The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

“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 lo
ng 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!”