by Robin Jarvis
“Silence, Felago!” Godfrey sternly shouted.
“I was only saying!”
“Yes, well don’t! I really do not think we should dwell on so unpleasant a thought as that,” Godfrey said quickly. “Soon the rest of our forces shall come looking for us. I’ll wager we will not be kept locked up for much longer.”
“So you think the rest of the company survived?” Ysabelle asked in great relief. “I thought we were the only ones left.”
Another of the squirrels lifted his head and shook it grimly. It was Samuel Muin; a deep cut ran across his forehead and the fur on his face was matted by his own blood. “Not that kind of attack,” he said, “more of a dash and grab tactic. Nah, them stinking Hobbers don’t have the guts for a real fight. Sneak up in the dark is all they had in mind, just charge in, do some throttling, then bear the booty away.”
“And are we that booty?” asked Ysabelle.
“’Fraid so—begging Your Lady’s pardon.”
“So the rats have us,” the maiden uttered miserably.
Godfrey sucked his teeth and raised his eyebrows. “Well not quite,” he said. “It’s not just rats. You see, My Lady, the followers of Hobb are not restricted to those stupid creatures any longer. Now other animals have become enamoured of the darkness—if I had only listened to those rumours. No wonder the entertainers travelled in large numbers. They did say that the forests were being swallowed by an evil tide of hellish disciples, only I did not believe them—theatrical hysterics I put it down to.”
“It isn’t your fault,” she assured him, “no one could have predicted the attack. I hope Griselda is safe—all we can do is try to plan our escape.”
“Hah!” cried a voice from the deep shadows in a dark corner. “Listen to her now—what’s it like, princess?”
Ysabelle stared in surprise as a small figure shuffled to its feet and edged into the gloom.
“You!” she cried.
Vespertilio dragged the chains which had been fastened about his ankles and moved forward as far as they allowed. “Oh, what a pretty show this is!” he chuckled grimly. “Glad am I to be here and see thee brought so low. Now taste the bitterness of captivity thyself—oh royal one.”
“Keep your snout shut!” growled the sentry nearest to him.
“Tut, tut!” Vesper cried in mock indignation. “We cannot have that—all are equal now. Are we not prisoners together? Surely that makes us kinsfolk of a sort?”
“No bat is kin of mine!” shouted Samuel Muin.
Another squirrel strained at his manacles and snarled fiercely, “Did I not tell thee to keep silent—you stunted devil?”
“No,” said Ysabelle firmly, “let the winged one speak. He does not frighten me. As Godfrey has said, we will not be prisoners for long. Our army shall come and then all will be well.”
“Hoo, hoo,” chortled Vesper, “don’t be too sure. What army would seek beneath the ground? A whole night they have no doubt been searching. I’ll warrant they have already passed overhead and are gone far away.” His words echoed around the dreary chamber and the squirrels wondered if he was right.
“You seem very at ease,” said Ysabelle. “What makes you so light-hearted? You are in the same predicament—you should hope our forces do find us!”
Vesper clicked his tongue, then ambled back into the darkness of the corner. “My position is the same as before,” his voice drifted out to her, “all I have done is swap my captors and gained some companions.”
“But these are Hobb worshippers!”
“So you say, but I see little difference—they have at least untied the bonds you set upon me. Now my wings are free.”
Ysabelle shook her head—exasperated at the conversation. It was then that she noticed.
“The acorn!” she cried. “Where is it? Godfrey, the amulet is missing!”
Her adviser sobbed woefully. “Alas,” he wept, “I know—when they brought you in it was gone from about your neck. Perhaps it fell when you were taken and even now your maid is keeping it safe. Oh, My Lady, I pray that is the case.”
Great tears ran down Ysabelle’s face. Everything that had happened had been for that silver acorn and she had lost it. Wretchedly, she closed her eyes—a fine Starwife she had proved herself to be.
From the shadows, Vesper laughed softly.
The pathetic candle had burned very low by the time footsteps were heard outside the stout wooden door.
Ysabelle pulled herself up and glanced questioningly at Godfrey.
“Our gaoler,” he declared, “come to taunt us once more, no doubt.”
In the passage beyond the dungeon, the shambling footsteps halted. Ysabelle turned her head and listened, for out there a horrible voice was giggling and tittering to itself.
“Oooh not long,” it trilled excitedly, “then it’ll be time, oh yes—oh yes.” A key turned in the lock and the heavy door was pushed open.
Ysabelle’s eyes grew wide with astonishment; she had expected the voice to belong to a rat, but that was not what entered the chamber.
A large hedgehog came pattering inside. It was a foul creature with squinting little eyes that were too close together. A wet, snuffling nose drooled at the end of a long snout and filthy bristles sprouted over its podgy cheeks—meeting the main sweep of its spines behind its tiny ears. The body of the gaoler was fat and it breathed with difficulty as glutinous rolls of flab quivered and wobbled when it moved. Its limbs, however, were exceptionally small and weedy, in fact its feet were so dainty that it was impossible to see how the animal managed to walk on them.
Twirling a bunch of keys in its claws, it teetered into the centre of the chamber and clapped its palms together in delight.
“Oh,” it panted, “what a fine feast! Nine of the prettiest little darlings ever to have graced my cells! A pleasure to care for them—it truly is.”
He tip-toed round to where Ysabelle was chained and cooed ecstatically. “What a pearl!” he squeaked. “How lovely to have you with us at last. Why, you naughty, naughty fellows!” he scolded the others. “You ought to have told Pigwiggen the fair one had stirred.”
The hedgehog tottered closer and Ysabelle balked before his horrendous breath. “Aw,” he exclaimed, “she’s so shy. Well, don’t you fret none, my dove—Pigwiggen will take very good care of you.” He reached out with his claws and gave Ysabelle’s cheek a hard tweak.
“Unhand me!” she demanded and around her all the squirrels bawled at the hedgehog and threatened him fiercely.
Pigwiggen threw his arms in the air and tripped daintily backwards. “Now, now,” he cackled, “I didn’t harm the little treasure—I was just testing.” He shook his spines and a cloud of dust and soil gathered about his fat body. Then he went up to each of them in turn and laughed.
“How’s your leg now?” he asked the first of his prisoners. “Ooh, it is healing well. Not nearly as messy as when you first arrived.”
The squirrel, who was a sentry called Gwydion, merely gazed right back at the odious creature and said nothing. This was the third time the hedgehog had visited the dungeon since they had been taken. He loved taunting the captives and could not bear to see them without measuring the flesh upon their bones.
Slobbering, he poked Gwydion in the stomach and crowed with glee in anticipation of things to come. Then he scurried to the next squirrel. From one to another, the foul hedgehog danced, wrinkling his nose a little when he squeezed Godfrey’s stringy arms. Finally he came to Vesper and pulled the bat from his dark corner.
“Should be very tasty when fried,” Pigwiggen muttered, stretching one of Vesper’s wings. “I do hope there’ll be enough left for me to sample.”
“Go sit on yourself!” the young bat yelled, for the inspected wing was the damaged one and his eyes watered when the hedgehog pulled at it.
Pigwiggen laughed indulgently then twirled about and drummed his fingers on his glistening lips. “Oh, what a divine selection,” he cried passionately, “so many fancies and t
oothsome beauties to relish and savour. Of course, you’ll be wasted on most of them—they don’t have such a refined palate as do I. What a gathering it will be this night. How I am looking forward to it.” He put his claw upon his brow as if the glamour and excitement of it all was just too much. Then his horrible little eyes swivelled slyly towards Ysabelle and he giggled in a most vile manner that made the maiden shudder.
“Oh, it will be so extra special,” Pigwiggen cooed, smacking his lips, “for never have I tasted royalty before. Does blue blood taste any sweeter than the common variety, I ask myself?”
With that, he waltzed over to the door and, with a final squeal of giddy delight, locked it behind him.
Ysabelle turned a frightened face to Godfrey. “What do you think that meant?” she asked in a faint whisper.
But Master Godfrey could not bear to answer and only hung his head.
“It means what it says,” came the reply from the corner where Vesper sat. “Have you never heard what the worshippers of Hobb do to their victims?”
“Yes,” she said quickly.
Vesper snorted, then told her anyway. “We’re going to be peeled, my fine Lady—old Pigwiggen’s going to make a bloodybones of us all!”
For what seemed an age, Ysabelle, Vesper and the others remained in the dismal chamber. Presently the candle burned itself out and they were plunged into darkness, but no one came to renew it and for a long time they were without any light whatsoever. Occasionally the young bat clicked his tongue to see what they were doing, but he was more concerned with his poor wing—that foul brute had made it worse and he nursed it in doleful silence.
Ysabelle was never sure if she slept at any time during that period of grim darkness. Occasionally she would feel her head nodding but could not tell if she had indeed fallen asleep, for the waking world was as black as her dreams and she drifted between the two, not knowing which was which.
“My Lady!” Godfrey eventually woke her. “Listen, the time has come.”
The sounds of footsteps once more echoed along the passage beyond the door, but this time there were many feet tramping towards them. Ysabelle and the others held their breath as the key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.
At once the dungeon was filled with light, for many torches blazed in the passage and Vesper and the squirrels shielded their eyes from the sudden brightness.
“Unchain ’em!” came a gruff and growling voice.
Ysabelle blinked and stared at the entrance.
Framed in the doorway was Pigwiggen, but behind him was a large group of ferocious-looking rats.
“Be quick about it!” one of the vermin barked.
The hedgehog skipped delicately into the chamber and began to unfasten the manacles of Gwydion, the squirrel nearest the door. Then he proceeded to free each and every one of the others. “Come, my chicks,” he cried, “your time is come—the night is beginning!”
When she was released, Ysabelle carefully blew on her wrists and slid her paw into Godfrey’s who stood beside her.
“What will happen?” she asked. “Where are they taking us?”
“I dare not ask myself that,” he answered.
“Hoy!” shouted the largest rat. “Pipe down there! I don’t want to hear any of your mewling!” He raised his fist and in his claw he brandished a large cudgel.
One by one, the prisoners were led out, gripped and prodded by many sharp fingers. The passage beyond the dungeon was just wide enough for them to traipse three abreast and, surrounded by their captors, Vesper and the squirrels stumbled miserably along it.
The tunnel rose in a gentle incline and soon those at the front felt a breath of cold night air upon their faces.
A curtain of weed and grass covered the entrance and the large rat swept it briskly aside before leading the others out.
From the damp underground, the prisoners filed into the open, then each stopped and stared in disbelief.
They were on the brink of a large basin-shaped dell that was ringed with trees whose misshapen roots had broken from the earth and wound about the edge like gnarled and twisting snakes. Down in the centre of this great hollow a group of three standing stones reared from the short grass and before them a tall bonfire of elder wood burned brightly.
But what made the squirrels gape and gaze in fright was the sight of those gathered there.
About the stones, many thousand worshippers of Hobb yammered and shouted. Ysabelle and Vesper had never seen such a hideous collection of creatures. The rats who waited there were the most evil specimens of their kind, and alongside them countless other races cackled and roared. There were rabbits, hedgehogs, voles and weasels. Even some mice could be seen slinking between the jostling bodies of their foul brothers. Also mingled amongst this dreadful company were rooks and gore crows whose sleek feathers shone in the firelight and whose sharpened beaks cawed with black merriment. High in the trees, lesser birds perched, huddled beside rats and shrews with torches in their grasp and malice in their glance.
A tumultuous cheer went up as all eyes turned to where the prisoners staggered from the tunnel entrance.
Ysabelle pressed herself against Master Godfrey and her tail drooped. “What nightmare is this?” she gasped. “Where have all these vile abominations come from?”
Godfrey shivered as he held her. “I don’t know, madam,” he said nervously. “It’s as if the foulest scrapings of the forests are assembled here. Oh, what an accursed time this is.”
“Ho, my jewels,” gibbered Pigwiggen as he came puffing from the passageway, heaving his blubbery bulk into the chill night air. “What a fine celebration we shall have. Is it not a magnificent congregation—did I not tell you it was to be exceeding special?”
The rat who had led them spat on the grass and glared impatiently about him. “Hedgepig!” he shouted. “Tie these up and watch them till they are needed.”
Pigwiggen tugged at a bunch of prickles on his forehead and smiled ingratiatingly. “Of course, brother, it shall be attended to at once.”
The rat spat again, then he leapt down the slope to join the terrible gathering below.
Five other rats remained and Pigwiggen handed each a length of rope and told them what to do.
A large claw grasped Ysabelle’s shoulder and dragged her over to one of the twisting roots. Quickly she was tied to it with her paws stretched behind her back. The others were attended to in the same way, except Vesper whose wings were wrapped about an almost vertical piece of root and tethered to his feet.
“Now we can wait,” tittered the hedgehog, strutting before his row of trussed up appetisers—his eyes mirroring the blaze of the bonfire, “we shall wait and we shall see.”
Ysabelle trembled. Below her a thousand wicked faces stared up and she knew they were devouring her in their dark and malignant minds. “Help us someone,” she wailed despairingly. “Save me please!”
“Fear not, My Lady!” Godfrey called over from where he was bound. “Have faith in the Green! We may yet be saved!”
“I pray it is so!” she answered. “But I’m so afraid—so terribly afraid. Look at them, they’re just waiting to kill us—I cannot bear it!”
“Try not to let your spirits sink,” he cried, forcing a hearty tone into his voice, “think of something else—keep your thoughts off the devils down there.” He looked about them and, in his finest tutorial manner, shouted, “Remember the alder dance which you performed yesterday—think only of safe, happier times—remember that even in the midst of the darkest night a dawn must come.”
She tried to do as he said but it was impossible with the clamour of all those repulsive and eager Hobbers resounding in her ears. “I cannot!” she wept. “I simply cannot!”
“You must, you must think, what were the words you sang to the trees in the avenue?”
Ysabelle dragged her eyes from the seething masses and tried to concentrate. “Awake!” she managed to cry at last, “Awake! Thy sleep is ended!”
�
�That’s right my most excellent student and fairest Lady!” Godfrey sang encouragingly.
“Have no fear for Spring is come!” Ysabelle continued between her desperate sobs. “Put out thy leaves, oh sleepy one!”
“Well done!” Godfrey cried.
But Ysabelle sank to her knees. “It’s no good,” she wept, “even the tree we are tied to is the yew—Idho, the tree of death! Am I to awaken that? Are we not compassed round with death already? Tread not into the fearsome night,” she stammered unhappily. “Step not into the wild dark wood...”
Godfrey’s heart bled to see her so distressed; he glanced at the others and they too were crying for her—even Vesper seemed moved by the maiden’s suffering.
“Let us all beseech the Green for our deliverance,” the counsellor suggested.
Each of the squirrels bowed their head—then suddenly, the sound of a shrill horn split the night. Ysabelle craned her head—perhaps her army had arrived to rescue them. She cast her eyes wildly around the madness which raged before her, but not a sign of her host could she see. Then her spirit dwindled inside as she saw the source of the echoing sound.
On the far side of the dell, from the trunk of a dead yew tree, a spindly rat came marching—with a horn raised to his lips. With deliberate slowness, he strode about the rim of the dell to where a large barrel stood. From somewhere in the vast crowd below a slow, discordant dirge began as another rat started beating a horrid tune upon two grinning skulls. Hearing this, the former blew the horn one last time, then bowed and stepped aside.
An earsplitting shout erupted from the assembled Hobbers and in their claws they all flourished what looked like sticks. Then they charged up the slope and plunged the sticks into the barrel. It was a chaotic scramble as those barging upwards met those hurrying down.
Godfrey narrowed his eyes at the confusing spectacle—the ones who had dipped their sticks were now making for the bonfire. A flash of understanding illuminated his mind as the first of the creatures held the stick into the fire and lit it—they were Hobb lanterns and the barrel must contain some kind of pitch judging by the way the flames spluttered so readily into life.