The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “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 repugn
ant. 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 knee
s 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.