our Dear Lord’s spirit! After all this time—his ancient plan to cheat the forces of the Green has succeeded!”

The congregation threw their knives and cutlasses in the air—shrieking in demented voices. “SARPEDON!” they howled. “SARPEDON! SARPEDON! SARPEDON!”

Throwing back her head, and twirling in a wide, inelegant circle, the wobbling bulk of Ma Skillet squawked with gladness.

“Mighty Serpent!” she exulted. “Your peoples await! Come—be with us!”

Quaking with excitement, the High Priest gazed up at the expanse of night visible beyond the circular opening in the roof and his face was split by a raving, maniacal grin.

High above, in the clear unclouded heavens the constellation of Scarophion was shining fiercely. The nine, snaking stars which heralded the demon’s proximity to the living plane were blazing with brilliant, silver fire and against their frosty flames even the moon could not compete.

“Hear me!” the sable ranted, flinging his arms open wide and falling to his knees in subjugation. “Hearken now to the words of thy ambassador upon this mortal earth! The restraints that bind you in the void are at their weakest—break forth and array yourself in godly flesh once more. Return to us, your devoted disciples!”

Around him the adepts fell upon their faces and before the temple the assembled legions did the same—yet on all their lips was their master’s name and they chanted it continuously as they waited for his return.

With horror upon his face, Woodget looked up at the circle of night and the fierce stars that dazzled there. Then, to his astonishment and distress, their cold light flashed in the midnight sky, and a profound rumbling, like the deepest, calamitous thunder shook the heavens and the island quaked beneath it.

From the lofty, vaulted ceiling, a deluge of stones rattled down and the pillars that upheld the temple shifted with a tremendous grating of marble over rock. Yet the foul cult members were oblivious to it all, they were possessed by the thought of their lord’s dark return and even if the ground had opened up to swallow them they would not have noticed.

Then, as Woodget and Thomas stared heavenward, they saw nine rays of searing light come streaking from the Constellation of the Serpent. Through the empty reaches of the void, the flickering beams raced—streaming straight towards the unhappy world. Down over the oceans the spearing flames plummeted until at last they shone through the open portal cut into the rocky island’s jagged peak and into the Black Temple their icy splendour burst.

As an immense column of pure light, the rays shot into the unhallowed sanctum, bringing with them the freezing winter of the infinite void and upon the altar, their frosty fires crackled and sparked.

Over the surface of the great jade and golden egg, the blinding hoary beams flickered—playing over the glowing shell, lapping the twirling arabesques of the precious, living metal with rime.

Thomas shuddered, the mingling of the jade’s livid gleam with the harsh, brumal starlight was a chilling and unlovely spectacle—a corpse flame to awaken the long-cold decayed dead and condemn unrepentent souls to perdition.

Now the egg was wreathed in the lurid fires, completely enclosed within their bleak, glacial tongues. Then Thomas heard Woodget’s small and desperate voice call out.

“Tom—look! Simoon, he be coming round.”

Thomas wrenched his eyes from the awful scene by the altar and turned to where the jerboa’s limp and sprawled body lay upon the marble floor.

In slow, painful movements, the prophet was awakening, returning from that dark forgetfulness to which his grappling with the High Priest had dispatched him.

Wearily, he lifted his sandy-coloured head, his brambling whiskers twitching as he opened his large black eyes and beheld the terrible sight before him.

Then, in a small, frail voice, Simoon murmured, “Finally the end has come. Our labours are completed and the doom of many is nigh.”

Shaking his head, he slumped back onto the ground and beside him, realizing suddenly just how much faith he had put in the prophet, the fieldmouse wept bitterly.

Yet still the cold fires crackled about the great egg—as the demonic, exiled spirit descended from the celestial confines to enter into the shell which he himself had ordered to be constructed in his former existence. Into that enchanted symbol of rebirth and creation that he had steeped in his own evil arts during the dark years of his reign, Suruth Scarophion, the Dark Despoiler—Gorscarrigern, the Coiled One—stole back to the mortal world and before the altar, the High Priest rose to his feet and spun around to face his followers.

“Arise!” he commanded. “For all who adore Our Lord should witness his return.”

In silent reverence the crowds obeyed and lit by the wintry light, the adepts and Mother Lotus lifted their faces to the wondrous, miraculous vision.

As they watched, breathing rapidly in their suppressed fervour, the glacial flames about the egg began to diminish and, far above the earth, the nine stars were waning.

“See!” the sable screeched. “Our Lord is amongst us once more.”

To Thomas’s disgust, as the glare dwindled, becoming the pale green glow of disease once more, he saw that within the great egg, behind the curving surface of the glimmering jade, something was moving.

In the heart of that hideously beautiful shell, a dark shadow had formed and already it was wriggling and contorting its squirming worm-like shape.

“Sarpedon!” the High Priest cried bowing before the altar. “Your servants await you.”

“Tom!” Woodget whimpered. “They’ve done it—the snake god’s really here!”

Within the egg, the shadow jiggled and thrashed, growing larger with the passing moments. Soon it would break out of the shell and a nightmare more repellent than anything Woodget’s innocent mind could ever imagine would breathe the fetid air, filling its new-born lungs with gargling gasps as it gazed upon the devoted subjects who prostrated themselves before its unhallowed and absolute authority.

“Feel the Sovereign’s might and majesty!” the High Priest called. “Let his sublime power flow through you all—let us greet him in the essence of our devotion. At this hour all shall be granted the gift of change and transformation. Honour your master, declare to him your fealty!”

The assembly stared at him in confusion but all could feel the horrible influence which beat out from the pulsing egg and to their stupefied bewilderment their matted hides began to itch and buckle, tearing from their flesh and falling in shreds of fur and feather upon the floor.

Innumerable nightmares were suddenly revealed—grisly lizard-like ogres with luminous eyes and spiny ridges sprouting down their necks forming horrendous distortions of scale-covered, bowed backs. Webbed claws raked the air and spindly haunches rocked the squat, slimy bodies from side to side as the last vestiges of their hot-blooded flesh was ripped loose and cast upon the ground.

Quickly their initial, startled fright was transformed to joy and they revelled in their true, scaly natures—singing the praises of their peerless tyrant in gutteral hissing voices.

Thomas closed his eyes and twisted his head away from that despicable sight. Before the steps, the host of the Scale had fulfilled their infernal goals and were now truly dedicated to their monarch’s service. In grotesque imitations of the Dark Despoiler they had shed their flesh and were revealed for the vile creatures they had become.

Before the altar, the adepts were rapidly sloughing their skins, and a heap of furry, bristling pelts lay piled upon the black marble as they paraded their ghastly characters—flinging their glistening arms in the air, dragging their newtish tails behind their gruesome, spine-spiking bodies, ogling the egg with fish-like eyes, flicking their tongues in and out of their wide mouths and shrieking in demented screeches.

Watching them, and clapping with approval. Mother Lotus cackled, then she tore off her silk dressing gown and with it the abundant folds of her flesh until finally she ripped from her head the flour-powdered face.

Like a vast, pot-bellied toad she appeared, with great, bulging eyes and a pale, blotch-covered throat.

Beneath her obese, reptilian body, two stunted legs supported the grievous weight and they tottered and staggered to and fro as she croaked her obedience to the wriggling shadow inside the egg.

Of all the servants of Scarophion, only the High Priest refrained from revealing his inner self, for he desired the demon to look upon him first of all and know him to be his main and trusted disciple. Then, when he had made his position plain and secured the high office under the Dark Despoiler, he would cast off his luxuriant coat and display his utter loyalty and allegiance.

Yet when the black deity’s head broke free from the shell it would need nourishment and he turned to the three prisoners who for so long had been neglected.

“Mother Lotus!” he commanded. “The infant Sarpedon will need sustenance. Fetch to me the smallest of the captives—the fieldmouse. He who dared to withhold the final fragment will be the first flesh upon which Our Master shall feast.”

The bloated, scale and wart-ridden horror that was Ma Skillet stooped to retrieve from her dressing gown the golden, snake-adorned dagger and with a foul giggle issuing from her lipless mouth she waddled towards Woodget, her splayed feet slip-slapping upon the floor.

Nearly fainting from terror, the fieldmouse watched her lumbering approach, the flabby reptilian hide quivering like a sour and mouldering jelly.

The clamour of the scaly multitude drowned out his own voice as he cried out with fear and around him the eight adepts strutted their abhorrence, urging the High Priestess to slit his throat and pour his hot blood into their newly-born master’s gullet.

Nearer the fat apparition came, her grunting gurgles terrifying him even more.

“Spike he—stab he!” the cracked, hissing voice taunted. “Rip the sinew from bone for His delight. Mother Lotus—she provide good quenchers—oh yes.”

Up to the shivering fieldmouse, the corpulent spectre stalked until her belly bulged above his head and she pointed the dagger at his throat.

Thomas couldn’t look. He hung his head as the priestess lurched to murder Woodget and waited for his friend’s death cries to resound in his ears until his turn came.

But the fearsome shrieks never sounded.

Instead a clear, resonant voice rang through the excited, fervent yammering and Thomas snapped his eyes open in wonder.

“Misbegotten horror—adipose abomination! Again I say be still!”

Ma Skillet’s toad-like bulk shuddered uncontrollably and with an astonished squawk, she was hurled backwards—landing in a forlorn, squealing heap on top of her plentiful, sloughed skin.

“Simoon!” Thomas yelled.

Lifting his head from the ground, the jerboa nodded at the mouse in acknowledgement, then muttering a word of release, the cords that bound all three sprang apart and fell in tattered threads about them.

Woodget’s eyes were shining and he sobbed with relief as the robed figure of the prophet rose to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at the gathered host.

“Dismal followers of Gorscarrigern!” he declared, and at the sound of his authoritative voice the revels ceased and everyone turned to stare at him.

“To this desperate end—I, and the other members of the Green Council have guided your felonious footsteps. This is in truth the end of one world but not the dawning of the infernal realm of your desiring. See now how your plots are destroyed and the schemes of your tyrannous overlord are beaten into the mire of your own making!”

Glowering at him, the High Priest bared his fangs to pounce and silence the squeaking upstart once and for all—it would never do to have his distracting cries irritate the newly-born master.

Yet even as he lunged forward, the jerboa threw up his paw and an invisible wall was flung between them.

Snarling, the sable raised his claws to dispel the paltry trick but behind him the adepts were muttering in consternation and he whirled around to see what had upset them.

“Now do the hopes of the Council and the efforts of many generations come to fruition!” announced Simoon. “For we have always known that a day would come when the enemy would wrest from us the nine fragments and attempt to restore their profane deity to harry the world. That is why we have done what we have done and may it prove well for now is the moment of dread and we shall see if our designs and sacrifices were not in vain.”

“No!” shrieked the High Priest, tearing at his hair and grinding his teeth together. “What base treachery is this? What madness do my eyes see?”

Upon the altar, the light which beat from the great egg was fluctuating. Its ghastly pallor flickered unsteadily and within its depths the wriggling shape was twitching and jolting as though wracked and stabbed with pain.

“This we decided in the great long ago!” the jerboa proclaimed for all to hear in a voice that transcended the smallness of his stature and it rose into the stifling airs to pierce the furthest reaches of the hollow, rocky island.

“For,” he continued, “though the honourable order of magicians and enchanters who worked for the Green’s greater glory were slain within the first temple, not all perished. There was in their number one who never stepped inside the evil shrine to beard the demon in his lair.

“Too slow and small was he to ascend the temple steps with the speed of the others and so was spared the black venom which spilled from the demon’s carcass.

“So was Simoon—obeah pilgrim, far seer, mage and prophet, treader of the forgotten track and guardian of the old rituals, left alone—the last of that noble order.

“Yet in that sorrowful, triumphant hour when the Dark One was slain and the egg was found, Simoon knew what had to be done and the solution, as with most things, was simple.”

The High Priest hardly heard him, for the movements within the egg were failing and with a final twisting spasm, the worm-like shadow became still and died. With a final pulsing glow, the light within the jade was quenched and a solemn darkness engulfed the temple as hairline cracks appeared across the shell.

With a sickening, splitting sound, the egg began to fall to pieces. Onto the floor the jade crashed and into a mildewed dust it exploded. Fragment by fragment the shell collapsed and then, revealed within its centre was a monstrous, slug-like abomination that slithered squelchingly from the decaying egg and flopped lifeless from the altar.

When it hit the floor, the disgusting horror ruptured and burst—over the black marble there spilled a stinking, putrescent mess that smoked and festered and a faint sound, like a sigh issued from its deformed and rotten mouth.

Speechless with grief and fury, the sable turned to look on the jerboa. “What have you done?” he demanded. “Sarpedon! He is... he is...”

“Sarpedon’s corporeal form is once again destroyed,” Simoon told him. “Never again can his blasphemous spirit knit slime and sinew together, for the work of the past is shattered. The shell is broken unto dust and can never be repaired.”

“How?” the High Priest cried, taking a step towards him and, in his wrath, banishing the magical barrier the jerboa had placed between them. “The fragments were invulnerable—no harm could come to them.”

Simoon clasped his paws together and laughed. “But no hurt nor harm was done to them!” he declared. “Quite the opposite. For I knew that the only way to prevent Scarophion’s return would be to injure him whilst he was still within the shell and so I counselled that the ninth and greatest fragment should be moved continually about the shrines of the blessed Green.

“In the unfolding years the evil was washed clean and the spells of the Dark Despoiler were turned about. The fragment was in fact hallowed. In short, we made certain that when the pieces were finally brought together again—the egg was addled.”

A terrible growl issued from the High Priest’s throat and he rushed forward to destroy the sanctimonious creature. Before the steps, the congregation were screeching in dismay—nothing was left to them now and they lusted for vengeance. Yowling in abject despair, the adepts clawed at their hideous scales and shrieked into the darkness for doom and death to take them, and three of them tore out their own throats rather than exist in a world without Scarophion.

Yet Simoon seemed unperturbed. Lifting his paw again, an invisible force cannoned into the High Priest and he was sent hurtling to the far corners of the temple—crying shrilly in fright. Then the jerboa held up both paws and said.

“Now you who have displayed your fidelity to the fallen deity, remain in the form you have chosen so that goodly folk may see you for what you are and shun you. Shrink back into darkness and never wear the raiment of warm flesh again.”

At that he reached into one of his many pockets and cast a cloud of blue powder into the air which immediately burst into a spluttering display of fiery sparks that crackled and exploded—showering down onto the rocky floor, where the tiny sizzling stars bounced and hopped, multiplying as they went.

Into the crowding hordes the magic of Simoon cascaded and leaped and to the dismay of the reptilian apparitions which were gathered within the cavern, the sparks jumped onto the cast-off skins and buried themselves into the matted hides—kindling suddenly into raging fires that devoured the sloughed pelts completely until only ash remained.

Before the altar, the remaining chosen ones were also shrieking, for their furs were burning and though they tried, they could not extinguish the supernatural flames.

Making the loudest noise, pounding up and down and blowing upon her withering skin, Ma Skillet went screeching through the bejewelled entrance, leaving a trail of ash and smoke behind her.

Observing all that was done, and finding it to his satisfaction, Simoon turned to the mice who were still sitting upon the floor and helped them to their feet.

“Now it is time for us to depart,” he said. “Whilst the panic and fear is still upon these wretches, let us take a boat and return to Singapore—there you will find a ship which will bear you to your home.”

Thomas looked around them, not knowing what to say, but Woodget was bouncing up and down with unrivalled joy.

“I knowed you was a great magician!” he cried. “I knowed it all the time!”

The jerboa chuckled, then looked up sharply as if he had heard something that alarmed him. “Perhaps,” he muttered apprehensively, “yet not all schemes are infallible. There are some eventualities which even I might have overlooked. Come—we waste valuable time!”

With that he hared down the great steps and made for the door which the rats had originally carried them through and Thomas and Woodget raced after him.

At the rear of the temple, crawling from the place Simoon’s powers had thrown him, the High Priest looked on the chaos of his followers and knew the meaning of defeat. All his hopes, all his dreams of serving Sarpedon the Mighty, had come to naught and all that was left was a demented host of scale-covered horrors.

Bitterly, as the pandemonium erupted about him, he picked his way through the cinders of the adept’s skins and gazed upon the black, oozing mess that had ruptured from the dead slug, and wetted his parched lips.

If he were to dip his claws in that stinking sludge and drag them across his tongue, then his vanquished life would end. He did not care for the agonies that would ensue. All he wanted was to leave the world which, without the possibility of his lord’s return, was empty and devoid of hope.

Despondently he made up his mind and so, bending down he reached for the dark, venomous slime—then froze.

High above him, there came the sound of creaking metal and with his heart palpitating in his breast, the sable stared upwards.

Surely it could not be, surely even the Dark One could not perform such an astounding feat?

Breathlessly, with the shrieks of the legions screaming in his mind, as they slew each other in their madness, the High Priest gazed up and his eyes glittered, not daring to hope yet hardly able to contain the rejoicing in his foul heart if it were true.

Rearing into the darkness the gigantic, golden image of Scarophion was shuddering and, as he watched, there came the dull scrape of gold upon gold and, to his marvelling amazement, the massive, repulsive head twisted and shook and the jaws clanged open and shut.

Within the cavern the assembly fell silent as all wondered what this new miracle might mean, but over the marble floor, the High Priest ran until he stood upon the wide steps and the immense, glittering head towered straight above him.

“My Lord!” he yelled. “My Lord—Master! Scarophion the Mighty, I, your High Priest, welcome your blissful return!”

With a clanking grinding of precious metal, the enormous idol lowered its gigantic head and the rubies that blazed in the eyes shone with hellish fires, as the infernal spirit which now inhabited the statue, looked upon the rejoicing, exultant sable.

At the last, the Dark Despoiler had indeed cheated the designs of the Green Council, for though he was not clothed in flesh, his iniquitous spirit had fled from the egg and seized possession of his own mammoth likeness.

“SPEAK.”

The strident voice commanded and the sound of it blasted down upon the High Priest like a thundering gale from a mountain top.

Up into that dreadful face, the sable gazed and his eyes became filled with anger and hatred for the one who had so nearly ruined everything.

“First, My Lord,” he cried, “you must deal with your enemies!”

The golden jaws sprang open and from the titanic throat there streamed a strangling black vapour.

Through the tunnels Simoon and the two mice ran until, breathlessly, they came to the dark harbour and the jerboa cast around for a boat small enough to take them.

Quickly, he pattered down the various flights of stairs leading to the water and surveyed the craft that were moored there until he finally discovered a small rowing boat and called to the others to climb aboard.

“Make haste, Master Stubbs!” Simoon instructed. “Your arms are stronger than mine so you shall have to take the oars, I will hold the tiller. Quickly untie the rope—we must be gone.”

Thomas obeyed and, as Woodget settled down within the craft, the fieldmouse giggled merrily. “He bain’t called Stubbs, Mister Simoon,” he said, “from here on in, old Tom’s called Triton—bain’t you, Tom?”

“Ssshh!” Simoon hushed him. “I fear the danger is not yet passed. I did not reckon upon this chance—the enemy is treacherous indeed and I have underestimated him.”

Sitting down in the boat, Thomas grabbed the oars and dipped them in the water, heaving hard upon them.

Slowly the craft pulled away from the harbour wall and past the other vessels they sailed.

“Faster!” the jerboa urged. “Put your back into it!”

Thomas strained and dragged the oars through the water as fast as he could and the boat began to pick up speed—scooting out towards the island’s gaping entrance.

Outside, a faint, grey light was glimmering on the horizon as the first gleam of the early dawn climbed above the rim of the world and Simoon sighed with gratitude.

“It is well the day is here,” he said. “It encourages me, yet I fear what its light may show to us.”

Woodget looked at him and the lighthearted cheer that had sprung from the relief of being rescued, guttered inside him. The jerboa’s face was troubled and an edge of panic had crept into his voice.

“What be a-worritin’ ee?” the fieldmouse ventured.

Simoon shook his head. “It may be nothing,” he replied. “And yet...”

Out from the island the small boat sped, but a more pressing concern was worrying Thomas. “It’s no use!” he cried. “You’ll never be able to navigate through the reef. We’ll run aground in no time. I saw it when we arrived, it’s a maze out there.”

“You give up too easily, Master Triton,” Simoon declared, delving into his robe and bringing out a small glass jar. “We shall not falter—the correct path will be found.”

Gripping the tiller in one paw to steady himself, the jerboa rose and removing the stopper from the jar, threw it before them.

Woodget stared at the dark waters, then to his delight, there appeared upon the surface a patch of clear silvery light that radiated out in a twisting path between the rising spires of rock and beyond, to where the submerged reef lurked below the waves.

“There is our route,” Simoon announced. “Now, you pull on the oars and I shall steer us.”

Thomas laughed, but then from the island there echoed a tremendous roar and the oars skipped futilely across the sea as the mouse shivered with alarm.

“Green’s Grace!” he cried. “What was that?”

Simoon pressed his mittened fingers to his wiry temples and closed his eyes in an effort to calm himself.

“Ignore it, Triton!” he commanded. “All you must concentrate upon is getting us away from this accursed place.”

Woodget looked at the jerboa in surprise, then turned around to gaze at the vast, rocky hill which loomed from the waters behind them as another horrible, booming roar resounded from it.

“As I feared,” Simoon whispered to himself. “He is not beaten.”

Again the air shook with the muffled, baying screech and the fieldmouse frowned in puzzlement. “Sounds like them snaky folk are blowin’ upon a load of cracked trumpets back there,” he muttered. “What do ’ee make of it, Mister Simoon?”

“Much,” the jerboa replied darkly.

Woodget’s frown became a deeper scowl at this cryptic remark and he was about to question him further when the cacophonous blaring sounded again, but this time when he stared back at the island, the fieldmouse’s face fell and he whimpered in fright.

At the summit of the great, rocky mountain, where the spears of stone spiked around the circular portal that looked down upon the altar, a plume of smoke was rising and, rearing amid the reek, was a great and hideous golden head.

“Save us!” wailed Woodget.

Out from the temple the statue of Scarophion came—into the upper airs he heaved his glittering, gem-encrusted body and, sitting astride his neck, his claws gripped tight about the horns that twisted back from the gleaming skull, was the High Priest. Over the rock the idol slithered—pulling the last of its flexing coils from within the temple and, to Woodget’s increasing horror the giant serpent writhed its monstrous way down to the water and flowed into the sea.

“I don’t understand!” Thomas cried. “The statue... how?”

“When the newly-formed worm inside the egg was killed by the hallowed fragment,” Simoon uttered fearfully, “the Dark One’s spirit did not shrivel back into the void as I expected, but took possession of a different raiment.”

“Quick, Tom!” the fieldmouse shouted. “It’s movin’ fast!”

Behind them, surging through the waves, its powerful tail propelling it with great speed, the gargantuan golden image came thundering in pursuit of the small rowing boat.

High into the dim sky, the skilfully-fashioned head rose, the pale light of the distant dawn glinting coldly in the myriad facets of its burnished scales. Pouring from the ravening jaws, behind the cruel pinnacles of the diamond-tipped fangs, the rivers of black, oily smoke billowed into the sky and blotted out the faint gleam of the failing stars above. Furiously, in that painstakingly-crafted, repellent visage, the ruby eyes were burning with a limitless intelligence and with a sudden clanking of metal, the segmented neck lashed forward.

Towards the tiny vessel the immense head lunged and a torrent of yellow flame went shooting from the great, black throat.

Through the darkness the fiery stream issued, blasting out a trail of scorching death.

In the boat, Woodget stared up at the blistering rivers of flame and squeaked in fear, spurring Thomas to row faster and the lethal, terrifying deluge fell only yards behind them—striking the water with a boiling hiss of scalding steam.

From high above, wreathed in the choking fumes that flooded from the apparition’s maw, there came the sound of shrieking laughter as the rancorous sable threw back his head and crowed his devilish glee.

In the boat the occupants were swallowed by despair and Woodget turned around to see how far they still had to go before they were clear of the reef, then muttered at his own foolishness—they would never be able to outpace that glittering monster.

That statue was closing on them now; every lash of its tail, every lithe thrust of its superior might, brought it nearer to their fleeing craft and Woodget knew that the next time it spat a rain of fire upon them it could not fail to miss and they would be engulfed in a ball of incinerating flame.

At his side, his fingers on the tiller, Simoon bowed his shoulders and hung his head, but with his arms straining upon the oars, Thomas was determined not to abandon hope and stared defiantly up into the resplendently diabolic face of Scarophion’s new form as a desperate and reckless idea took control of him.

“Simoon!” he called eagerly. “Can you summon a mist—like the one that surrounds the silver ship of Hara, the Chandi?”

The jerboa looked at him curiously. “Such a veil will not defend us,” he said forlornly. “My powers are useless against the Coiled One. In the past it took all of our order to destroy him, I cannot do it alone. The hope of the Council—the one chance I foresaw has proven ill.”

“Can you or can’t you?” Thomas demanded impatiently.

The prophet nodded.

“Then be quick about it!” the mouse bawled. “Make it rise up all around us if you can.”

Simoon closed his eyes and set to work at once, murmuring under his breath and, as Thomas heaved on the oars, the surrounding waters began to bubble and wisps of white vapour rose into the air.

Through the last of the steepling, fencing rocks, the little boat swept—then through the meandering channel that split the hidden reef.

Like a storm of splendour, roaring a fanfare of disaster and ruination, the statue came after, ploughing effortlessly through the water and slicing through the layers of mist which now spread across its surface.

“I need more!” Thomas yelled to Simoon. “A great big bank of it!”

Anxiously, Thomas laboured, his paws were almost raw and great blistering weals scored them. In his arms the muscles ached and screamed with pain but, gritting his teeth, the mouse ignored the tortuous fatigue and out of the murderous reef and onto the open sea the boat shot.

Yet hot in pursuit came Gorscarrigern. Cleaving a path through the mounting fog, his terrible, gilded head came racing and, with his long hair streaming in the wind—the High Priest spurred his sovereign on.

“What vain, childish tricks do they attempt now?” the sable hooted in derision. “Do they suppose thine eyes cannot pierce the mist to see them? Is that how they hope to escape you, Most Worshipful Malevolence? Disgorge your withering fires, destroy those who have dared to interfere in thy aggrandisement!”

In the growing light of the morning, the huge jaws shone brightly as they yawned open and into the dense, white fog another river of flame erupted.

This time it missed the boat by the merest fraction. As the fires came thundering down, the waves bucked and the craft pitched and rocked upon them as its timbers charred and the mist was suddenly illuminated by the dazzling flames.

Sitting closest to the blasting inferno, Woodget fell back from the tremendous heats as a fount of steam broiled upwards and at his side Simoon shook his head.

“We cannot weave in and out of this cloud to evade the demon serpent forever,” he told Thomas. “In a moment he will have us.”

“Not if I can help it!” the mouse shouted at him. “Now, turn the rudder sharply—we’re going back into the reef.”

The jerboa furrowed his brow, but there was no point in contesting with Thomas, no point in anything any more.

In a tight curve they wheeled around and Woodget buried his face in his paws when the leviathan coils of the living statue reared above them and Simoon steered them straight beneath its polished, arching body.

Back into the treacherous reef, Thomas rowed the little craft and high in the enveloping mist they heard the High Priest’s scornful tones mocking them as the idol twisted around and the opulent, ghastly head came bursting through the thick, clinging clouds.

Swiftly it came, yet Simoon pulled hard on the tiller and the boat jerked sideways, following the twisting path of the channel. Through the mist the head of the statue dived, plunging down until it skimmed the water then up again—sweeping agilely through the blanketing fog.

“A few more of those..,” Thomas mumbled to himself and, hearing him, at last Simoon understood and he grew agitated with excitement.

“Watch out!” Woodget squeaked.

Thomas leaned back when he next pulled on the oars and the bloody glare of the ruby eyes flooded the boat as the marauding, priceless head, rioted across its bows.

In a snaking loop the serpent rumbled over the boat and the High Priest trumpeted with mordacious mirth to see the mice and Simoon fall prey to his relentless, vitriolic and revenge-wreaking master.

Up into the fog the statue soared, towering like a fabulous, minted mountain, its loathly head rising high above the topmost swirl of cloud and the warm rays of the rearing sun burned and flared across the golden mirrors of the gorgeously-wrought scales that plated the gleaming spectre’s neck.

Silhouetted against the rosy beams of the morning, the High Priest tossed his head and the long dark hair whipped about his sharply-boned features.

“Now, My Lord!” he screeched. “Let your supreme magnitude topple down and dash them to death!”

For an instant the perilous jaws clanged shut then they fell open again and with a deafening roar the golden nightmare plunged back through the mist.

In the boat, Thomas threw Simoon a desperate glance.

“Now or never!” he yelled.

The jerboa’s briar-like brows trembled but he gave the tiller an almighty wrench and Thomas heaved on the oars for all he was worth.

“A plague upon you, Sarpedon!” the mouse hollered. “Go back to the emptiness that awaits you!”

Woodget stared at him then looked nervously upwards. Through the fog, falling like a gold-smithied symbol of the sun, hurled from the chariot of a sky god, the head came speeding and flames dripped from the yawning mouth.

Suddenly the keel of the boat scraped against the sharp rocks beneath as they left the safe channel but Thomas still pulled on the oars and in an anguished voice repeated to himself, “Not yet, not yet.”

Then as the mists parted and the maw came lunging down, the mouse grabbed hold of Woodget and yelled, “Jump clear—get out!”

Leaping from the boat, they splashed into the surrounding water. But too late Scarophion and the sable who rode upon his neck, saw the impending danger.

Directly behind the little craft, rising from the reef and appearing without warning from the swaddling cloud, reared an adamantine crag of solid stone.

A pitiful, air-splitting bellow gusted from the statue’s gullet and, with terror in his eyes, the High Priest shrieked shrilly. But there was nothing they could do; the velocity of the glittering god’s descent could not be checked and so, into the small rowing boat the bejewelled, golden head battered and the craft splintered like matchwood. Yet immediately after, the gigantic and awful countenance went slamming into the immovable fist of rock behind.

Thomas clung onto Woodget as the bed of the ocean lifted and quaked with the shuddering violence of the tremendous, impacting blow.

Careering helplessly into the steadfast stone, the gilt head exploded with a thousand, sparkling splinters and, projected like precious missiles from its crumpling features, flew a horde of spinning, scintillating treasures.

Like flaming meteors, the ruby eyes shot high over the sea and, from the steel fangs, as they bit deep clefts into the rock, the diamonds went skimming over the waves.

Then down crashed the serpent’s body and into the sea it thundered—with an almighty, foaming tumult.

For several minutes, as the serpent’s head lay crushed and beaten beyond redemption against the rock, the monstrous tail lashed furiously, but the movements quickly subsided and with a final spouting splash, the tail fell into the sea.

At once the ancient spirit which possessed the idol fled the crushed and mangled fabric of the hideous, glittering titan and, like an immense cloud of shadow, drifted up into the fog, to vanish into the ether and return to the void without any further hope of re-entering the living plane.

The woeful terrifying menace of Suruth Scarophion, the Dark Despoiler, was finally at an end. No more would the threat of his return trouble the waking world, or strike fear into his enemies. His malignant tyranny was over at last; no longer would his name be a byword for pain and horror. The banishment was finally complete and eternal, and with a blast of salt air the cloud of his trembling shade was dispersed and his evil might passed into the echoing dark. Beyond the walls of creation he was thrust, and through the vast gates of night to the very mansions of the dead where his foul demonic spirit was doomed to rage—trumpeting its imprisoned fury until the very ends of time.

The fear of his reign was finished and the new day which rose about Thomas and Woodget as they stood up on the rock, surrounded by the twinkling sea, gleamed clean and bright and they breathed deeply, giving glad grateful sighs.

Staring incredulously at the buckled, twisted sculpture, the mice found it difficult to believe that only minutes ago it had been animated with horrid, writhing life and threatening them with death.

Tentatively, moving a little closer to the shattered scales and broken sections of its dented body, Woodget peered at the gloom that lay inside, then he looked about him and stared in horror at Thomas.

“Simoon!” he cried. “Where is he?”

Thomas glanced around for the aged jerboa but of him he could find no trace and his gaze became fixed upon the floating debris of the rowing boat.

“He did jump when we did—didn’t he?” the fieldmouse asked. “Don’t say he was still in that thing when the monster came a-smashin’ down on top!”

The mice stared at each other desolately but then a mumbling groan issued from behind the great, gold-bestrewn rock and with hope surging inside them they clambered over the broken idol and hared through the shallows to where the jerboa lay, groggy and bleeding from a cut in his forehead—but alive.

Deliriously, Woodget crouched beside him and dabbed at the wound with sea water. “Don’t you go a-frettin’ now,” he soothed. “Everything be fine. The snake god’s done for and we’ll come out of this in one piece yet.”

“Ahhh,” sneered a hissing, rabid voice, “there you are wrong. The battle is not quite over, not yet.”

Staggering from around the rock, with a broken shard of gold in his claws came the High Priest and he looked upon the mice and Simoon with no other feeling but malice and an unholy craving for vengeance.

But the destruction of the statue and his unwilling involvement in that calamitous disaster had wrought a drastic change in his appearance.

When the gigantic serpent had exploded into the towering stone, its golden scales had gone flying in all directions but, perched directly behind the gruesome, rupturing head, the sable had suffered a hundred razoring cuts.

Through his once sleek hide, the deadly, gleaming treasures had deeply sliced and his flesh hung in bloody rents all over his body. One of the sharp, glinting scales was still embedded in his shoulder and over his hatchet face the fur was sticky and gouted with scarlet.

Yet none of that mattered now, all he yearned for, all that inflamed his embittered soul was the aching desire to kill and butcher those who had vanquished his master.

Pushing himself forward, he lifted the spike of gold in his claws and aimed it at the jerboa’s head.

But Thomas grabbed hold of him and dragged the sable aside—flinging him against the clattering wreck of the statue’s ruptured head.

“Watch it, Tom!” Woodget cried, seeing the High Priest come bounding back.

Thomas ducked but the sable was prepared for that and he struck the mouse’s temple with his fists before spinning around in an attempt to thrust the shard deep into his side.

Yet, whilst Thomas stumbled under the blow to his head, Woodget had leaped to his feet and sprang onto the High Priest’s back—covering the sable’s darting, red-rimmed eyes with his paws.

Screeching in fury, the High Priest turned and deliberately fell against the crag, squashing the fieldmouse between him and its sharp stone in an effort to rid himself of that puny annoyance.

Squealing, Woodget let go and fell into the shallow sea water, arching his back and whining piteously—unable to move.

Above him, the High Priest drew back his thin lips to reveal his needle-like teeth but before he could lunge down, Thomas came crashing into his side and in his paws he held one of the shattered oars.

Brutally the two fought—the golden shard clashing against the splintered wood. Savage were those deadly blows and watching them locked in battle, Woodget was disturbed to see his friend’s face take on some of the sable’s despising resentment and bitter hatred.

Fiercely the strokes swiped the air. Once Thomas caught the High Priest a glancing blow across the arm, but the creature rallied straight away and flew at him all the more viciously.

Courageously Thomas strove against the wrathful enemy and though the sable was almost twice his height, the pains and afflictions of the night had taken its toll of him and so, for some time, the mouse held him off and at one point almost looked as though he might be victorious.

But in the end, the sable’s natural belligerence and pugnacious spirit swelled within his tattered breast and stroke after stroke rained down upon the splintered oar until it was knocked from the mouse’s paws, and Thomas was pinned against the rock with the glinting spike pressed at his throat.

“So perish all who come between Sarpedon and his designs,” the High Priest spat.

Thomas shrank against the stone as the sable gloated, and waited for the shard to drive into his neck.

Yet the High Priest continued to leer at him and Thomas suddenly saw a trickle of blood drip from the cruel misshapen mouth.

Down fell the servant of Scarophion and there, revealed behind him, stood Woodget—with a steel fang ripped from the statue’s jaws clenched in his little fist and both it and his paw were drenched in the High Priest’s blood.

Shivering, the fieldmouse stared down at the lifeless body and great tears welled in his eyes.

“That’s fer our friends!” he uttered huskily. “Mister Mulligan, Captain Chattan and Karim!”

Gently, Thomas put his arm about his friend’s shoulders and took the weapon from his paw.

“It’s all right, Woodj,” he said, “the enemy’s finished now.”

Woodget shivered and stared at the blood which stained his paws, then hurried to the water’s edge where he washed them clean. In all his life he had never harmed anyone, and now he’d committed murder. His noble heart was wracked with remorse and he squeezed his eyes shut to keep from weeping.

Watching his anguished face, Thomas understood what was passing through the fieldmouse’s mind. The endearing air of innocence which shone in Woodget’s face was gone for ever and he tried his best to comfort him.

“You didn’t have a choice,” he said. “The villain would have killed us both. You saved me, Woodj—don’t torture yourself over the likes of him, he weren’t worth it.”

Woodget sniffed, then looked about them. “But how does we get off this reef and back to port, Tom?” he asked in a small, faint-hearted voice.

Thomas had been pondering the same question, and he gazed thoughtfully out to sea—to where the morning sunlight was shimmering over the water. To his surprise he saw that, upon the horizon, a great wall of white mist was moving and he shielded his eyes against the sun to peer at it curiously.

“Woodj...” he began.

“Verily,” Simoon’s rich tones interrupted and when they turned they saw that he was sitting up in the shallows, wringing out the velvet folds of his robe, his keen eyes seeming to pierce the swirling bank of fog in the distance. “Yonder is the silver ship of Hara. Come to give whatever assistance she may. Do not forget that within the Black Temple there is still a host of scaly terrors to be dealt with, but I think we might allow the valour of our friends to contend with them.”

Woodget caught his breath. “But who be aboard her?” he murmured.

“All those in the city who were not slain. Many of the drugged guards were not found or murdered, and there were others. Sobhan Giri, whose name shall always be remembered for saving the children of Hara, stands upon the prow behind the figurehead and even now is sighting us. But the commander of that most blessed ship is a rat named Jophet—a rare and most trustworthy exception to his kind.”

“Jophet!” the fieldmouse declared. “Why he was on the Calliope and tried to put me off mixing with old Mulligan—nearly succeeded too, he did.”

Simoon splashed to his feet. “Indeed,” he admitted, “and that was at my behest, for I knew what fate awaited the Irish nomad. The fragments had to go to the Scale; I did not wish for you to become embroiled in the grim business. Yet it is good my wishes were not hearkened to, for if it were not for your stout hearts, I quiver to think what would have ensued.”

“Then Hara will be rebuilt,” Woodget sighed. “I’m glad.”

“Maybe,” the jerboa said softly, “but never to its former glory, the magic of the mountain has departed and they shall have to rely on the skill of their bows and blades to keep the lesser dangers at bay.”

“Well I couldn’t go back there,” Thomas said, “there’s too many ghosts for me.”

“A pity,” muttered Simoon. “For some phantoms ought to be confronted.”

Then Woodget smiled up at Thomas and in a small, meek voice asked. “Is it over, Tom? Is all the horridness ended?”

“Yes, Woodj,” Thomas replied, “it’s over.”

Beside them, Simoon the prophet knitted his bristling, brambly brows but said nothing and together they awaited the silver ship of Hara.

Journey’s End

When four days had passed and the celebrations were finally over, the white and silver ship returned to India, but Thomas, Woodget and Simoon did not go with her.

After his many labours, the jerboa was weary and had decided that the time had come for him to retire and fade into the shadows. His part in the theatre of the world had concluded, his role had been to contest the Dark Despoiler and now, without the threat of his infernal return, Simoon began to feel the weight of his many years pressing upon him.

Retrieving such items that Madame Akkikuyu had not stolen from his pack, he hoisted it upon his back one more time and bowed low so that his sprouting beard touched the ground.

It was a bright, sunny morning in Singapore and by the docks they said their goodbyes.

“Farewell, my friends,” the prophet said solemnly. “In the great battle against Scarophion you have proved your worth. Yet there are others wars to fight, other enemies to slay, perhaps one day we shall meet again—if fortune smiles upon me.”

“Where will you go?” Thomas asked.

Simoon’s dark eyes glittered and he shrugged. “Where the forgotten track leads me,” he said. “But now I feel as though I could sleep for an age or more. The wheel has turned and I do not belong in this world. Perhaps when it turns again I shall awaken.”

“Goodbye, Simoon,” the fieldmouse snivelled, wiping his nose on the back of his paw. “I’ll miss ’ee.”

The jerboa placed his mittened fingers upon Woodget’s russet-coloured head and smiled sadly before pulling the fringed hood over his brow and turning away.

Thomas and Woodget watched his small figure go shambling through the dockyard until he disappeared.

“Just you an’ me again then, Tom,” Woodget said. “When’s that ship due that’ll take us straight home?”

Idly, Thomas kicked a pebble. “It’ll be here soon enough.”

“Fancy a walk till then, Master Triton?”

“Alright, Matey, but only if you’ll stop calling me that ridiculous name.”

Woodget chuckled and, chatting amiably, they wandered along the dockside and down towards the river bank where the Lotus Parlour stood empty beneath the rickety wooden pier.

With his paws behind his back, Thomas stepped out onto the old boards and listened to his friend talk about the things he would do when they returned home.

“First off,” the fieldmouse said with a wag of his head, “I’ll tell that Bess Sandibrook exactly what I thinks of her—so that’ll be settled. Lor, won’t she gape when I tells her of the times we’ve had. Does you think she’ll believe me, Tom? I knows our Cudweed won’t.”

“I’ll back you up,” Thomas laughed.

“They were a right scurvy lot them scaleys, weren’t they? Dunno if I can make ’em sound wicked enough.”

Thomas sighed. They had walked far along the pier and the high tide was sloshing below the boards. “Mind you,” he said, sitting down and dangling his legs over the edge, “in this, no sides were blameless.”

Woodget plopped down beside him, but unlike Thomas his feet could not reach the cooling water. “How’d you mean, Tom?” he asked.

“Well look,” Thomas began, “that Green Council were willing to sacrifice anything, weren’t they? And they did too! Mulligan, the entire city of Hara—not forgetting the other shrines—just so the Scale could get their claws on all nine pieces.”

Woodget considered this then tilted his head to one side and looked at the wobbly light patterns upon the sparkling water. “But they couldn’t just give them to the enemy now could they?” he murmured. “They’d have been right suspicious.”

“I suppose,” Thomas grunted. “But it makes me wonder all the same.”

For nearly half an hour the two friends sat there in the delicious sunlight and when they decided it was time to leave, Thomas glanced back along the pier and saw that a large, shabby shape was hobbling towards them.

Thomas thought that it was one of the many beggarly folk that drifted around the shanty town, for it held in its paw a wooden bowl containing a few jingling coins. Yet that was all he could guess for the figure was wreathed and wrapped in countless dirty rags and the face was hidden in the swathes of the binding.

“I bain’t got no moneys,” Woodget lamented. “Poor dear, she looks all in.”

Thomas squinted at the stranger in surprise. Woodget was right, the figure was female—but it was a very lame and a very fat one.

Closer to them the beggar creature came, tirelessly shaking the bowl in supplication.

“Spare a coin, sir,” she said. “Spare a coin.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas answered, “we don’t have none.”

“Hang on, Tom,” Woodget piped up. “She’s welcome to the bit o’ bread an’ cheese we was saving fer our lunch. Us can allus find work on the ship to earn some more.”

And so the fieldmouse began to unfasten his bag and rummage around inside it.

Very softly, a faint uncanny melody drifted upon the air as the shabby-looking creature began to whistle through her teeth a haunting tune that Woodget thought he had heard somewhere before.

“Here y’are,” he cried, lifting the bread and cheese from the bag. There’s a couple o’ nice biscui...”

Woodget’s voice faded, for the beggar was not looking at him, her concentration was bent upon Thomas and to his consternation, the fieldmouse saw that his friend seemed suddenly pale and drawn.

A blankness had settled across his face and his eyes were glazed and vacant.

“’Ere, Tom,” the fieldmouse began. “You look plain awful. What’s the matter?”

Thomas made no reply and continued to stare fixedly ahead.

Woodget touched his friend’s forehead and passed his paw over his eyes but still he did not respond.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered, turning to the beggar. “Could you give me a lift with him? He’s a lot bigger’n me an’ I reckon he needs to...”

Again his voice trailed into nothingness for at last he recognised the eerie whistling and beneath the swaddling rags he caught a glimpse of the creature’s feet.

One was the fleshy claw of a rat, but the other was a splayed deformity covered in warts and scales.

Standing before him was Ma Skillet, she who had escaped from the Black Temple with her frazzling hide, but in her panic she had not managed to save all of it from Simoon’s rapacious flames—so forever she was condemned to remain half rat, half creature of the Scale.

“What does you want?” Woodget demanded fiercely as he reached inside the bag again for a small knife that Jophet had given to him. “There bain’t nowt fer the likes of ’ee here no more.”

Ma Skillet said nothing, but stooped over Thomas and, removing the wrapping from her disfigured countenance, blew upon him lightly.

“Stop it!” Woodget cried.

But Mother Lotus waved her claw before her and mechanically, Thomas turned to face the fieldmouse.

“Listen, Tom!” Woodget shouted. “’Tis me—remember?”

But Thomas did not know him; under the spell of the abhorrent creature he was powerless and when she instructed him to push the fieldmouse into the water he was compelled to obey.

Into the river Woodget splashed and he thrashed his arms feverishly.

“TOM!” he yelled plaintively. “TOM!”

The automaton that was Thomas heard nothing, only the silken tones of Ma Skillet who told him to keep the struggling fieldmouse from clinging to the pier’s struts.

“NO!” Woodget cried, his mouth filling with river water. “TOM—HELP ME! PLEASE! YOU KNOWS I CAN’T SWIM!”

Ma Skillet cackled to herself and watched with satisfaction as the little fieldmouse’s head bobbed under the surface, emerging a second later, spluttering and retching until at last he sank below the water and did not return.

Rubbing her claws. Mother Lotus looked at Thomas and imagined the torture he would feel when her arts wore off and, with this malignant thought smouldering in her spiteful mind she lumbered away and vanished out of memory.

The morning passed and still Thomas sat as still as stone. Then, when the day was over and the evening grew chill, he stirred from the enchantment and stared stupidly about him.

“Woodj?” he called. “Woodj—where..

Then he remembered, and in stilted flashes he knew all that he had done.

Frantically he stared over the edge of the pier and saw that upon one of the splintered struts the fieldmouse’s blue woollen hat had snagged and there above the low tide it hung.

Snatching it to himself, Thomas leaped into the river and dived for his friend’s drowned body. But the tides had taken it and after many hours of relentless searching, the mouse clambered back onto the pier and in a thin, dreadful voice that was filled with anguish and unquenchable remorse—he screamed.

Sadhu

Gwen Triton crept back into the snug candle-lit room on board the Cutty Sark and, with a sorry shake of the head, looked around at the mess that was scattered about her husband’s sleeping form.

Thomas was slumped over the small desk and, biting her lip, she glanced over his shoulder. But the pages were devoid of any writing as she had suspected they might be and, despairing of the wreck he had made, she sat down upon the bunk and sobbed silently.

Yet far away, in the once great and fabled city of Hara, a mongoose was scaling the thousand steps that ascended the mountain and at her side, clinging to her paw, her young, toddling grandson was treading very carefully with a most solemn and sober expression upon his face.

At last he was climbing the great mountain where the two great eyes were carved above the expanse of shattered rock; it was his first visit to the Holy One and he was extremely excited at the prospect.

“Remember this day, Little Chattan,” his grandmother told him, “for the sadhu is most holy and devout. You must not ask him any questions.”

“Why, Nanna Sobhan?” the youngster queried. “Will he punish me?”

His grandmother chortled. “Of course not,” she said tenderly, “but his mind is too full of other matters to dwell on the talk of small boys.”

Up they climbed until at last they stood upon a rocky ledge where a small, ash-dusted figure sat hunched upon the bare stone and his eyes were staring into the vast, unseen distance.

Sobhan led Little Chattan around the ledge until they stood before the crouched shape and she bowed respectfully. Looking up at his grandmother, the boy did the same but his eyes could not tear themselves from the Holy One.

“Sadhu?” Sobhan said gently.

The figure breathed deeply then shifted slowly as if rousing from a deep slumber.

“Sobhan!” he declared. “Forgive me, I was far away. Now let me see—who is this young warrior you have brought before me?”

Little Chattan gurgled with amusement but blushed and looked shyly at his feet.

“It is my grandson, Sadhu,” she announced proudly. “Little Chattan—one day we hope he will be as brave as his great uncle.”

As she said this, Sobhan watched the Holy One’s face, but not a flicker of remembrance showed there.

“I pray for that also,” the sadhu said. “The tales of your brother rank amongst the most noble of our histories.”

Sobhan hung her head, then bit her lip as the aching wish to tell him swelled inside her again.

“Sadhu!” she blurted.

“Peace, little daughter,” the Holy One hushed her. “I know what is written in your mind, it is in mine also. Yet let that part of my life remain unknown to me. Where else would I be but here with you, my people?”

“But there are things you ought to know,” she said desperately.

The Holy One shook his head. “No, let them sleep. We must obey the will of the Green; he does not wish me to recall such events, so I am content.”

“Do you never have even a hint of a memory?” she murmured. “Is there nothing you can recall?”

“The songs of Zenna are too strong for that,” he answered mildly. “When she brought me to this place she had sustained me for many, many days and for that I cannot condemn her.”

“Yet I wish I could speak to you of...”

“You have a fine grandson, Sobhan,” the Holy One said briskly. “It pleases me to see him. Now, permit me to return to my meditation.”

Sobhan nodded and leading Little Chattan away, began to descend the great stairway.

Holding onto his grandmother’s paw. Little Chattan looked back at the curious figure of the sadhu.

“Can we visit him again, Nanna Sobhan?” he asked.

“Yes, Little Chattan, we may.”

The boy smiled, he liked the Holy One and thought he looked very wise and serious—even if he was a fieldmouse.

Table of Contents

- The Deptford Histories

- Book 1: The Alchymist’s Cat

- The Beginning
- 1 - Childhood Forsaken
- 2 - ‘Where Dreams and Nightmares Mingle’
- 3 - The Apothecary
- 4 - A Hideous Task
- 5 - A Dragon in the Rags
- 6 - Necromancy
- 7 - Playing with Fire
- 8 - Adieu
- 9 - ‘Lord Have Mercy on Us’
- 10 - The Plague Doctor
- 11 - At The Southwarke Mission
- 12 - The Fall of Adonis
- 13 - The Depths of His Black Heart
- 14 - Of Reckoning and Destiny
- ‘The Blackened Beast’

- Book 2: The Oaken Throne

- Vespertilio
- 1 - Blood on the Oak
- 2 - Aldertide
- 3 - Farewell to the Hazel
- 4 - Through Gorse and Bramble
- 5 - Elderfire
- 6 - Out of the Misty Hawthorn
- 7 - In the Orchard of Duir
- 8 - The Time of the Rowan
- 9 - By the Mournful Willows
- 10 - From the Shade of the Beeches
- 11 - The Furze Cat
- 12 - Within the Ruis Chest
- 13 - At the King of Trees
- 14 - The Fall of the Oak
- Ysabelle

- Book 3: Thomas

- Old Wounds
- 1 - A Bowl of Berrybrew
- 2 - Mulligan
- 3 - Aboard the Calliope
- 4 - Steeped in Venom
- 5 - Simoon
- 6 - Siren Songs
- 7 - Into the Raging Squall
- 8 - At the Shrine of Virbius
- 9 - The Passing of the Burden
- 10 - The Legacy of Mulligan
- 11 - The City of Hara
- 12 - The Holy One
- 13 - The Betrayal of Hara
- The Adept of Sarpedon
- 15 - The Lotus Parlour
- 16 - The Black Temple
- Journey’s End
- Sadhu