The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

Outside, Ysabelle was speaking to Master Godfrey. So far his strategy had been successful, for the bats had not come hunting for them. No doubt they were searching along the main paths that led to Greenreach, but they would still have to be careful.

  “We must travel only in the daytime,” he counselled her, “for then are the eyes of our enemy the weakest. By tomorrow’s night we should already be encamped in a manner like to this. No fires must we light to cheer us or cook our food, for the slightest sign will betray our presence. No doubt the hunt shall travel farther afield the second night and the spies of Hrethel can cover great distances.

  “Now do we become truly wary—even if we have to creep through the forest like common thieves and footpads, that we must do.”

  Ysabelle pressed her paws together and rested her chin upon the tips of her fingers. “I pray the messengers my mother sent to our kindred arrive safe,” she said. “Without the aid of the other houses we shall be of little use in the holy land.”

  Godfrey smiled, “Let such worries concern you when we reach our goal,” he said. “For my part, I fear there will be many dangers between here and that final battle.”

  The maiden cast her gaze about the hundreds of squirrels who lay upon the forest floor. The sound of their slumber filtered softly into the night air and she shook her head sadly. “A terrible price have we already paid for the deliverance of the holy land,” she said. “Look at them. How many fathers and sons are present here? All have lost someone this day.”

  Godfrey stared at her with some surprise. “How different you have become, My Lady,” he breathed. “Where has the giggling pupil gone to? Most certainly she set off with us—but now she had changed much.”

  Ysabelle nodded and let loose a faint, bitter laugh. “Have you forgotten?” she murmured. “’Tis Aldertide still and this morning I danced with the wand. A lifetime ago that now seems—when I was a child without care or want. Curious how even a little time can alter so much.”

  “Very proud your parents would be of their daughter.”

  She sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily. “Strange,” she said, stifling a yawn, “even after all that has occurred, I feel that I could sleep. Where are the guards you sent to fetch the prisoner? Let us be done with him quickly for I don’t know how long mine eyes will stay open.”

  Even as she finished speaking, two black squirrels emerged from the shadows ahead and between them hopped Vesper—his legs still tied together.

  The young bat eyed the queen uncertainly—was he to be executed after all?

  Ysabelle glanced at Godfrey and her old tutor gave her an encouraging smile. “Trust in your own powers,” he said gently.

  The maiden turned to the prisoner and assumed a regal and superior air. “Tell me,” she began, “how many legions of your kind now guard the Blessed Hill of Greenreach? What manner of defences have you employed there?”

  The bat pursed his lips resolutely and made no reply.

  “Very well,” she said, “then reveal unto me the name of the traitor who helped you massacre our kindred.”

  Vesper nibbled his wispy beard and ignored her absolutely. The fact that he didn’t know the answers to her questions was neither here nor there—he wasn’t going to let these pox-ridden squirrels know that. He didn’t even know why Rohgar had led the bat host to the Hazel Realm in the first place.

  The more she interrogated him, the more he raised his eyebrows and rolled his small black eyes.

  Ysabelle strode forward until she was face to face with the ugly winged creature. “Too many have perished this night,” she spat. “How dare you stand there and say nothing!”

  “There’s naught to say,” Vesper shrugged. “I shall not betray my brethren unto thee—whatever you might threaten. Your paltry forces hold no fear for me,” he lied, “’tis thou who shouldst worry.”

  “What do you mean?” she snapped.

  The bat shrugged once more. “My folk will find you,” he said in a matter of fact way, “simple as that. You might have deceived them this one night but you can never hope to succeed a second time. In utter silence can a Knight of the Moon skim the wind. The first you’ll know of the attack will be when the talons come glinting for your throat.”

  Ysabelle lost control and she slapped the bat across his furry face. Vesper reeled backwards and was caught by one of the guards.

  “Remove it from my sight!” she cried. “I don’t want to see the creature ever again!”

  The guards led Vesper away and Ysabelle turned desperately to Godfrey.

  “How can we ever hope for victory over such a race?” she asked.

  “Your mother thought there was a chance,” came his soothing reply.

  But Ysabelle had had enough that night. “Has Wendel already bedded down?” she asked.

  Godfrey sniffed at the mention of the jester’s name. “He took his cart over yonder,” he said waving vaguely into the darkness. “I believe he wanted to try and entertain our red cousins, but I doubt if even they are in any mood for his fatuous antics. A more tiresome and unwanted fellow I never did meet.”

  Ysabelle smiled. “Yet he makes me forget,” she murmured. “No—do not go find him. I fear that I am too fatigued for his stories and rhymes after all.” The maiden stretched and nodded to her counsellor. “Wake me at first light,” she said, “I must retire to bed—if I could only forget everything for a few hours it would be a great blessing.”

  “Goodnight, My Lady,” Godfrey said, bowing low.

  Ysabelle disappeared inside the tent and cast herself upon the bed Griselda had prepared. The mousemaid pattered round her, tucking the blankets in and making sure her mistress was comfortable, before she lay on the smaller bed nearby.

  “My poor Lady,” Griselda cooed, stroking the squirrel’s raven hair, “may your dreams be untroubled.”

  Presently, they were both drifting into dark oblivion.

  Outside the tent the night was black and impenetrable.

  For the sentries on duty it was a weird, unsettling time. None of them had ever set foot outside their home before and the sounds of the wild world were unfamiliar and startling.

  The forest was strange, and seemed to press in on all sides. A strange scent floated on the still air—a putrid, cloying sweetness that grew stronger as the minutes passed. It tickled the nostrils of those on guard and disturbed the dreams of those asleep. It was as if the seal on some ancient tomb had broken and the mouldering reek of stale centuries had escaped into the night.

  Gradually the fetid smell faded, then one by one, each of the squirrels on watch became aware of a tingling between their shoulder blades. It was as though something was spying upon them—as if each tree had eyes to see and ears to hear.

  Shaking themselves, they turned their faces heavenwards and strained their eyes, searching for any signs of the forces of Hrethel. But the night was deep and absolute. No star shone and no chink of moonlight crept through the thick, blanketing clouds above.

  Not a hint of danger could be seen, yet every sentry gripped his spear and clutched his longbow in readiness for he knew not what. A terrible tension thrilled the air, charging the atmosphere with its tremendous power and all found themselves breathing hard—their hearts pounding.

  Wave upon wave of unreasoning fear flowed out from the darkness and wrapped itself around the encampment. It was as if a terrifying evil was gathering about them, and the paws which held the spears and longbows soon began to tremble before the malevolent and overwhelming force.

  “Ulric!” one of the squirrels hissed to another. “What is it out there?”

  The other wiped a nervous hand over his sweating brow. “Then you sense it too, Ornus?” he replied in a hushed whisper. “I did think it was my own imaginings.”

  “Not that,” returned the first, “for why do I quake so? Also I find myself glancing over mine shoulder, expecting to see some frightful horror lurking behind. Something monstrous is abroad this night or my nerves are no judge. Did you mark its stink
afore?”

  “How could I not? Mine nose still burns from the stench of it. Let us hope whatever is out there will pass us by.”

  But his friend made no answer and when Ulric stared into the darkness where he had been standing, it was empty. Quickly, the sentry hurried across and there, lying upon the ground with one arrow in his chest and another in his throat, was Ornus.

  Ulric gave a fearful shout and called to the others. Then an arrow hit him in the back and he fell across his dead friend’s body.

  “What is it?” the other sentries cried, “Ulric! Ornus! Where are you?”

  Suddenly and without warning, the blackness beyond the encampment began to seethe and boil as a horde of dark shapes slithered from the shadows and leaped amongst the startled squirrels.

  “AWAKE!” one of the sentries shrieked—then a dagger silenced him forever.

  Before any of the sleeping host had time to stir and reach for their weapons, the sinister figures were upon them.

  With hollow shouts, that struck terror into the squirrels’ hearts, the raiders attacked.

  In her tent, Ysabelle awoke from troubled dreams and shook Griselda from hers.

  “M’lady!” the mouse squeaked when she heard the uproar raging outside. “What is happening? Are the bats attacking?” But Ysabelle had sprung from her bed and hurried from the tent. “Wait for me!” Griselda howled, pulling on her cap and gibbering with fright as she followed.

  All was confusion. Dark figures charged from the shadows and hideous struggles were taking place all around. Evil knives glinted in the night and ghastly laughter echoed under the holly trees. Taken so completely by surprise, the squirrels were powerless and many of the royal guards died in those first, bewildering moments.

  Griselda rushed to Ysabelle’s side and clung to her in terror. “Aaaiiyyeee!” she screamed. “The forces of darkness are with us!”

  “Godfrey!” Ysabelle called. “Are you there? Godfrey!”

  Only the sounds of battle answered and the maiden looked desperately about her.

  She scurried over to where one of her guards lay dead and pulled the bow from his grasp.

  “Aaaaaiiiyyeeeee!” screeched Griselda again. “M’lady! Save me!”

  The mouse covered her face as, from the darkness, a tall hooded figure came lurching. It had huge claws and beneath its deep cowl two eyes burned greedily. Cackling, it snatched Griselda, plucked her from the ground and threw her over its powerful shoulders.

  The mouse screamed again as the monster carried her off into the dark—but Ysabelle was ready.

  Swiftly she had strung an arrow to the dead guard’s bow and calling on all her strength, pulled the bowstring back.

  The arrow flew into the massive brute’s leg and it howled with rage and pain. Snarling, it threw the mouse upon the ground and advanced menacingly towards the squirrel.

  Hurriedly, she fumbled for a second arrow, but even as she took up the feathered shaft the beast towered over her.

  Raising its immense claws, it brought an iron fist swinging down and the longbow was knocked from Ysabelle’s grasp.

  “MY LADY!” Griselda bawled, scrabbling to her feet.

  Ysabelle stumbled backwards as the figure gave a blood-freezing shout and threw back its head. At once the hood fell around the creature’s shoulders and the squirrel screamed. Standing over her was an immense and repulsive rat.

  There was no time to run, for the claws were raised again and the same fist came smashing down.

  The last thing Ysabelle remembered was the terrified screams of Griselda and then the night closed over her and she was lost.

  5 - Elderfire

  All was blackness; yet in the empty void, a small thought floated through the dark sea, carried along without consciousness and unaware of the voice which desperately called its name.

  “Lady Ysabelle!” came the muffled cry. “Lady Ysabelle!”

  Gradually, in the black expanse, the faintest glimmer of light pricked its way. A tiny red star edged into the vast night and that distant voice slowly became clearer.

  “My Lady!” it urged. “You must awaken!”

  Then the star exploded and the thought snapped back into its host.

  “Uuhh,” Ysabelle groaned as her temples pounded and her cheek stung.

  “Thank the Green!” the voice declared at her side.

  The maiden whimpered, as she became aware of a biting agony in her wrists.

  “Father,” she mumbled dizzily, “what... what has happened? Griselda..?”

  “Hush,” came the voice, “hush now.”

  For a moment, Ysabelle remained still as she tried to collect her jangled thoughts. Her eyes were closed and she had not the strength to open them. Silently, she tried to remember what had happened and where she was.

  The image of the monstrous rat reared in her mind and she instinctively shrank away. But something held her paws and the sharp pain in her wrists increased till she heard her own voice cry out.

  “Try to stand,” said the other, “see if you can.”

  Ysabelle swallowed—her mouth was parched and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Who, who is that?” she asked timidly.

  “’Tis I, ’tis Godfrey. Oh, My Lady—we have been so anxious for you.”

  A meagre ounce of strength began to seep back into the muscles of Ysabelle’s legs. Awkwardly, she staggered to her feet and waited until her eyes were ready to flicker open.

  The lids fluttered and she wearily blinked away the sleep.

  It was still dark, but fuzzy shapes slowly swam into view—then she saw Godfrey’s care-worn face gazing intently at her.

  The counsellor cried with relief and, from all around, similar gasps could be heard.

  “Our prayers are answered,” Godfrey exclaimed, “she is back with us.”

  Ysabelle stared at him, for her vision was still a little blurred, then it cleared and she drew her breath sharply. “Your lip!” she cried. “Godfrey, it is swollen and bleeding!”

  Her old tutor put out his tongue and gingerly dabbed at the blood which ran down his whiskered chin.

  Ysabelle tried to move towards him but found that she could not. Then she looked around her and beheld for the first time where they were.

  It was an underground chamber: a dank, loathsome dungeon—a crudely dug burrow where not even a rat would live. The walls were roughly lined with stone, down which foul-smelling slime trickled and oozed over the earthen floor. A great wooden door sealed the dismal place and, flickering pitifully in a small bowl, was a puny candle.

  By the feeble light of this Ysabelle could see that, set into the uneven walls, heavy chains of iron had been bolted, and attached to these were many sets of manacles and shackles.

  Ysabelle tugged fiercely at her fetters, but the metal bands bit into the raw flesh which they had exposed at her wrists and the chains rattled—mocking her efforts with their cold clanking.

  “Be still,” Master Godfrey told her, “we have all struggled, but the restraints are strong and do not yield.”

  The maiden slumped against the wall and stared at the others. Apart from herself and Godfrey, she could see only six more prisoners and each was chained and manacled. She knew all of their faces, for they were black squirrels from her escort. Sorrowfully they stared back at her. Some of them looked close to fainting and bore many wounds from the attack upon the camp.

  “A glad sight it is to see you awake, My Queen,” one of them uttered. “Master Godfrey has tried to wake you for many hours now.”

  “Hours?” Ysabelle asked.

  Godfrey pulled on his shackles and edged closer to his sovereign. “Indeed,” he said gravely, “by my reckoning we have been locked in here for the better part of the night. No doubt the sun has already risen above us.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Ysabelle spluttered. “What happened? Why are we here?”

  Godfrey looked across at the others and they nodded—she had to be told. Clearing his throat and s
ucking the air through his teeth so that it whistled, he began.

  “I am very much afraid that the rumours we had been hearing for these few years past are true!” he declared in a hurried and frightened rush. “The cult of Hobb has indeed grown again. Oh, My Lady, would that you had never lived to hear such awful tidings. And from mine own lips as well!”

  “The Hobb cult!” Ysabelle breathed in horror. “Then it was they who attacked us?”

  Godfrey waggled his head in confirmation. “Most assuredly,” he cried, “the followers of the infernal triad have captured us.”

  Ysabelle’s knees buckled a little but she propped herself against the wall as the terror of the situation impressed itself upon her.

  Many years ago, the three gods of the rats were worshipped in the depths of the dark forests. It was a pagan heathenism which all thought had finally died out. This hellish triad was called the Raith Sidhe and they revelled in death and bloodshed.

  According to the legends, the greatest of the three was the Lord Hobb—a hideous demon in rat shape. It was to him that the high priests of the cult made evil sacrifices and slaughtered any who would not join their dreadful congregations. The consort of Hobb was Mabb, a frightful apparition who plagued the dreams of the unwary and inspired them to murder. The sleep visitor, she was called, and in the past, those in her service had been responsible for innumerable wars. Finally there was Bauchan—the artful one, whose name was a byword for villainy and mischief. It was said that he could wear any shape he desired and, in disguise, stalked the waking world unnoticed.

  At one time, they had been worshipped in great numbers, but were now only a dim memory—and to many had become merely bogeys to frighten and bribe children with.

  Ysabelle could hardly believe it. “Are you certain of this?” she asked.

  Godfrey bowed, despising himself for being the one to tell her. “I am,” he muttered. “While you have been unconscious, one of our gaolers has visited us.”

  “He’s right ma’am,” piped up one of the other squirrels, “a right nasty piece of work that villain is too. Been pinching and squeezing us, as if seeing how ripe we are.”