by Robin Jarvis
It was not long before she became aware of the devastation the Moonriders had brought about. At first Ysabelle’s nostrils tingled with the acrid reek of burned timber and she could taste a bitter tang on the cold air. As she followed the cloaked and silent figure before her, she noticed the grass she walked on was withered and brittle as though scorched by fierce heats. Presently the undergrowth disappeared completely and bare soil took its place.
Morwenna seemed to disregard all need for secrecy and marched up the hillside quite openly. Ysabelle found this alarming; surely they ought to be seeking cover? Upon that naked hillside she felt increasingly aware that anything could see them and she craned her neck to stare at the open sky above. The fear that either a gore crow or a Knight of the Moon would come swooping down was constantly with her and she found her new companion’s brazenness impossible to understand.
The trees which now reared on either side of her were blackened and dead. Charred spectres of once glorious birches and hornbeams raked the sky with ugly stumps and the only foliage that bloomed upon their ghastly branches were ragged leaves of ash.
Ysabelle was shocked at the extent of the destruction. Surely no mortal creature could have so afflicted nature’s work. It was as if the sun itself had visited the hill with a tremendous fireball, for nothing living remained. No blade of grass, no green shoot and no spring bud had survived; all was lifeless and the earth had crackled into soot and cinders.
It was the most desolate landscape imaginable—a glimpse of Hades and the mournful ravages of the Pit.
“It is a nightmare we walk into,” she said to Morwenna, “how dismal and grim a place this is.”
The hood turned to her. “Yes,” she replied, “the fire-eggs were most efficient. Their targets blazed for two whole days and the pall of black smoke could be seen for many leagues. All of the sacred groves were utterly consumed and are now tangles of charcoal which crumble before the slightest breeze.”
She paused and pointed to a dark mass of withered boughs. “Once that coppice was the fairest place in all Greenreach,” she lamented. “There the virtuous blossom lingered on the bough throughout the seasons and the enchanted fragrance was stronger than wine to the senses.
“Now the land is a grievous desolation,” she said, drawing the cloak about her and resuming the climb. “An abode only of ghosts and memories too painful to rake from the ashes.”
Ysabelle clasped the silver acorn in her paw. “Can even this possess the strength to heal it?” she asked.
“It must,” Morwenna told her, “the amulet is more powerful than perhaps you realise.”
Ysabelle thought she detected a curious edge in the cloaked squirrel’s voice but could not understand what lay behind it and they trudged on in silence.
The barren, blasted hill continued to tower into the heavens and Ysabelle grew more uneasy the further she ascended. That familiar feeling of being watched, prickled the nape of her neck and she stared into the shadows around her. But the darkness pressed too heavily upon the holy land and her eyes could see nothing.
Morwenna observed her disquiet. “Is aught amiss, My Lady?” she murmured.
“I do not know,” said Ysabelle, “yet I feel as though we are under the scrutiny of many eyes.”
“Perhaps it is the ghosts I spoke of,” came the reply, “Green alone knows how many perished in the flames.”
The cindered soil under their feet was warm and smouldering now. From gaping cracks in the ground, trails of smoke curled slowly into the night. Absently, Ysabelle followed the winding course of one smoky thread and a cry of horror issued from her lips.
“In the trees!” she gasped. “Look!”
Silhouetted against the stars, the spindly frames of the blasted trees could be clearly discerned. Yet amongst the clumps of ash which draped across the blackened boughs like tattered war banners, small figures crouched and glared down.
“Bats!” Ysabelle breathed. “There are hundreds, no thousands of bats, all around us!”
Morwenna pulled her close. “Be silent, My Lady!” she hissed in her ear. “The forces of Hrethel might not harm us. Come quickly.”
She compelled Ysabelle to hurry, yet the squirrel maiden could not take her eyes off the countless Moonriders who returned her gaze without stirring from their perches.
“I do not understand!” she muttered. “Why are they letting us continue? Why have they not attacked?”
“It is better not to question such good fortune,” came the fretful reply, “let us pray we reach the Hallowed Oak in safety.”
Ysabelle wished she had obeyed the instincts of her heart and stayed behind with Vesper. This was complete and utter madness; they were marching deeper into the enemy’s territory—but why?
“I beseech you to trust me,” Morwenna muttered, “this is the only route—I swear.”
Through a pool of cold, feathery ash she led the maiden and the summit of the hill drew near. Breathlessly, Ysabelle longed to turn and flee, but she knew that was impossible now—it was too late to go back. Although the bats had allowed them to come this far, she knew that as soon as she tried to retrace her steps, they would rise from the trees and attack.
“My Lady,” Morwenna’s voice interrupted her chaotic thoughts, “behold!”
She lifted her paw and, in spite of her fears, Ysabelle stared at the wondrous spectacle which reared before her.
There, within a ring of charcoal twigs, was a magnificent and astounding spectacle. Upon the top of the blessed hill, rose a flourishing oak tree, the like of which she had never seen before. It was twice the height of the central oak in Coll Regalis and its girth was five times as wide. Amid all the scorched and cindered waste it soared into the sky, like a flame of hope besieged by fear and despair.
Ysabelle could not believe her eyes, yet the constant dread of the watchful enemy made it impossible for her to feel any relief at the sight. The hope that she could fulfil her mission flickered briefly in her breast, but one glance at the glaring Moonriders made her doubt they would ever reach that king among trees.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, “yet how did it escape the flames?”
“Rohgar thought it prudent to leave well alone,” Morwenna replied in a low whisper, “even he dares not challenge the ancient powers which are twined about that holiest of oaks. It would take a force greater than his winged rabble to harm it.”
“And the Starglass is still in there?” Ysabelle asked uncertainly.
“It is, the Moonriders are fearful to even tread within the oak; they have not ventured to assail the royal chambers or take the Glass by force.”
Ysabelle peered up at the tree’s graceful and stately branches. It was like a fountain of crystal clear water that spouted magically in a parched desert.
Her excitement dwindled as she saw many Knights of the Moon on guard around the trunk of the Hallowed Oak, standing sternly about small camp fires. Screechmasks covered their heads and armoured gauntlets were upon their feet. Ysabelle feared those creatures more than she dared to admit and she found that strange, for were they not of the same race as Vesper? It was a confusing and unwelcome thought and she thrust it to the back of her mind, focusing on the present situation alone.
“Are you certain all will be well?” she asked nervously. “Will those guards not challenge us? How shall we pass through their ranks?”
“Do not concern thyself with them, My Lady,” said Morwenna, trying to conceal a tremor in her voice, “remain here—I shall speak to their general.”
“But what will you say?” Ysabelle demanded. “Why have they allowed us to come this far without attacking? It is as if they expected my arrival. There is much you have not explained: did they send you to bring me here—what dreadful hold do they have over you?”
Morwenna cast back her hood and her face seemed anxious. “Calm thyself, My Lady,” she said biting her lip, “I intend to answer all thy questions, yet this is not the time. Wait until we gain the safety of the oak—
then we may talk freely. Oh, if we can but close the doors behind us!” she pressed her paw to her forehead as if she was about to faint and Ysabelle reached out to support her.
“What have they done to you?” she asked. “Is it so appalling you may not speak of it? Let me help you if I can.”
Morwenna thanked her, but added, “Only once we are inside can you know my woe.”
With that she strode over to the ferocious looking enemy, leaving Ysabelle to wait in uncomfortable silence. Standing, awkward and greatly ill at ease, she saw Morwenna greet the largest of the Moonriders, yet she could not catch what words passed between them.
The frightful and repulsive war helmet of the general turned and stared across at the maiden who at once felt the hostility and malice flow out from the narrow eye slits.
Ysabelle’s face clouded over as doubt and foreboding filled her. She grew certain that this was an elaborate trap and that the unfortunate Morwenna had been used by the bats to lure her into it. Oh, how she longed to be far from that horrible place.
In spite of herself, she gave a small laugh. “To think,” she murmured, “that the destination I had been so anxious to reach should prove to be the one place I have no desire to be.”
Her ironic musings were soon dispelled, for Morwenna was already returning.
“Most excellent news,” she said, “I have persuaded them to let you pass inside the oak.”
Ysabelle shook her head. “Would you truly lead me further into the jaws of the enemy?” she asked. “They must have threatened you most cruelly.”
Morwenna turned pale, “Please,” she sobbed, “I cannot talk of that—oh, My Lady, if you care for the lives of we who are left you will follow me.” She glanced over her shoulder and shivered. “Beware,” she whispered, “Rohgar watches us; he must not suspect you are wise to the danger.”
Ysabelle closed her eyes. “What a fool I have been,” she berated herself.
“Perhaps not,” the other said quickly, “there is still a way to outwit them. The Starglass can still be reached if we are cunning enough.”
The maiden sighed resignedly, not daring to hope any more, yet what else could she do? “Very well,” she murmured, “guide me to the oak, complete the plan of the Moonriders.”
A grateful smile flashed over Morwenna’s wedge-shaped face. “Oh thank you, My Lady,” she said, “and when we are within I shall speak to my sentries, they will seek out thy injured companion.”
“Then let us be swift—you did say that Vespertilio might not survive!”
Morwenna showed her teeth as she grinned again. “Perchance I was a little hasty in the diagnosis,” her syrupy voice admitted, “a few minutes more will do no harm to him I am sure.”
Taking the maiden by the paw, they walked quickly over the soot-covered ground to where the guards stood in rank upon rank of glittering armour.
Each screechmask turned towards Ysabelle as she approached and she was horrified to be so close to them. The bats shuffled on their gauntleted feet and cleared a path through their number—straight to the entrance of the immense tree.
Within the eyeslits of the hideous helmets, the Knights of the Moon glared at their reviled enemy. Here at last was the one they had so desperately been seeking and their gaze burned on the blood-tarnished amulet about her neck.
One of the older creatures moved without warning, shifting his weight and gouging the cinders with his steel talons as the two squirrels passed. Ysabelle winced and stared at him warily—the force of the Moonrider’s hatred blazed in his eyes and for an instant she thought he would lash out at her.
Through the remaining groups of guards they went. The crackling flames of the camp fires danced over the screechmasks and lent them a semblance of life, so that a host of gibbering demons seemed to surround the two squirrels.
By the time Ysabelle was taken to the great entrance, her nerves were overwrought—this was all wrong. She glanced upwards at the oak which now towered over her and so high did it stretch that Ysabelle felt like an ant at the feet of a giant. This mighty tree was part of her holy inheritance, yet remembering that did little to ease her fears. With her head thrown back to glimpse its topmost branches, the wild thought came to her that the oak would come toppling down and smash her into the earth. Ysabelle felt her knees buckle and her head began to swim.
“Come, My Lady,” Morwenna urged, and the harshness of her voice was like a slap to Ysabelle’s senses.
In front of them an ornately carved doorway reared: its handles were of gold, inlaid with silver, and fashioned in the shape of stars. Morwenna placed her paw upon one of them and pushed.
The door swung open and Ysabelle found herself standing in the grand hall. It was completely deserted and the sound of their footfalls echoed grimly around them. In other circumstances, the maiden would have admired the beautifully decorated chamber but her predicament allowed for only two emotions—fear and dread.
Silently, Morwenna closed the door behind them and her gaunt face was wreathed in a most unpleasant smile.
“Unbounded was the craft and skill of our folk,” she declared indicating the carved walls, “now all this is thine, My Lady.”
Ysabelle looked at her desperately. “Summon thy sentries!” she said at once. “Before I am taken and tortured by the waiting bats, send them for Vespertilio!”
“Tortured?” uttered Morwenna in surprise. “There shall be none of that, no bats will harm thee here, My Lady. Did I not say that they dare not enter the Hallowed Oak?”
“Is this not a trap of their devising?” the maiden mumbled.
“Most assuredly not. Why didst thou think I would take part in such a base deception?”
“But outside, you did lead me to believe it was so.”
“I think thy fancy hath got the better of thee,” Morwenna said, “but ought we not repair at once to the Chamber of the Starglass.”
Ysabelle looked at her curiously; if she had been wrong about the trap, and she sincerely doubted that, then her arrival here had been far too easy. “No,” she said cautiously, “call the sentries before we proceed any further, I am worried for my friend.”
“But Mistress,” the other replied, “at present they are all stationed with the Glass, and through the thickness of the chamber door, I have little chance of being heard no matter how hard I try.”
Ysabelle relented, although a dreadful suspicion began to dawn. “Very well,” she said, “take me there.”
“This way,” Morwenna replied, striding to the far left of the grand hall, “the chamber lies through here.”
Ysabelle collected her wits and resolved to discover what strange game Morwenna was playing with her.
Warily she looked through the archway that the other indicated. “It is a flight of stairs,” she said in mild surprise. “They lead downwards, yet I thought the chamber would be above the ground, not below.”
“Ah,” muttered Morwenna, “it was, but I did instruct the sentries to bear the holy Glass to the fastness of the tree’s root chambers for safety’s sake.”
She began to descend, the hem of her cloak brushing the steps behind her. Ysabelle found Morwenna’s explanation difficult to believe and her suspicions grew stronger within her.
Cautiously the maiden crept after, aware that she was walking into danger, yet how else was she to discover the truth?
“Tell me, my Lady Morwenna,” she said as they descended the winding stairway, “what happened that night when the Moonriders attacked?”
“Did I not already state that the fire-eggs were most cruelly efficient?”
“You misunderstand,” Ysabelle interrupted. “What I should like to learn is how the attack was possible? What happened to the defences woven by the last Starwife?”
“Ah,” the other sighed mildly and without a hint of remorse or regret, “my poor former mistress. She had been so very ill for such a long time. Very old and frail was she and when the Knights of the Moon invaded, it proved too much.”
“But how were they able to invade?”
They had reached the foot of the steps and, taking up a candle staff, Morwenna lit it from a lantern flame.
“Henceforth we must descend into the grottoes beneath the oak,” she told Ysabelle, “that is where I did think the Starglass would be most secure.”
Unlocking a small door, she passed inside a dry, earthen tunnel, and with a last, nervous look around her, Ysabelle went in after.
The guttering candlelight sent their shadows dancing around the narrow way and Ysabelle’s unease mounted. From the legends she had heard about the Starglass it was too large to have been carried down here. Morwenna was leading her to some unknown destination for reasons and motives all her own. Ysabelle tried to calm her fraught nerves, that dissembling squirrel possessed the answers to all that had happened and she determined to discover what she could.
“You did not answer my question,” she said.
The Lady Morwenna turned her most servile and fawning face upon her. “How can I know such things,” she declared, “when even my mistress was at a loss to explain it? The mystery still remains, perhaps the power of the Starglass was waning as the old Starwife died? Who can truly say?”
“My mother thought it was traitor’s work,” Ysabelle pressed daringly, “would you know aught of that?”
The implied accusation seemed to wash over Morwenna completely. “No doubt your mother was wise in many ways,” she replied blithely, “yet I fear her much vaunted and doubtless exaggerated wisdom was at fault touching this.”
“I think not; never have I known my mother to be wrong.”
“Have a care!” Morwenna said abruptly.
Ysabelle caught her breath, had she gone too far? Was the other squirrel threatening her?
Yet when Morwenna turned, that ingratiating smile was still fixed to her face. “You must tread with caution,” she explained, “the passage here becomes dank and mud covers the pathway.”