The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Turning a corner, the bat skidded and fluttered around before galloping back to the others.

  “What is it?” Ysabelle asked. “Why have you returned?”

  “Something approaches,” he told her, “a hellish light is coming towards us—I did not wait to discover what it was.”

  “Hobbers!”

  “It cannot be them—not so swiftly.”

  Even as he spoke, the passage grew brighter as a fiery orange glow spread over the walls and a hollow chuckle rang in their ears.

  Two dazzling eyes that dripped with flame came blazing forward and Ysabelle clutched Vesper for support as they beheld the bearer of the Hobb lantern.

  With the evil, crackling torch in his fist, Wendel Maculatum strode closer. The murderous stoat had arrayed himself in the revolting mantle of the bloody-bones and, so skilled was the needlecraft, it was as if he had divested himself of his own outer layers of skin and fur. Now bunched sinews of rippling flesh covered his shoulders and loose tendrils of vermillion ribbon dangled from his arms like strips of muscle. The gruesome illusion was aided by the hellish torchlight which played over the silken stitches until they glistened like dark veins in fresh raw meat.

  Beneath the ghastly mask, a malicious sneer disfigured the high priest’s lips.

  “At last I have you,” he gloated, “alone, in the deeps of the world you are mine.”

  “Wendel,” Ysabelle cried. “I... I don’t understand.”

  The stoat laughed scornfully. “Most stupid of fools!” he spat. “How easy it has been for me—how simple thou made my work.”

  “But, but you saved me!” she protested. “From the bats—you protected me!”

  “I saved the acorn!” the bloody-bones retorted. “I did not want the forces of Hrethel to take it. The amulet I needed for my Lord.” He slid a bloodstained knife from a gash in the false flesh and held it threateningly before Ysabelle’s face.

  “Now,” he hissed, “your paltry life is ended.”

  Vesper put his wing about the squirrel and his eyes flashed angrily at the evil stoat. “If you touch her, I will kill you!” he snapped.

  At that Wendel sniggered and produced his jester’s head-dress, shaking it at the bat until the bells jingled madly. “Remember thy doom, Moonrider!” he laughed menacingly. “Thou canst never escape it—I shall make sure of that. Whatever happens, a curse uttered by the high priest of the Triad will always seek out its prey.”

  “I have no fear of you now,” Vesper told him, “you will not be able to kill us all.”

  “Ha, ha,” came the wicked reply, “I have no need to put myself at risk. Hearken to that stampede. That is the sound of my followers approaching—it is they who will kill you.”

  Furiously, Giraldus struck the wall with his fist and roared. “Then ’tis you!” he accused. “You were the one who butchered my Tysle!”

  The high priest tittered. “Well,” he taunted, “the little runt always did want me to carve him.”

  A horrible scream issued from the mole’s throat and the sound made Wendel jump back in amazement. Giraldus was filled with wrath and he lunged forward with his staff. The lantern was knocked from the stoat’s claw and the mole’s massive paws grabbed him by the neck, squeezing until Wendel’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

  “Let me go!” he rasped, fighting for breath.

  “Giraldus!” cried Ysabelle. “Stop it!”

  “Do not halt me in this!” he rumbled. “I will have the life of this heathen filth—I will be avenged for Tysle!”

  Vesper tried to pull on the leper’s arms but Giraldus was strong and his diseased muscles locked like iron.

  The high priest’s lips turned a deathly purple and his struggles grew less as the seconds rolled by.

  Then Ysabelle stared up the tunnel and yelled, “Giraldus, you must stop—the other Hobbers are almost upon us.”

  Harsh cries now blared all about them and in a matter of moments the passage would be swamped by hundreds of Hobbers.

  “This vile rogue will die before they arrive!” the mole roared.

  But Ysabelle pleaded with him and Giraldus threw the high priest to the ground in disgust.

  “Quickly,” she told Vesper, “help me remove the goulish vestments from him.”

  “To what purpose?” he cried.

  “Just do it! There is but one meagre chance!”

  Hastily, they tore at the bloody-bones, dragging the crimson sinews from the stoat’s body. Then, without hesitation, Ysabelle pulled the grisly raiment over her head and snatched up the Hobb lantern.

  “What are you doing?” objected Vesper. “You cannot wear that, it is a symbol of horror and evil!”

  “We have no choice!” she snapped. “Listen—they are almost here!”

  The terrible clamour of the pursuing Hobbers raged furiously, and pulling the hideous mask down over her face, Ysabelle hurried towards the approaching enemy.

  At the leper’s feet, Wendel stirred. In a temporary daze, he remained motionless, until the situation became clear to him and he realised what the squirrel was about to do. Grinding his teeth he sprang after her, but Giraldus was ready and grabbed the stoat by the ears, clapping his paws roughly over the villain’s mouth.

  “Please,” he whispered, “please do make a sound and try to warn those pagan scum, for then I shall gladly snap thy scrawny neck.”

  Wendel’s eyes roved wildly up at the mole and knew that he spoke truly.

  Down the passageway the surging mob came. Huge brown rats led them and all carried Hobb lanterns in their claws. With bloodlust consuming each heart they charged, eagerly following the scent that their high priest had put down for them. Then, in a tumbling mass of arms and blaspheming oaths, those at the front came to an abrupt halt.

  Standing before them, with its claw raised, was the bloody-bones.

  The rats slavered and sniffed. What was the high priest doing?

  “Stop!” the macabre figure commanded as the foremost rat took a step closer.

  The Hobber obeyed, but his eyes swivelled suspiciously and a long pointed tongue slid from his jaws to lick his snout. “What are thy orders?” it asked with a wheedle. “Why didst thou lead us down here—are there more dainties for our bellies?”

  Behind him another ugly rat brandished a sword and demanded the same. “We don’t want to have missed all the fighting above fer nothing!” he snarled. “Show us fresh meat, let us rend out gizzards and gut our foes till their livers squeak!”

  The other Hobbers cheered their appreciation of that and gazed curiously at the silent bloody-bones.

  Under the mask, beads of perspiration trickled down Ysabelle’s brow as she sought for something to say to these nightmares. Staring out through the narrow slits of that vile mask was a horrendous experience and all her instincts screamed at her to tear the infernal disguise off. Yet if she had done that then the Hobbers would have slaughtered her immediately.

  “Go back!” she eventually cried, in as deep a voice as she could manage. “Return to the upper levels!”

  The rats stared at her dubiously. “Why did ye lay the trail if’n yer didn’t want us?” one of them squawked.

  “Dare you question the servant of the Lord Hobb?” Ysabelle declared. “Only to me are his dark designs revealed.”

  That cowed them and the rats fell back, muttering to each other.

  “Begone!” she said. “Go I say!”

  Grudgingly, the Hobbers turned and began to traipse up the tunnel, yet Ysabelle was not certain she had convinced them.

  Taking a cautious step backwards, she waited until the rats were out of sight, then spun round and fled.

  “Hurry!” she told Vesper and Giraldus. “I feel sure they will return.”

  “What of this?” the mole asked, shaking the stoat in his paws as if he were a doll made of rags.

  “He must accompany us,” Vesper said, “we cannot leave him here—he would only run after his followers and bring them back again.”


  “He would find that an impossible task if he were dead,” muttered Giraldus.

  “Come,” said Ysabelle, “let us be gone.”

  So, they set off down the passage, and as she ran, Ysabelle gladly tore the cadaverous disguise from her body. Giraldus bounded blindly along, dragging the high priest with him and it did much to lighten the mole’s spirits to know that the evil creature was in extreme discomfort.

  “Quickly,” Vesper urged, hopping around a sharp bend, “it cannot be far now.”

  They ran as fast as they could for some minutes, then the tunnel curved again, but when they turned the corner Vesper cried out in dismay.

  “It’s blocked!” he howled. “The way is sealed—the roof has caved in here also.”

  Sure enough, directly in front of them, one of the tunnel’s wooden support beams had splintered and now lay buried beneath a wall of soil. The rubble completely covered the path and their escape was cut off.

  “We are trapped!” uttered Ysabelle.

  Wendel laughed at them. “Idiots!” he said with scorn, “your paltry efforts have come to naught, and now mine followers shall hunt you down.”

  Giraldus gave the stoat a resounding slap and one of Wendel’s sharp teeth flew from his mouth. “Be silent,” the mole told him, “I need to think and collect my bearings.” Taking up the shreds of Tysle’s lead string, he bound the high priest, and thrust him roughly against the wall.

  Behind them, another wooden beam gave an ominous creak and loose soil trickled down from the sagging ceiling.

  “Listen,” breathed Vesper, “the entire tunnel is on the verge of collapse.”

  “What can we do?” asked Ysabelle fretfully.

  Giraldus closed his eyes and stepped up to the wall of earth which barred their way.

  “Hmmm,” the leper murmured, his bandaged fingers playing over the immovable surface, “if mine wits are not addled, I would say that this barrier is only one spring-wormer in depth, and beyond it lies the outside world.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Vesper.

  “Never doubt a mole beneath the ground, young batling!” he advised with a rumble. “Now, I think the time has at last arrived for one final excavation—stand back!”

  “What of the roof?” Vesper persisted. “Will it hold, do you think?”

  Giraldus ran his paws over the bulging ceiling of earth and tutted. “Not long do we have—the delicate balance of the warrens has been destroyed—I must work swiftly.”

  Using his considerable strength, the mole heaved on the buried beam and dragged it from the rubble. Then he wedged it beneath the remaining support and hoped the makeshift pillar would suffice until they were clear.

  “Now,” he said, “stand aside.”

  Blowing upon his leprous palms, the mole then spread his arms wide. “Forgive this thy servant,” he muttered under his breath, “for he is a rash, loose-tongued old sinner. Yet give unto him one final ounce of strength that he may be the saving of his friends and fellow travellers.”

  Gritting his teeth, he dived at the soil.

  Breathlessly, Ysabelle and Vesper watched as the mole shovelled heap after heap of earth from the path. For Giraldus it was an agonizing time—as he delved and tore, tremendous pains rifled up his arms and he was compelled to keep his jaws clenched to prevent himself crying out.

  Swiftly the tunnel began to clear, and while they watched, no one paid any attention to the trussed and tied Wendel.

  With his eyes fixed upon the labouring back of his immense guard, the stoat wriggled in his bonds and feverishly gnawed them with his teeth.

  “Uuuurrggghh!” Giraldus cried as one of his fingers was torn from his paw. “A plague on this illness!”

  Yet it did not stop him toiling and suddenly a draught of cool night air blew into the passageway as he finally broke through.

  But Wendel had also been successful. As soon as the last loop of the string broke in his jaws, he leapt away—yelling at the top of his voice.

  “Children of the Raith Sidhe! ’Tis I your high priest! Come—there are enemies here! I need your aid!”

  Vesper pelted after the escaping stoat and flung himself upon Wendel’s back. The two went tumbling down the tunnel, punching and kicking wildly—each desperate to restrain the other. The young bat fought as best he could, but he was no match for the high priest. His claws were vicious and sharp and his limbs lithe as any eel.

  Pinning the Moonrider to the floor, Wendel reared his head and opened his savage maw to bite out his opponent’s throat. But, just as the high priest came snapping for the exposed flesh, Giraldus lumbered up to them and yanked the stoat backwards—leaving his teeth to clamp shut on empty air.

  Vesper coughed and Ysabelle helped him to his feet as deadly, answering shouts came echoing towards them. The Hobbers were already returning.

  “Worms!” cackled the stoat. “You shall not leave this place alive!”

  Giraldus slammed him against the wall and as the tunnel juddered threateningly, he turned to Ysabelle. “Take the batling and go!” he thundered. “The way is clear now! I shall not be detained long with this vermin.”

  The squirrel maiden dragged Vesper to the freshly dug exit and, with a worried glance back at the leper, they quickly crawled through it.

  Outside, the night was chill and the frosty stars blazed white and cold overhead.

  The clamour of the continuing battle drifted over the broken hill and Ysabelle wondered how Fenny and the other woodlanders were faring. Surely against the evil forces of the Hobb cult they could not hope to succeed.

  Quickly, she stared back into the tunnel—what was keeping Giraldus?

  “Hurry!” she hissed.

  But within the gloom of the passageway, with his arms tight about Wendel’s struggling form, the mole merely bowed. “I shall not follow!” he said. “Not this time—Giraldus the pilgrim has a score to settle.”

  “Forget the high priest!” Vesper told him. “You belong with us!”

  “Nay!” the mole protested. “I belonged with Tysle and he is no more. Yet who knows? Where the shrew led me I have always followed, perhaps my faithful guide shall direct me one last time.”

  As Ysabelle and Vesper stared, he lifted the stoat into the air and cracked his head upon the earthen ceiling. Great fissures split the curving walls and Wendel screamed—his claws raking the leper’s face. But Giraldus felt nothing.

  The high priest was flung to the ground and, with a bellow of rage, the mole leaped on top of him, striking the evil creature with his massive fists.

  This time it was Wendel who was outmatched for Giraldus was bulky and his muscles were powerful.

  Beneath the leper’s leaden weight, the high priest could do nothing and blow after blow rained down upon his bruised and battered face.

  Yet the stoat was sly and countered his assailant’s strength with low cunning and agility. With the speed of a venomous serpent, Wendel’s head twisted and turned, dodging most of the punches, then he snapped and bit hard on the leper’s paw until blood flowed and a thumb was wrenched free.

  Giraldus roared in agony and the high priest wriggled beneath him, slithering to free himself.

  Suddenly he was on his feet again and as the mole searched blindly for him, Wendel lashed out. A brutal kick fell in the mole’s stomach, then another struck him on the side of the head.

  Giraldus slumped against the wall and Wendel gave a hideous, shrieking laugh, throwing dirt into his victim’s face. As the leper spluttered, the stoat snatched up a splintered shard of wood and rammed it deep into his shoulder.

  “Aaaarrrgghh!” Giraldus wailed, clutching the gushing wound.

  Wendel nipped around him, flinging stones at his enemy. Then he caught hold of a length of Tysle’s string and wrapped it swiftly about the floundering pilgrim’s throat.

  “Now blueskin!” he hissed malignantly. “Feel thine own breath throttled from thy body.” With a savage grunt, he heaved and twisted on the noose. Gasping, Giraldus tor
e at his neck where the cord bit deep into his skin.

  Outside, Vesper and Ysabelle stared helplessly at the bitter duel.

  “I’m going back in there!” the bat cried. “He needs help!”

  “It’s too late!” the squirrel wept. “Look!”

  In the tunnel, Wendel crowed in triumph as the strangled mole fell limply to the floor.

  “Giraldus!” Ysabelle sobbed.

  “So does the Lord Hobb punish those who stand in his unholy way!” the high priest chuckled. He stared at the body of the mole for a moment, spat, then raised his face—his eyes glinting at Vesper and Ysabelle.

  “My dearest friends,” he sniggered, “where do you think you are going? You shall never escape me!”

  And then the tunnel was filled with the uproar of his followers as they came pouring in—knives and spears flashing, all ready for murder.

  Casually, Wendel lifted his claw and pointed through the opening. “Get you out there and kill them,” he said softly.

  With a terrible scream, the rats dashed forward. Yet even as the stoat flung his head back to laugh, the eyes of Giraldus flickered open.

  Feebly, the mole pulled the string from his crushed and bleeding throat and wound it secretly about the makeshift pillar which he had wedged beneath the remaining support beam. With a final look in Ysabelle’s direction, his once resonant voice now croaked for the last time.

  “Green be with you!” he called, and summoning all his dwindling strength, he gave a tremendous heave.

  Wendel’s joyous laughter died on his lips as the pillar fell and his followers shrieked as they scrabbled for the exit. With a thunderous explosion of earth and stone, the wooden beam gave way and the tunnel roof collapsed on top of them all.

  Soil and dirt blasted outwards, drowning the startled screams of the Hobbers and knocking Vesper and Ysabelle off their feet.

  When they raised their heads, the side of the mound was a sagging heap of rubble and not a trace of the mole’s entrance could be found.

  “Giraldus,” Ysabelle murmured. “Oh Vespertilio, they’re all crushed under there—buried alive.”

  Vesper looked about them. “Come on,” he said, “Giraldus did it so we could escape. Already the curious are coming to investigate what has happened.”