The Angel's Command

by Brian Jacques

  Dominic leaned forward, his voice incredulous. “The Razan!”

  The old man’s eyebrows raised. “Ah, my young friend, so you have heard of the Razan?”

  Dominic nodded vigorously. “Over the mountains, in the Spanish town of Sabada, where I come from, folk talked of little else. Honest men would make the sign of the cross at the very mention of their name. When horses or cattle went missing, sometimes even people, everyone would whisper that it was the work of the Razan. Mothers would use their name to frighten naughty children. ‘The Razan will get you!’ Yet nobody really knew who they were. Our priest said that they were evil magicians from Algiers who knew the dark ways of wizards and witches. But I’m sorry for interrupting you, sir, please carry on with your story.”

  Stroking his wispy beard, the comte continued. “One hears all manner of tales about the Razan; some say they are from Africa, others, from the mountains of Carpathia. I think a lot of these things are fables, put about by the Razan themselves to instill fear in ignorant peasants. I myself have had reports of them putting spells on folk, turning men, women and children into fishes, beasts or birds. They prey on superstition and rule simple minds by terror of the unknown.”

  Returning the signet ring to his index finger, the aged nobleman sighed. “My brother, Edouard, was frightened of nothing. Whilst he was being nursed by the Razan—who must have known who he was, or they would have slain him just for his horse and weapons—Edouard was smitten with love for a Razan girl. She was the only daughter of the Razan, and very beautiful. Ruzlina, for that was her name, would have none attending Edouard but herself. Her mother, Maguda, must have seen the possibilities of allowing them to be together. It would be an easy, and legal, way for the Razan to gain a foothold in Veron, a village they had long coveted. Together, Ruzlina and Edouard went through a form of ceremony that passes for marriage among the Razan. He brought his new bride back here when he was fully recovered. How that girl had lived among such a wicked brood as the Razan, I’ll never know. She was honest, true and gentle-natured—I could readily understand why my brother had fallen in love with her. They both lived happily in this place for nigh on two years.

  “Then tragedy struck the house of Bregon.” Here the comte paused, as if finding it difficult to continue.

  Ned went to him, laying his head on the old man’s lap and gazing up at him with soft, sympathetic eyes as he contacted Ben. “The poor fellow, see the sorrow in his face?”

  Ben nodded and placed a gentle hand on their host’s shoulder. “Tragedy, sir?”

  Dabbing his eyes with a kerchief, the comte explained. “Ruzlina died giving birth to her first child. It was a son. Edouard was so stricken with grief that he could not bear to look upon the child. He locked himself away in his chambers. Mathilde and I cared for the newborn baby, christened Adamo. It was a sad household, my young friends, full of sorrow and mourning, as if a light had gone from all our lives. Then, not more than three days after Ruzlina’s death, her kin, Maguda the mother and four of her brothers, appeared as if by magic on the steps of this house. I have never beheld a more sinister or barbaric-looking woman than Maguda Razan—she was the very picture of a witch. Dressed in black weeds of mourning, with her face painted in strange symbols, she pounded upon my door with her staff. Edouard would not leave his rooms to talk or even look upon her. She claimed the body of her daughter to take back to the mountains for burial in the Razan family vault. I could not refuse her this request. But it was her other demand that I could not bring myself to grant. She wanted little Adamo!”

  Dominic stared at the old man anxiously. “You didn’t let her have him, did you, sir?”

  A defiant glimmer entered the comte’s eyes. “No! I would not give up a newborn infant to murderous robbers, never! Maguda and her brothers departed with Ruzlina’s body in a casket. The brothers were silent, but Maguda Razan screamed like a wounded tigress. She called down all manner of curses upon Edouard, me and the house of Bregon. The villagers were so frightened that they ran away and hid. She made smoke and fire appear from the air, yelling vengeance and death, blaming my brother for the loss of her daughter. Then the Razan were gone—they vanished, leaving behind only smoke clouds and burning ashes.”

  Karay could not help but ask, “So was that the end of it, sir?”

  Shaking his head, the aged nobleman answered her. “No, child, that was only the start. Bregon was plagued by thefts and fires and all kinds of wicked doings. No matter how I barred the gates or stationed guards on the walls, the Razan would find their way in. However, I surrounded this house with armed men—I would not give up my nephew, Adamo.”

  Ben smiled. “I wager you were very fond of him, sir.”

  The comte resorted to wiping his eyes; his voice went husky. “Fond? The child meant more to me than life itself. He was raven-haired and dark of eye. Even as a baby, Adamo had a huge physique, strong and big-boned. But he was a calm child, very very silent. He never cried, or laughed out loud, or even chuckled. Doctors looked at him and assured me that he had the power of speech, that he was not born mute. Yet he never made a sound—well, hardly. Sometimes he would call Mathilde ‘ ’Tilde,’ poor little fellow. My brother Edouard could not bear to be in his own son’s presence, can you imagine that?”

  Ben felt he had to ask the question. “What became of Edouard?”

  The comte turned the ring on his finger. “This ring belonged to Edouard. He wore it on his little finger, yet it is far too large for my index finger. This will give you an indication of his size. However, he was brought down by a single sip of wine. It was the work of the Razan, I’m sure of it. Somehow, one of them entered this house, got into his rooms and poisoned the wine. This took place two years to the day after his wife died. Now, let me tell you the final, and most awful, part of this sad story. On the day we buried him, Mathilde was preparing food whilst I was at the funeral. It was a bright warm afternoon, and she let little Adamo play on a rug out in the garden, where she could see him from the kitchen window. But the moment she looked away, he was gone!”

  Ben spoke as the thought from Ned crossed his mind. “The Razan!”

  The comte nodded, then leaned forward, resting his forehead on both hands. “That was eighteen years ago this summer. I have not seen the boy since, nor heard news of him.”

  Ben felt enormous pity for the comte of Bregon, but he was slightly puzzled. “Did you not go out and search for him, sir?”

  Closing his eyes wearily, the old fellow replied. “The Razan sent me a message—it appeared on an arrow, shot over the walls. If I tried to leave Bregon, they would invade it and take my village for themselves. A lock of the boy’s hair was with the note, to prove they had him. I sent out two pair of brave men. They never returned. So, now you see my dilemma. I am a prisoner in my own village, and I don’t know, after all these long years, whether Adamo is even alive!”

  They sat in silence, feeling enormous sympathy for the aged nobleman’s predicament. The comte remained immobile, still with his eyes closed and both hands supporting his forehead as he leaned on the table. Faint sounds of the market fair drifted in on the sun-warmed noontide air. Outside in the garden, the thrush had been joined in song by a blackbird.

  Ben communicated with Ned. “Well, now we know what the angel guided us here for. We must help this good man to get his nephew back. What d’you think, mate?”

  The dog lifted his head from the old man’s lap as he answered. “Just show me a Razan and I’ll put a spell on the seat of his britches. I like this old gentleman, Ben—we must help him. I’m with you, and I’ll bet that Karay and Dom are too!”

  It was Ben who broke the silence. “Do you know where the Razan make their home in the mountains, sir?”

  Opening his eyes, the comte sat up straight. “The only one of our family who knew that was my brother, and he would not have found the place had not the Razan carried him there when he was injured. Edouard said that it was high in the Pyrenees, somewhere ’twixt Viella and M
onte Maladeta, not far over the Spanish border.”

  Ben looked to Dominic. “Are you familiar with that area?”

  Shaking his head, the facemaker replied, “Sabada, where I come from, is southwest of that region. I never travelled over that way, I’m afraid.”

  The comte interrupted him. “Wait! Garath, our old family ostler and blacksmith, might know something. He and Edouard were great friends, they often talked together. Garath is one of the few I can really trust. I’ll get him.”

  Ben helped the comte up. “We’ll come with you, sir, no need to tire yourself. Lend a hand here, you two!”

  The facemaker and the girl were assisting the old man through the door when he halted. “Wait,” he said. Opening a heavy stone jar that stood on a shelf, he took out several rough lumps of pale brown sugar. The comte winked at Ned and whispered, “For the horses, they know me.” He thrust the sugar lumps into his dressing-gown pocket.

  Garath was no longer a young man, but Ben could see that he was a fellow of great strength. He wore no shirt beneath his leather apron, and thick, corded muscle and sinew stood out on his grey-haired forearms. He had the hind leg of a roan mare locked between his knees, while he cleaned out the frog of her hoof with a small knife.

  Garath looked up as they entered the sweet-horsey-smelling stall. “Come to have your bones jolted, sire? ’Tis a fine day for it.”

  “No, no, my friend, these old bones would have to spend a week in bed if I tried to sit a horse, let alone ride it.” The comte laughed. “Meet my young friends, they have a question to ask you.”

  As they were introducing themselves and chatting to Garath, the mare dipped her muzzle into the old man’s pocket and snorted. The comte chuckled. “Are you stealing my sugar, Madame? Come out of there and I’ll give you some, eh, and a bit for my good friend Ned also. There you are!”

  As the horse and the dog crunched sugar happily, the comte explained his visit to Garath. “My young friends want to know whether my brother ever told you anything about the location where the Razan have their den.”

  Patting the mare’s well-brushed flank, the blacksmith nodded. “Monsieur Edouard said something of it once. High up in the border peaks, he said. In Spain, someplace ’twixt Viella and Maladeta—wild country!”

  Ben flicked the mop of tow-coloured hair from his brow. “We already know that, sir. Was there nothing else you can recall—any small detail that might help?”

  Garath went over to pat the withers of a hefty grey, which the comte was feeding sugar to. “Hmm, let me see. Oh, aye, there was something he said, it comes back to me now. The men hunting wild boar. He said that was the last thing that he saw before he passed out from his accident. Men hunting wild boar. Then he said that he would know the spot where the Razan stronghold was if he could only find the place where the men were hunting the boar. Then he seemed to forget what he was talking about and wandered off. ’Twas the injury to Monsieur Edouard’s head, you know. He was never quite the same after that fall from his horse.”

  Karay looked disappointed. “That is all you can remember?”

  The blacksmith shrugged. “Marm, ’twas all he said, he never spoke of it again after that day, and I never asked him.”

  Dominic stepped in and presented the blacksmith with a sketch he had made whilst the man was talking to them. The facemaker had done it with charcoal, on an old cask lid he had found lying about.

  Garath looked at his own likeness on the wooden lid and bowed slightly. “My thanks to ye, sir, though I think you made me a bit too handsome in this picture. Do I really look like that?”

  Dominic nodded emphatically. “Indeed you do, Garath, but that’s not good looks I portrayed, it’s honesty and hard work.”

  The comte inspected the likeness, commenting as Garath turned away, his cheeks reddening at the old man’s compliment: “An honest man is hard to find. This is a true picture of you, Garath. See the eyes, they reflect truth and the long, faithful service you have given my family.”

  The blacksmith bowed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you and your friends more, sire.”

  Evening shades were starting to fall as they sat in the comte’s parlour, sipping cold fruit juice. The old man was giving orders to Mathilde. “There will be five for dinner tonight—make sure there is plenty for these young ones at the table. Oh, and tell Hector to air out the beds in the guest rooms.”

  Mathilde gave Ned a wide berth as she trundled out, muttering under her breath about being eaten out of house and home by gypsies and savages.

  Karay wriggled with excitement as she addressed the comte. “D’you mean we can sleep in real beds in this big house? That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ve never slept in a real bed before!”

  The old man’s eyes twinkled briefly. “You’ll soon get used to it, child, and the boys also. I like good company around my gloomy old house, so stay as long as you wish.”

  Ben shook his head regretfully. “I wish we could, sir, but if we are to find Adamo, we’d best leave tomorrow.”

  The aged nobleman’s face was suddenly serious. “Thank you for your offer, lad, but it is far too dangerous. Besides, what makes you think that you could find my nephew?”

  Ben explained. “We are strangers to Veron, everyone saw us arrested by your guards, sir. My friends and I don’t look exactly like visiting royalty, do we? Look at us, four poor travellers. Even Mathilde said we look like thieves and gypsies. What better cover could we have? Nobody would suspect us of being your agents. We could wander anywhere at will—who’d pay much attention to us?”

  The comte stared into Ben’s haunting blue eyes. “I don’t know what it is, but the moment I saw you and Ned, Karay and Dominic being brought into my garden today, I had a strange feeling that things were about to happen.”

  Dominic spoke earnestly. “We will help you, sir, I’m sure of it. Put your trust in us and we’ll prove our friendship.”

  The old man looked from one to the other. “You have a plan?”

  Ben was about to say that they had no plan, but they would think one up, when Ned’s thoughts claimed his attention. “Listen to me, mate. Repeat what I’m thinking to the old fellow, here’s my plan . . .”

  Ben repeated Ned’s thoughts aloud to the comte. “Let everyone think we’ve been thrown in prison over the business on the steps. We’ll stay here until Monday, when the fair’s over. Though we’ll have to keep our heads down, it wouldn’t be wise to let word get about that we’re house-guests and not prisoners. When the fair ends, have your guards drive us from Veron with lots of loud warnings that we’re lucky to be set free from the lockup.”

  The comte scratched his beard. “But why such an elaborate charade? Wouldn’t you be better merely slipping away at dawn?”

  Ben continued translating his dog’s thoughts. “No no, sir, we want people to think that we’re a bunch of no-goods. If, as you say, the Razan can appear in secret, then I’ll wager there’s some of them among the fair’s visitors. We’ll be in a much better position if they think we are villains like them!”

  Karay gave Ben a sly nudge and winked at him. “Very good! You’re not such a bumpkin as I thought you were, Ben. How did you think of a plan like that?”

  The strange boy shrugged. “Oh, it wasn’t my idea, it was Ned’s!”

  The black Labrador huffed indignantly at their laughter. “Huh! What’s so funny? My brain’s as good as any human’s. Better than some, I’m certain!”

  Dominic tugged Ned’s tail playfully. “Good thinking, fellow, you’d make a fine robber’s dog!”

  The comte grew serious once more. “Are you sure you want to do this, my friends? You’ll be putting yourselves in great peril.”

  Ben took their host’s hand. “What sort of folk would we be if we couldn’t help a friend like you, sir? Don’t worry, we’ll find Adamo and bring him back safely to you.”

  The old man was forced to resort to wiping his eyes again. “My children, if you could do this, you would earn my eternal gr
atitude!”

  19

  MAGUDA RAZAN AND HER FOLLOWERS lived in caves high in the Pyrenees on the Spanish side of the border. Maguda trusted no man and considered the women of the caves to be inferior beings, senseless baggages who lusted after silks and jewellery. Maguda Razan had eyes that held mysterious powers and was feared by those who served her, any of whom she could bend to her will. An awesome array of potions, scents, powders and spells, coupled with her hypnotic gaze, made her absolute ruler of her rocky domain. Widowed in her younger days, she relied on her four brothers for knowledge of the outside world. They were sombre, close-mouthed men and proficient assassins.

  Lesser caves and tortuous passages ran into the mountains, all terminating at the main cavern where Maguda held court deep in the heart of her stone world. It was a vast cavern, furnished to strike terror into the very soul of ignorant thieves and impressionable peasants. Silent as the grave, it had the likenesses of many sinister idols carved into the walls: men with the bodies of reptiles and ferocious beasts, women with multiple limbs and cruel staring eyes, each image with a different-coloured fire burning at its base. Sulphurous yellow, blood red, oily black and many other hues of hellfire. Together they created a noxious cloud that hung beneath the cavern ceiling like a pall. Amid a welter of long-dead and stuffed creatures, Maguda Razan sat on a fabulous throne, which was said to have come from the palace of an emir. It was draped in skins of all manner and decorated with beads. Maguda Razan could barely reach its arms with her hands outstretched. She sat like a venomous spider at the centre of a web. Small, and clad in wispy wraps of black, blue and puce, she had hair that stood out from her head in a crown of dyed orange, streaked with steely grey roots. Between the deep-etched lines of her face, dark, cabalistic tattoos overlaid her bloodless skin. But it was the eyes of Maguda Razan that fascinated the onlooker—restless pinpoints of deep light shining out of muddy yellowed pupils, never still, always restlessly searching back and forth like a questing cobra.