The Final Reckoning

by Robin Jarvis

  Barker pulled himself up and slunk over to the shadowy corner where the mice were hiding. ‘He’s out and alone,’ he told them quickly, ‘an’ he’s got the dangler round his scrawny neck.’

  ‘Well done,’ Thomas congratulated him hurriedly. He turned to the others. ‘Ready?’ Piccadilly and Arthur nodded grimly and with one bound they all shot out of the darkness and raced through the blizzard towards Morgan. Barker remained hidden in the shade and waited.

  Morgan whipped round and saw the three mice charging at him. He cried out and tried to dodge back to the window but his escape was cut off by Thomas and a rapier was thrust menacingly before his face. Arthur swiftly swung his stick and caught the rat’s claw, the dagger dropped to the ground and Morgan yelped. Piccadilly’s paw was steady as he held his own little knife and approached purposefully. This disgusting creature had been the cause of all his miseries.

  Morgan stared open-mouthed at the city mouse. ‘I know you,’ he cried, ‘you’re a Holeborner, and before that you were in the sewers – you’re the dainty that got away.’ Piccadilly said nothing but came fiercely on.

  ‘Morgan,’ snapped Thomas suddenly, ‘we only want that brass round your neck. Give it to us or we’ll take it and we’ll not be gentle.’

  Considering that the rat was cornered and weaponless he seemed very sure of himself, ‘Ha ha,’ he laughed, holding his sides, ‘so that’s what you’re up to. You cretinous scum! Nothing can harm my Lord, certainly not some poxy bauble. He has grown too strong for that!’ and he continued to hoot with mocking laughter.

  ‘Give it to us!’ ordered Piccadilly. He ran forward and grasped the rat by the throat. Morgan jumped backwards and threw the mouse off balance. Piccadilly fell down into the snow and his knife spun in the air, only to be caught in cruel claws.

  ‘Don’t deal in death lad,’ Morgan whispered harshly in his ear as he pressed the knife against Piccadilly’s own throat, ‘not when your victim is a master of the craft. I’ve murdered and butchered more flesh than you’re ever likely to see.’ He glanced up at Thomas and Arthur and told them to back off. ‘That’s right my lovelies,’ Morgan cooed, ‘if you don’t want to see your little grey friend skinned in front of you just keep away.’ He twisted the knife so that the gleam from it flashed on their faces, then he lifted his gaze and an insane cackle gurgled from his mouth as he looked beyond them.

  Piccadilly squirmed in alarm as he saw the dreadful horror gather behind his friends. He tried to warn them but his own knife cut threateningly into his skin and pricked out a trickle of blood. ‘Behind you!’ he managed to cry defiantly. Morgan growled and punched the city mouse hard in the ribs. The breath streamed out of Piccadilly and he lay helpless and gasping in the snow. Thomas spun on his heel and beheld the terrible sight. ‘Hell’s bells!’ he uttered fearfully. Arthur squealed and nearly let go of his stick in dismay. He could scarcely believe his terror-stricken eyes.

  Hideous forms had poured out of the power station and mustered silently behind them. The shapes were blurred and indistinct, a trick perhaps of the dark and the snow which beat furiously against his face, but no, for a moment the wintry veil was parted and Arthur cowered back – whatever they were, he could see straight through them.

  Before him was a host of hideous phantoms. All of Morgan’s slaughtered rats had returned in spectral form. Their eye sockets were empty and they stared blankly out at the frozen world. The faces of the apparitions still held the tortured look of their hideous deaths and hollow wails echoed into the night from their gaping, dead mouths. In their haunted claws each held the spear that had killed him and the icy spikes were stained black with their own blood. They were tightly bound to their new master. His will it was that drove them – for in each of their chests a spark of cold starfire blazed. It was Jupiter’s new army – regiment upon grisly regiment of ghastly ghosts. It was a bloodcurdling sight and Arthur’s skin crawled.

  ‘Blood an’ thunder!’ exclaimed Thomas.

  Morgan threw back his head and let loose a high-pitched screech of a laugh, ‘What do you think of my new army? You are most honoured; your lives will be the first they shall take.’ He kicked the winded Piccadilly to one side and ran to be amongst his phantom lads.

  ‘I’m not afeard o’ spooks,’ said Thomas undaunted. ‘They may look scary but when all’s said an’ done they’re dead an’ can’t hurt the living.’

  Morgan sneered at him scornfully. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it, sea squeaker. My army still has claws to tear with and now the lads have the deadliest of spears.’ He took two paces backwards and bowed. It was a signal and with horrible, tormented shrieks the dead warriors surged forward.

  Thomas sprang towards them with his rapier, plunging the sharp blade directly into the heart of one. The spectre’s transparent fur parted as the steel slashed straight through it. Thomas thrashed the rapier up and down, tattering the dreadful spirit into a thousand pieces, but the wispy fragments melted and merged together once more and the awful, lolling head mocked him. In a final effort, the midshipmouse sliced through the crackling white starfire which pulsed and glowed in the breast of the hellish thing.

  He cried out as a spitting, ravenous frost shot out and devoured the steel blade, turning it to brittle ice which splintered and smashed on the ground. Thomas’s paw blistered and became a hoary white as the blood in his fingers froze.

  ‘Run!’ he shouted, diving at Piccadilly and sweeping him up with his other arm.

  ‘I’m okay,’ the city mouse told him, rubbing the bruises on his ribs and wriggling down onto his own feet. ‘Where’s Barker?’ he called, suddenly remembering their other companion.

  ‘Leave him!’ bellowed Thomas. ‘He’ll find his own way out of this.’

  The three mice pelted back over the waste ground as fast as they could. Behind them in deadly pursuit flowed the legion of wraiths. They hurled their ice spears at them and the glinting missiles soared through the night and came crashing closely on their heels.

  ‘We’ll never make it,’ panted Arthur in dismay, ‘there’s too many of them. We’re gonners.’ He spluttered along as best he could but his stride was failing, his weight was against him and he felt hi lungs ache in his chest.

  ‘Run lad!’ barked Thomas in his ear, but it was no use – what with fright and the cold Arthur was nearly spent.

  Then it happened. An ice spear whistled past his cheek and crashed into the snow directly in front of him. He was moving too quickly to avoid it and the world turned upside down as he tripped and cartwheeled over. With a great flurry of ice Arthur tumbled down.

  ‘Blast!’ yelled Thomas and he ran back to help the dazed mouse.

  Arthur had stars before his eyes and his vision was fuzzy. For a second he did not know where he was. Thomas shook him roughly and rubbed snow into his face to bring him back to his senses. ‘Arthur!’ he called urgently. The mouse blinked. In a wild panic Thomas dragged him up and heaved him over his shoulder.

  The phantom host was closing on them. The midshipmouse struggled under Arthur’s weight but they were moving too slowly now. Arthur bobbed up and down and the jangling, blurred visions before him fused and came together. He screwed his eyes up and smacked himself. Now he really was seeing stars – hundreds of them flashed and shone in the dead chests of the wailing troops who were now barely a few metres away. Another spear gleamed cold and cruel as it left the macabre claws of one of the spirits. It hurtled towards the fleeing mice with horrible accuracy.

  ‘Aaarrgghh!’ screamed Thomas as the spear sliced through his leg. He toppled over and both he I and Arthur crashed to the ground.

  The wound was deep and the blood oozed out over the snow. But it was no ordinary gash. Almost immediately a festering frost stole over the exposed flesh. The midshipmouse groaned with the pain.

  ‘Go!’ he shouted at Arthur. ‘Leave me, I’m done for.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Arthur cried, ‘give me your arm.’ He tried to pull Thomas to his feet but it was no use the army was u
pon them.

  Piccadilly turned round to see what was happening. He had outdistanced his friends and was appalled to witness the terrifying spectres bearing down on them. With his fists clenched he ran forward bellowing for all he was worth. ‘HOLEBORN!’ he bawled. He did not think of the terrible danger he was flying into. The sight of Thomas and Arthur swamped by Jupiter’s nightmarish forces was all he thought of.

  A claw snatched out of the darkness and caught his arm. But it was flesh and blood. ‘Mousey!’ called Barker breathlessly, ‘use your head, you can’t save them like that.’

  Piccadilly stared into the old rat’s eyes, confused and bewildered by what he saw there. A commanding light gleamed in those cunning, bottomless pools. ‘What can I do?’ he found himself asking dumbly. ‘They’re my friends.’

  Barker dragged behind him the oil can he had sampled and discarded previously. ‘Leave it to Barker,’ he said sternly. The rat bounded towards the shadowy host and called out strange-sounding words.

  Arthur and Thomas held on to each other as a hundred spears of ice were raised and aimed at their hearts. Suddenly the phantoms faltered and looked away, their grisly attention summoned elsewhere. Above the squall and clamour of the storm a voice was shouting strange words. The ghosts suddenly lost their will and the starfire dimmed in their hearts as they moaned and put down the spears. To the mice’s astonishment, Barker came crashing through the uncertain spirits: and flung the oil can at Thomas’s feet.

  ‘Your tinder box Triton!’ the rat instructed sharply. ‘Hurry, the confusion will not last long.’ Sure enough, the starfire was already beginning to throb and blaze again. The ghosts were raising their fatal spears and hissing through hollow mouths.

  Thomas fumbled in the turn-up of his hat where I he kept his tinder box. Quickly he struck a spark and the oil that had spilt out of the can burst into golden flames on the deep snow. The spectres fell back gasping and clawing the air, dismayed at the heat and light. They covered their blank eyes and edged further away.

  The midshipmouse tugged the kerchief from around his neck and wound it tightly about Arthur’s stick. He soaked it in oil and thrust it into the fire. The torch burst into life and he limped painfully to his feet. The wraiths scattered before him as he waved the flames in their dismayed faces.

  Arthur leapt up and let Thomas lean on him. He could see that the wound was hurting the midshipmouse and he was finding it difficult to stand. ‘Come on Mr Triton,’ he said urgently, ‘we must get away from here.’

  Piccadilly ran up, delighted to see the phantoms recoil and disperse. ‘Go an’ haunt a house,’ he laughed, snapping his fingers at them. He clapped Barker on the back when he reached him and gave the rat a joyous hug. ‘Brilliant chummy,’ he said, ‘you’re not barmy after all.’

  Barker was not smiling as he eyed the retreating legion cautiously. ‘Hurry,’ he told the city mouse, ‘their fear will not last long. The flames came unexpected but their dark master will pour more hate and malice into the starfire which controls them. They will attack again. Look to your friend.’

  Piccadilly did not seem to notice that the rat was now speaking in a totally different voice, for he saw Thomas come hobbling towards him leaning heavily on Arthur. ‘Let me help,’ he cried dashing under the midshipmouse’s free arm. ‘Barker says the army won’t be scared for long,’ he told them, ‘we have to get out of here quick.’

  Thomas gave the rat a curious stare and thanked him for saving them. Barker was himself again and he shrugged, tittering into his claws, but the midshipmouse was not deceived. If the rat wanted to play games and be mysterious then let him, he decided. ‘We must get back to the Skirtings,’ he said, wincing at the gnawing agony of his leg. He handed the burning torch over to Barker. ‘Set fire to the rest of the oil,’ he told him.

  The rat scurried back to the can and poured the dregs over as wide an area as was possible, then he lowered the torch and ignited it all. Fierce flames roared up and belched into the storm-filled night and the ghostly warriors who were overcoming their initial fears were cowed once more by this greater blaze of yellow fury.

  Barker looked round at them. Yes, Jupiter was very mighty to have created this ghastly horde in so little time. Things were grim indeed – their mission was a complete and utter failure. He turned to the power station and shook his bony fist at it, cursing the demon inside. Barker wondered just how unassailable Jupiter was. If only they had managed to take Morgan’s mousebrass, that might have worked, but it was no use now. The mice were returning to that old house and nothing could persuade them to risk such an action. Barker could see no other way of dealing with the terrible Unbeest and he cursed his own frail body which was too weak to attempt such a venture.

  His attention returned to the hissing, groping forces nearby – already they were braving the heat and drawing nearer to the flames as the starfire urged them on. The old rat glanced up and a thin, smile curled over his cracked lips as he spotted his chance. Quickly he ran after the three friends, burying himself in the role of the idiot once more. I

  ‘Fire lit, nice crackly, toasty flames,’ he giggled as he approached them, ‘wailing spookies not, follow now, no frazzle their ghostly whiskers.’ The mice paid him little heed as they were putting all their efforts into helping Thomas stagger to the gate.

  Barker persisted, ‘Look, look,’ he sniggered, ‘see how they not come after, how they long to,’

  As Arthur ducked under the railings and waited for the midshipmouse to follow, Barker yanked, Piccadilly’s arm and spun him round, ‘Look mousey boy!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Do you see, them now?’

  Piccadilly frowned at the rat but his eyes fell on the hundreds of spirits wailing and swaying aimlessly in the firelight. The flames fell on their twisted faces and the city mouse turned pale as his stomach lurched. There was the shade of Vinny, the loathsome standard bearer, and above his head the banner still fluttered. Piccadilly had not seen it before and now his heart stopped and a desperate cry formed on his quivering lips.

  The standard was made out of a mouse skin: the paws were tied round the pole, two small circles marked where the eyes had been and the legs flapped madly behind in the wild wind. But over the main section, the area that was once a mouse’s back, there ran a jagged bolt of darker fur that resembled a flash of lightning.

  ‘MARTY!’ screamed Piccadilly. There, waving forlornly in the storm was all that remained of his young friend. He had not gone by the East Way after all and had been one of the first to die in the attack on Holeborn. Piccadilly dropped to his knees and howled. Barker stepped back and hoped he had gauged this mouse correctly.

  A thousand agonies battered through Piccadilly’s mind as he comprehended what he saw hoisted above the spectral heads. ‘Marty,’ he whispered softly, ‘you should have listened to me.’ His eyes were empty and desolate as he gazed at the sad little banner fluttering pathetically over the fiendish host.

  Thomas and Arthur were now both on the other side of the rails and they stared at Piccadilly in amazement. What on earth was he doing?

  ‘Piccadilly,’ called Arthur, ‘we might not have much more time. Come quickly before Morgan forces the army through the flames.’

  At the sound of that name a raging tempest welled up inside the city mouse. ‘Morgan!’ he spat furiously, ‘I’ve put this off long enough!’ And he sprang back over the snowy waste ground towards the power station once more.

  ‘He’s gone mad,’ cried Arthur fearfully, ‘what’s the matter with him – he’ll be killed.’

  Thomas glared at the rat; there was something suspicious here. ‘Get you after that lad Barker,’ he ordered, ‘and make sure you bring him back.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ squeaked Barker, ‘mousey boy must not run off, Barker go fetch him.’ He darted away and did not bother to wait until he was out of earshot before laughing at his cleverness.

  ‘Should we wait?’ Arthur asked nervously.

  Thomas put his paw to his forehead and racked his brai
n. There was nothing they could do here, it would be better if they continued on. It went against all his instincts but he knew the situation was hopeless. They had to go and warn the others before it was too late – Piccadilly would have to catch them up afterwards, if he could. ‘We go on,’ he told Arthur bitterly.

  * * *

  Piccadilly’s anger scorched his brain. He was blind to everything else; he had forgotten about his friends – only Morgan filled his thoughts. The piebald rat loomed large in his mind, blotting out all reason. The blood of thousands stained the evil; henchrat’s jaws – Morgan had to die.

  The city mouse charged through the wailing spirits who were now stalking fearlessly through l the fire. Their unclean claws tore at his fur as he thundered past and the savage spears hailed after him. Piccadilly did not feel the rents in his sides where the talons of the dead gouged into him, nor did he feel the ice and snow battering into his face as he drew close to the power station once more. Only Morgan’s leering mouth and sneering laugh drove him on. They danced before his eyes, images of madness that had to be destroyed once and for all.

  Morgan was standing near the pane of broken glass, braced against the gale and cackling wickedly. His new army was magnificent! Nothing could stand before it and the world would be his to govern under Jupiter’s rule. He tossed back his ugly head and hooted with pleasure, but the laughter died in his throat as Piccadilly came out of the storm to confront him.’

  A terrible light was shining in the mouse’s eyes and the rat stiffened with surprise. He looked for his army but they were pursuing Thomas and Arthur over the jetty. Morgan was on his own. Piccadilly bared his teeth. ‘Time’s up Stumpy!’ he snarled, prowling forward.

  The rat glared at him and drew himself up haughtily. ‘Get out o’ my sight,’ he growled threateningly. ‘I’ve ’ad bigger ’an you fer breakfast lad.’ But still the mouse came on and the burning hatred in his face caused the rat to step back momentarily. ‘Gah!’ he rumbled, ‘yer only an uppity squeaker, let’s see the colour o’ yer blood.’ The knife he had taken from Piccadilly glinted in his claw and he scythed the air with it.