by Robin Jarvis
Morgan sat on the Thane’s throne and sniggered to himself – what a day this had been! This was what he had always longed for: to lead and be in control of a vast army. His hatchet face smirked from ear to ear as he thought of it. If only some of his old lads could see him now. For a moment he thought back to his former days in Deptford; he was well out of that. He could still not understand how Jupiter had duped him all those years, pretending to be a rat god when all the time he was just some mangy old cat getting fat from his labours.
‘Pah!’ he spat on the floor and glanced again at his new lads. What a joy they were, and so enthusiastic. Morgan tried to remember his first taste of mouse. He had probably reacted in much the same way. But the supply of those tempting scamperers had been meagre in the Deptford sewers. His Lordship had seen to that – any that ventured down were sent straight to Him. Morgan scowled, why was he dwelling on the past so much? He had been in the city for several months now and not once had he bothered to think of those horrible times when he had fawned and scraped to those burning eyes.
‘Cheers Stumpy!’ saluted a gorged rat waddling past the dais with a bowl of blood in his claws. Morgan returned the greeting and bent his piebald head to drink from his own bowl.
The slurp died in his throat as he stared down into the brimming bowl. His chisel-shaped snout was reflected in the swirling thick liquid, but only for a moment. Something strange began to happen. The blood became cloudy and ice spiked in from the edge into the centre until it was frozen solid. Morgan gasped but could not tear his eyes away. Somewhere, deep in the heart of the blood red ice, two points of pale, frosty light appeared.
‘No,’ murmured the rat in disbelief, ‘not again.’ The glimmering, icy-cruel eyes filled the bowl until their ghostly radiance fell upon Morgan’s face and flowed out over his shaking claws. The eyes were a fierce blue, the dead colour of the terrible void and their eternal cold burned into the rat’s mind.
‘Morgan,’ called a distant, familiar voice.
The colour drained out of the rat’s face as he recognized the speaker. ‘It cannot be . . .’ he stammered, ‘you are gone – drowned deep.’
‘Morgan,’ repeated the voice in a whisper and the eyes in the ice seemed to look into his very soul.
‘My Lord?’ the hackles rose on Morgan’s back and a chill crept under his flesh. ‘Is that you?’
‘Verily ’tis I, Jupiter your Lord and Master,’ the voice spoke hollowly and with an edge to it as bleak as Death. ‘I have come to claim my lieutenant.’
Smiff looked up from his mess, wondering if he ought to be sick so as to fit in more grub. He smiled round at all the contented, mouse-hatted rats and raised his greasy claws to Old Stumpy. The salute was not acknowledged.’ What was he doing there? The general seemed to be staring into his bowl. Where was that queer blue light coming from? Smiff frowned and staggered to his feet -something odd was going on.
‘Listen to me,’ lulled the voice of Jupiter softly, ‘I have returned from the far reaches to Death and need my old, trusted friend by my side once more.’
Morgan’s will was slowly ebbing away. Every second he looked into those eyes and heard that dreadful voice the less he was able to wrench himself free. ‘No,’ he struggled to say through the spells that were being wrapped round him, ‘I won’t never work fer no damned moggy – not no more! I got me own life away from yer now an’ there’s no way I’ll come back – not if you be Hobb hisself.’
But it was hot easy to escape from Jupiter. Gradually the icy whispers needled their way into Morgan’s heart. The rat began to listen to Jupiter’s melodious words, for they had the same heady effect as strong wine. His lids drooped over his beady eyes and he fell victim once more to Jupiter’s powerful voice. He mourned when the words ceased – he wanted to hear them forever, he would die to hear them. A great passion swelled up in his breast; he would bind himself to this magnificent Lord and do whatever he wished. How could he have lived without him all this time?
‘I need you, Morgan. Come back into my service,’ said Jupiter. ‘I see you have fashioned an army for yourself – excellent. Bring them to me, let them be my beloved subjects and worship my beautiful cold. The Genius of the Black Winter wishes to be adored as his body once was.’
‘Anything you desire Majesty,’ Morgan answered with his old subservience, ‘I’ll round up the lads and take ’em to yer, we’ll kiss yer feet and never give you cause to doubt our love.’ Jupiter laughed softly and Morgan was enchanted by the cruel sound.
‘You all right Boss?’ asked Smiff by the side of the throne, as he eyed the bowl suspiciously. ‘You look a bit peaky like, what’s that funny light?’
Morgan looked up sharply. He saw Smiff as though he was looking through a black veil that twisted and distorted everything. ‘Nothing wrong with me lad,’ he replied mechanically. ‘Get yer things together an’ tell the rest of the boys we got to move on.’
‘What you talking about Boss?’ cried Smiff in astonishment. ‘We don’t ’ave to shift from ’ere yet. There’s plenty o’ nosh left an’ it’s not as if there’s owt to be afraid of. We’re on a cushy number ’ere, why don’t we stay?’
Morgan’s claws flashed out and Smiff’s right ear was tom in two. Smiff clapped hold of his head and jumped back in alarm. ‘Obey me!’ snapped Morgan viciously, and he rose from the throne to address the astonished onlookers. ‘Prepare to depart,’ he told them. ‘We leave within the hour.’
The rats looked at each other curiously. What was Old Stumpy up to now, they wondered. ‘I ain’t finished me grub,’ grumbled one. ‘Shaddap!’ hushed another, ‘he must know what he’s up to. The Boss knows what’s good fer us; we can trust ’im don’t you fret.’
Smiff walked away from the throne greatly troubled, his ripped ear throbbed and the blood trickled between his claws. Something was wrong and he did not like it. Old Stumpy did not seem the same. He went off sourly, searching for Kelly.
‘Most faithful servant,’ said Jupiter in Morgan’s ear, ‘bring your rabble to me at Deptford. I have a use for them.’
Morgan bowed, the eyes disappeared and the ice melted in the bowl, then he turned to his waiting lads.
‘What are yer hanging about fer?’ he barked. ‘Get yer kit together -we go to Deptford.’
‘Deptford?’ they repeated with dismay. ‘What we goin’ there for?’ Nearly everybody in the city had heard of that place and the horror which once ruled the sewers there. The rats shook their heads doubtfully. They didn’t like the sound of this – all knew the rumours of the dreadful Jupiter and nobody wanted to go anywhere near Deptford. ‘Ain’t goin’,’ some grumbled defiantly.
Morgan snarled and shook his fists at them, ‘Ain’t goin’?’ he bellowed savagely. ‘How dare yer! Haven’t I led you aright so far? Haven’t I let yer taste mouse flesh?’ The rats mumbled with shameful faces, ‘But Deptford,’ implored one, ‘why there?’
‘Because it is the fairest of lands,’ replied Morgan with a yearning in his voice. ‘There the pickings are richer than anywhere else. The mouses are plump and just ripe fer peelin’, an’ there ain’t no others to get in our way. All the ratfolk there upped an’ died awhile ago.’
‘We don’t wanna pop our clogs.’
‘You won’t my fine boys. Those old stories were a pack o’ lies put about by them selfish sewer louts who didn’t wanna share the bounty wi’ no-one. Well, they’re gone now an’ what’s left is acres of tender squeakers with none to harvest ’em. What a waste.’ Morgan was winning them over. The greed was still fresh in their hearts and they would do anything to get their claws on more mice. ‘Let’s hurry,’ he cried impatiently. ‘Vinny – raise our standard, we go to war! Deptford shall be ours.’ He grinned to himself; they would make excellent subjects for his master – it would be like the good old days.
The rats’ lust for more blood swept away any doubts and they cheered at the images Old Stumpy was painting for them. ‘To Deptford,’ they cried, throwing their mouse-skin hats
into the air.
In a silent corner Smiff and Kelly elbowed one another. Only they knew that their great leader came from Deptford; he had told them when he first arrived in the city. He had also said that it was the most terrible place he had ever been and trembled when he mentioned it. The two rats eyed the stump-tailed general warily, perhaps he had outlived his usefulness and a new leader would have to be chosen. They decided to bide their time and wait for an opportunity to depose him. Kelly licked his claws and bared his sharpened fangs in anticipation.
* * *
In the gloom of the Tube tunnel Piccadilly rocked on his heels, cradling his face in folded arms while the heavy fringe of dark hair hid his downcast eyes. The future for him looked stark. With Holeborn destroyed and packed tight with rats there was nothing he could do. At first he had considered barging straight in to kill as many of the brutes as he was able but Barker had stopped him, and now that his anger had cooled Piccadilly was numb inside. He could not believe that all those mice were gone forever. He thought bitterly of the Green Mouse – if he really existed he would not have let this happen. An ironic smile curled over his covered face. Perhaps he was cursed, that might account for all the misfortunes that had occurred in his life. His parents had been killed when he was very young, he had lost himself and ended up in the Deptford sewers where his new friend Albert Brown perished; the only girl he had ever liked had not cared for him, and now this. Piccadilly’s past unrolled itself before him and he hated what he saw.
Barker had remained with the city mouse. He looked troubled and twitched his ears cautiously. The rat was frightened, it was dangerous to stay so near to Holeborn; at any moment the marauders might spill out and pounce on them. With his one tooth he nibbled his lip worriedly and counted the lumps on his head. If only the mousey boy would go away somewhere, he could finish what he had been sent to do. At every strange sound Barker jumped and flung himself to the ground – his nerves were shot to pieces.
Piccadilly reared his head, his face set and grim.
‘I must know what happened to Marty,’ he said, turning to the rat. ‘Was he killed along with everyone else? Did you see him?’
Barker looked away and flicked a stone with his claws, ‘Barker never saw freak mouse,’ he replied eventually.
A faint hope entered Piccadilly’s heart. ‘Then he could still be alive,’ he breathed. ‘He must have got lost around the East Way – that’s why the attack was such a surprise, he never reached Holeborn.’
The rat mumbled to himself, ‘Barker not see freak mouse or any other, he not like to see them cut down, he didn’t wanna watch the peelin’s.’
But Piccadilly was not deterred. There was a chance that his young friend was still alive and he meant to find him. He jumped up and was about to run towards the East Way when a dreadful sound reached his ears. There came a splintering creak as the great door was pulled open and horrible laughter issued into the tunnels – the rat army was leaving Holeborn. He heard the heavy tramp of their trudging feet come closer and the hiss of their black, boiling breath whistled in the darkness, mingling with their foul oaths and filthy language. Barker yelped with alarm, twisting and turning this way and that, dithering as to where he should run. The unseen army poured from the gates and the rustling slither of their blood-soaked, slimy bodies filled Piccadilly’s jangling ears.
‘Come on lads,’ a harsh rat voice cried round the corner, ‘where’s that blasted Vinny with that poxy standard?’
Piccadilly looked at Barker desperately. This time there was nowhere for him to hide, there were no holes here and the rats were too close for him to start running now. Barker looked blankly back at him, pouting miserably. If they found him with a live mouse they would kill him too.
There was no escape for them. Piccadilly whipped out his little knife and ground his teeth together, waiting for the first of the bloodthirsty monsters. He guessed that he would last for about thirty seconds – long enough, he thought, if Morgan was leading them.
A gnarled, yellow-clawed foot appeared followed by a huge, black furry body. The knife glinted in the grey mouse’s paws as he braced himself for the onslaught that was to come. Suddenly a claw flashed out and slammed him against the wall. ‘Quiet mousey boy,’ instructed Barker quickly, ‘stay in shadow.’ The old rat had grabbed Piccadilly, pushing him down as small as he would go, then stood in front of him trying to obscure as much of the mouse as he could.
Piccadilly drew his tail in and flattened his ears. This was a crazy idea and only Barker could have thought of it. Any second, hundreds of rats were going to flood by and one of them would surely spot him. He felt like pushing Barker aside and charging them anyway – at least he wouldn’t be found cowering in a corner. But as he struggled to stand the barmy old rat sat down on his back and he could not budge.
The army trooped in, their eyes fiery and filled with murderous lust. First came the newly-appointed standard bearer, Vinny – a short, squat, pigmy of a rat whose face was as wicked as sin and whose teeth were stained crimson. He carried the dreadful standard banner proudly before him and cackled at the top of his shrill voice. Barker glanced up and shivered when he realized what the army’s standard was.
Piccadilly was unable to see anything. His face was pressed into his stomach and although he squirmed beneath Barker for all he was worth the rat had more strength than he had guessed. The evil creatures swarmed by with great, leering faces. Some still wore their grisly trophies on their ugly, slobbering heads and others chewed the remains of their feast. ‘‘Ere, Barker,’ shouted one, ‘wot ya doin’ there? Ain’tcha ’ad any grub yet?’
Barker coughed and shook his head, ‘I were waitin’ fer you lot to finish before I started tuckin’ in,’ he answered with feigned heartiness, ‘can’t wait to munch real mouseys.’
‘You daft old goat,’ they all hooted. ‘Only Barker would be mad enough to miss out – wot a loony.’ They were all so busy making fun of the old rat that none of them bothered to peer into the shadows and see what he was sitting on. ‘Well, ’urry up then,’ they told him, ‘we’re not stoppin’ round ’ere.’
Morgan was in there snorting with them, but his high spirits were born of dark plans that his lads were ignorant of. He sneered and rubbed his claws excitedly. In his mind he saw the blazing magnificence of his master and he was impatient to do His will once more. The mass of seething rats continued to buzz through the tunnel; there seemed no end to them. All were gnashing and champing, licking their chops and smacking their lips at the thought of war. Some had found the few weapons the Holeborners had and brandished them over their heads, booming death cries and making up nasty skinning songs. They thrust on feverishly, whooping and brawling amongst each other, shouting obscene slogans at the top of their hideous voices till the tunnel seemed to quake.
Piccadilly stopped struggling; the ridiculous plan seemed to be working and he was amazed at his luck. Soon the last of the ferocious army would pass by, but he wondered where they were heading and felt sorry for anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.
Smiff and Kelly brought up the rear. They were deep in secret discussion, glaring round shiftily to make sure no-one could hear them. Smiff’s ear was bandaged and he covered his snotty nose to muffle his words as they plotted and schemed together. Suddenly he caught sight of Barker and spat. He felt like kicking someone.
‘Oi!’ he shrieked angrily, ‘Where did you sneak off to then? Come ’ere ya barmpot.’
Barker whimpered. If he moved they could not fail to see Piccadilly. ‘Shan’t,’ he found himself saying.
Steam practically blew from Smiff’s nostrils as he roared, ‘What! Don’t you give me none o’ yer lip mate, get yerself over ’ere now or I’ll come an’ get yer with a big stick.’ But Barker stood his ground defiantly. A horrible growl gurgled in Smiff’s throat as he stalked towards him.
‘Stop it,’ Kelly broke in, ‘don’t start a row an’ draw attention to yerself Smiff mate, there’ll be time fer old sots like t
hat later. Get back ’ere, we’ve got a job to do remember.’ He caught hold of Smiff’s arm and yanked him back roughly.
Smiff relaxed and returned to his side where he glowered and threw stabbing glances back at Barker. ‘I’ll not ferget this you old toe rag,’ he warned, ‘you’d better watch out coz one day yer gonna wake up with yer throat slit.’
When they had passed further up the tunnel and out of earshot Barker breathed a sigh of relief and released Piccadilly.
‘Thanks,’ said the mouse, stretching himself, ‘that was a close one! I never want to be in such a tight spot again.’ But the rat was watching the army recede into the distance and seemed not to hear. Piccadilly rubbed life into his cramped legs then folded his arms and frowned, ‘I wonder where they’re going?’ he said curiously, ‘that’s not the way back to their holes.’
‘It is war,’ said Barker and he sounded almost gleeful. ‘There will be many battles and the soil will be a blood marsh.’
Piccadilly was unnerved. Sometimes the old rat really surprised him. ‘I can’t worry about that now,’ he said, ‘I’ve still got to try and find Marty, and I suppose I ought to take a last look at Holeborn.’ With a heavy heart he walked round the corner and beheld the devastation of his home.
Barker stayed where he was, his mind ticking over with its own secret thoughts. When he looked up Piccadilly had gone and he was alone. ‘No mousey boy,’ he whispered softly, ‘you not find freak now. You must come with Barker.’ For a moment the rat straightened his back and was unrecognizable, tall and grim with a knowing gleam in his sharp eyes.
The great door hung sadly off its hinges and the wood was gouged with deep, fierce claw marks. The attack had been a mad frenzy – even if the mice had been warned Piccadilly doubted if they could have escaped. He forced himself across the threshold and saw the first victim. It was the sentry, or rather the bits that were left of him. The ancient spear had been seized and taken victoriously away but the battered tin hat had been too small to fit a rat. All that remained was a crushed lump of bent metal in a dark, grisly pool.’