The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  The night was filled with angry voices as patrolling Hobbers came scampering from the surrounding trees—their swords shining in the darkness. Ysabelle and Vesper bounded over the grass but there was nowhere to run to.

  “It no use!” she cried looking behind them to where fierce rats slid down the ruined mound. “They have us trapped.”

  Vesper knew she was right and the enemy closed gleefully round them. “Quick,” he cried, “hold onto me.”

  With a beat of his wings, the bat rose into the air and before Ysabelle could gasp her surprise, she had wrapped her arms about him and was lifted from the ground.

  Up they flew, leaving the astonished rats to shout oaths and brandish their Hobb lanterns. Some tried to hurl their knives after them but they all fell wide of the mark and the children of the Raith Sidhe tore at their ears and screeched in impotent fury.

  Ysabelle and Vesper gave grateful sighs of relief as the bat veered over the forest, leaving the devastation of the mound far beneath them. Out under the glimmering heavens they flew, out to where the land of Greenreach rose steeply in the dim distance.

  But the danger was not over, for as they soared above the treetops, Ysabelle could see a dark mass gathering behind them and the night was filled with many desperate cawing calls.

  “No,” she breathed. “Vesper, you must hurry.”

  “What is it?” he cried, unable to turn around.

  “The carrion birds,” she answered.

  Above the glare of the Hobb lanterns, hundreds of gore crows, ravens, jackdaws and magpies were circling and shrieking. It was apparent that the rats were telling them what had happened and, with a thrash of their ebony wings, the hellish birds tore through the night sky in wrathful pursuit.

  13 - At the King of Trees

  Over the starlit forest Vesper and Ysabelle flew. The bat furiously beat his wings but his exertions were almost too much to bear.

  “I cannot continue for much longer!” he cried. “My shoulder aches already!”

  “You must!” the squirrel told him. “The crows are not far behind—they will tear us to pieces.”

  Vesper gazed at the dark shape of Greenreach ahead and knew that he could never reach it.

  With her arms about his neck, Ysabelle saw the black clouds of carrion birds chasing them, but with every sweep of his wings she could sense how tired Vesper was becoming.

  Gradually, the evil birds were gaining, advancing with every passing second and their blood-curdling cries trumpeted across the starry heavens.

  “Strike them down!” they shrieked. “Tear and rend with claw and beak.”

  Despite his fear, Vesper’s wings began to beat more slowly.

  “Oh, please,” Ysabelle cried, “just a little way more! If we could only reach the holy land!”

  “I cannot!” he wailed. “The strain is too great. Forgive me, my princess, forgive me!”

  With a sickening lurch, they toppled from the sky and spiralled downwards. Swiftly the forest rushed up to impale them upon bitter twigs and dash their bodies against its mighty boughs. But even as the new leaves brushed against the squirrel’s tail, with a shout, Vesper caught a breeze in his leathery wings and skimmed shakily over the treetops before swooping down between the branches.

  Through the shadow-filled woods they unsteadily flitted, until it seemed that the pursuing carrion birds had lost track of them beneath the screening trees.

  No harsh, cawing voices could they hear and though they were both relieved, Vesper was exhausted.

  “We must alight,” he panted, “I fear my damaged wing was not healed as much as I did think.”

  “But we are so near,” Ysabelle urged, “only a few leagues more and we shall be there!”

  The bat shook his head. “I wish I could,” he lamented, “but I am no mighty Knight of the Moon, only a weaning. Oh, Ysabelle, to have failed here at the end—I am sorry.”

  She hugged him tightly. “Do not despair,” she said, “we can complete the remainder on foot.”

  He managed a rueful grin, then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a black shape dived through the leaves of a sycamore and raced straight for them. Before Vesper had a chance to act, the creature bore down on him, a gnarled talon flashed out and struck the bat across the face.

  Emitting a frightened yell, Vesper plummeted down—spinning and tumbling out of control.

  Ysabelle held on grimly and though he tried to regain his balance and mastery, there was nothing the bat could do.

  The ground raced up to them and they crashed with a sickening thud.

  Ysabelle rolled helplessly down the sloping lawns but Vesper crumpled into a fearful heap of wing and fur, and lay still as death.

  The cold, cackling voice of the crow rang overhead as it fluttered in a wide circle, delighted at the violence it had wrought. Then, with one red-rimmed eye trained upon the corpse-like figure of the bat, it spread its feathers and descended.

  “Victuals,” it cawed, “sticky treats for me, the others won’t get none, they didn’t spy the beasts below the trees—only I did that and I shan’t open my beak to tell them, oh no.”

  Hovering above Vesper, it reached out with a scaly claw and tentatively turned him over. The bat made no resistance and lolled limply to one side.

  “Hoo hoo,” squawked the fiendish bird, “the nasty dizzard is dead. Ooh, delicious corpse flesh! Shall I peck out the eyes first or guzzle the entrails?”

  It landed on top of Vesper and its midnight feathers smothered his face. With its cruel talons stretched wide, the crow pinned the motionless form to the ground and stared covetously at its catch, musing on where to begin.

  “Entrails,” it decided greedily. “No, no, too hasty, too hasty! Sup first on the heart’s blood—that rich heady mead and carouse awhile in the sweet darkness.”

  Plunging its head down, the bird shoved its sharpened beak onto Vesper’s chest and tore out a mouthful of fur which it spat distastefully upon the ground. Then it lunged forward a second time, only now to pierce the plucked skin and suck up the young bat’s blood.

  Without warning, a wild creature darted from the shadows and fierce paws gripped the crow’s tail feathers, tearing the quills out by the roots.

  “Get away from him—you foul Hobber!” came a fearless voice.

  The bird screeched in pain as it whirled round to face its attacker but a fallen branch came swinging towards it and struck the crow across the back.

  Flapping its wings in terror, it twisted and swivelled its sleek head, yet the insane nightmare was too quick. Again the brandished branch was singing through the darkness—this time hitting the bird’s beak which gave a horrible crack and broke as easily as an egg shell.

  “Aaaaaiiyyeee,” it screamed, feathers flying all around.“Aaaaaiiyyeee!”

  Reeling backwards, it staggered from Vesper’s body and, with blood pouring from its wounded face, took to the air in blind fear.

  Ysabelle did not wait to watch it soar from sight. Throwing down the branch, she raced to Vesper’s side and cradled his head in her paws.

  “Vespertilio,” she called, “Vespertilio.”

  The young bat made no answer and with trembling fingers she touched the bald patch upon his chest. “Green be praised,” she whispered, for there she had felt a faint heartbeat.

  Tenderly, she brushed the fringe from his brow and examined the bloody rents that the crow’s claws had ripped into his face.

  A terrible feeling of despair overwhelmed her. Was this the end? Had they come all this way and through so many dangers for it to finish so bleakly?

  For some time Ysabelle knelt at Vesper’s side, holding his head and repeating his name, but only the sounds of the still night filled her ears and an unhappy tear rolled down her cheek.

  Now was the time for grief; all the sorrow she had kept hidden flowed from the maiden unchecked. Never had she thought that such a ravening emotion could so utterly consume her. Unrelenting and unquenchable sobs seized her absolutely and they pu
lsed through the forest, beating out a mournful lament on the night air.

  For many days now she had tried to be strong. Since the acorn had come to her, Ysabelle had striven to do her duty with honour and in a manner befitting one of royal blood. At that moment, however, she felt woefully small and unsuited to the vast and mighty office which the amulet had bestowed on her. There, in the dark woods, she was simply a girl and the awful majesty of the life she had accepted seemed a whole world away.

  Beneath the unlit and shadow-enshrouded trees, something heard her plaintive weeping. It was cloaked all in black and seemed to be a part of the darkness itself, a part that had been given tangible form and substance and which now moved stealthily towards the unsuspecting squirrel maiden and her unconscious beloved.

  A deep hood covered the face of the stranger but within its void two eyes regarded the forlorn Ysabelle as she continued to pour out her grief. Countless tears fell on the ground, glimmering briefly in the cold light of the stars above.

  Closer to her, the tall figure was drawn—making no noise as it drifted through the grass. Ripples of darkness curled about the folds of its cloak as it moved and waves of shadow spread in every direction.

  Not until the cloaked stranger was dangerously near did Ysabelle notice it. With a start, she looked up to find the mysterious newcomer standing almost by her side. Fearfully, she searched for the fallen branch but the weapon was out of reach.

  Wild thoughts crowded into her mind—the figure was like the fanciful descriptions of Death and she clung to Vesper more desperately than ever.

  The hooded form made no further move, content for the moment merely to watch the maiden a little longer. Yet the still silence made it seem all the more sinister and Ysabelle felt as though she had at last encountered a foe from whom there was no escaping.

  “Have you not gathered enough this night?” she cried. “First Tysle, then Giraldus! How many more of the righteous must you collect? What of the enemy—why do you not harvest from their number?”

  The stranger took a step closer and at last it spoke. “A strange spectacle is this,” came a sharp and bitter voice, “what sign or wonder have I discovered in the haunted realm of night?”

  Ysabelle held Vesper tightly as the cloaked form glided towards them with one paw outstretched.

  “Keep thy distance,” she warned.

  Gentle laughter issued from the depths of the all-concealing hood. “I mean you no harm,” said the voice, “I was simply trying to ascertain whether you were real or no. Unearthly visions have mocked me before now. Are you two phantoms sent to cheat my senses?”

  The squirrel drew away from the reaching fingers as they tried to touch her.

  “I am no spirit!” she insisted—then remembered when she had said that before and to whom. “Who... who are you?” she stammered. “It cannot be! Wendel—is it you come back from the grave?”

  The figure lowered its arm and drew itself up. “Neither of us is certain,” it said, “what tricks the misery of life can play—I see that you have much sorrow behind you.”

  “In front of me also,” Ysabelle replied.

  The cloaked stranger regarded her for a moment then stooped over Vesper.

  “Thy companion is injured,” it said, “he must receive help if he is to live.”

  Ysabelle stared aghast at the bat and turned pleadingly to the newcomer. “Oh please,” she cried, “whatever you are, whether a shade of the unhappy dead or no, will you not aid me?”

  “You beg me to help you?” the voice echoed. “Then I would also be assisting a Knight of the Moon.”

  Ysabelle frowned and, as she watched, the stranger slowly drew the hood from its head.

  “You... you are a squirrel!” she spluttered—overjoyed beyond belief.

  “Thus do you see my dilemma,” returned the other, “are not the Moonriders our despised enemies? So, when I came across thee, I did greatly wonder. A maiden of my own race, nursing one of those accursed rats with wings!”

  “You do not understand!” Ysabelle told her. “You cannot know what has passed between us and what we have learned. Please, is there anything you can do for him?”

  The cloaked squirrel glanced up the sloping lawns and the white starlight shone over her gaunt face, glinting in the silver circlet she wore on her brow. “It is dangerous to remain here,” she said in a hushed whisper, “if we are caught they will punish us. You crave the bat to be attended to, then we must go now.”

  “Wait,” Ysabelle called, “I do not understand. Where are we? What help is there—who are you afraid of? Is it the Hobbers?”

  “So many questions,” said the other, peering nervously into the dim shadows around them, “did you not know that you lie at the foot of the slopes of Greenreach?”

  “The holy land!” Ysabelle marvelled. “But that is excellent tidings!”

  She caught her breath as the enormity of what lay ahead dawned. It was almost over, all the suffering and terror was nearly at an end. The maiden could hardly believe it, this was the time she had anticipated and blindly looked forward to since the fall of the Hazel Realm, yet now she had arrived, many unexpected fears reared to trouble her.

  The time had finally come when she would have to accept the full power of the Starwife. No longer could she be just Ysabelle. Now she had a land to govern and all the daunting responsibilities that that entailed. The liberty she had experienced since the night she had escaped from the Ring of Banbha seemed to vanish. She was left stripped of her freedom and only long years of a lonely reign stretched out before her.

  Lowering her head, she gazed sadly at the bat and slowly stroked his hair. “Oh, Vespertilio,” she called to him, “most courageous of Moonriders, you did make it to the holy land after all. We did cheat the Hobbers.”

  “I know not why you speak of childhood ogres,” the standing figure announced, “only one enemy do we have. The forces of Hrethel have conquered this place and encamp about its borders keeping a close watch on all who come and go. They are as yet ignorant of the secret ways which are known to only me and I have roamed quite freely these past days in the hope of finding help. Yet all my hopes have proven vain, no aid is there and Hrethel will remain victorious.”

  As Ysabelle listened she felt her terrible destiny bind her tightly. The time had come; she must disclose her identity to this squirrel—it was her solemn duty to complete the mission her mother had entrusted to her.

  Resting Vesper’s head upon the grass she rose from her knees. “Do not despair,” she said grimly, “help has indeed come at last, for I bear with me that which has imbued the Handmaidens of Orion with majesty and might from the dawn of days.” Gingerly, she lifted the silver acorn and immediately the stranger gasped.

  “The amulet of the Starwives!” she breathed in reverence. “Hope beyond all reason and daring has come to us! We did think the device lost—what chance brought it into thy keeping?”

  “The acorn came to me by the strangest means,” the maiden told her, “a falcon had possession of it, bearing it no doubt from the wreck of this land. Yet the legions of Hrethel did kill the messenger in the sky and so the silver fell into my own paws.”

  The other squirrel curtsied humbly. “Then truly art thou the chosen one,” she declared, “the successor has been decided by greater councils than ours. You are now my sovereign and I rejoice to be the first to bow to thee—My Lady.” She stared excitedly, then seemed to be in perplexed embarrassment. “But forgive me,” she ventured, “may I know the name of my new mistress?”

  “I am Ysabelle, daughter of Ninnia and last of that royal house.”

  “You must take the amulet to the Starglass at once!” the cloaked figure said. “Only then can you rid the land of the Moonriders.”

  “What about Vespertilio?” Ysabelle asked. “I cannot leave him here!”

  “Does the Hazel Realm love the company of bats so much that it would see the downfall of us all?”

  Ysabelle knelt beside him once again.
“I shall not leave him,” she said flatly.

  “This is madness! Neither you nor I can carry your companion so far up the hillside—here he must remain! At least for a little while. As soon as we reach the Hallowed Oak I shall despatch a sentry to fetch him.”

  “The oak still stands?” asked Ysabelle. “I did think the forces of Hrethel would have reckoned its destruction uppermost in their designs.”

  “Stand it does,” returned the other, “and there are still a few like myself whom the bats did not slaughter. Do you not see how urgent is the need for you to come with me? Please, My Lady! Too long has this realm been without a Starwife. Think of thy subjects and the holy destiny which awaits thee—if you are in truth the daughter of Ninnia the Wise, you must see where your duty lies.”

  Ysabelle was confused. Her heart demanded that she remain but her reason reproached her for abandoning her mission. She did not know what to do—surely it was best to watch over Vesper?

  “Yet that time could be better spent taking the amulet to the Starglass,” she told herself. “What comfort can you give him if the world is plunged into the despair the Ancient predicted?”

  “My Lady?” implored the squirrel beside her.

  Ysabelle nodded. “You are right,” she said, “fates other than his and mine are depending on me. I will go to the Starglass.” But before she set off, the squirrel maiden kissed Vesper’s forehead then hid him beneath a covering of leaves. “It will not be long,” she vowed, “I will return for thee.”

  “Hurry!” insisted the stranger. “Let us ascend the hill as fast we may.” She swirled the cloak about her and began walking briskly back into the shadows.

  With a last, lingering look at Vesper’s concealed form, Ysabelle caught up with her. “Good friend,” she said, “may I presume upon thee to learn how thou art named?”

  The other pulled the hood over her face once more. “Call me Morwenna,” came the short reply.

  And so Ysabelle was parted from Vesper and she melted into the darkness on the slopes of Greenreach.

  For some distance the ground rose in a gentle incline, but beyond the crowding trees, Ysabelle could sense some vast brooding shape looming before her. Then the land lifted sharply and the shoulders of the blessed hill climbed steeply beneath her feet.