by Robin Jarvis
From then on, Ysabelle was forced to keep a close eye on the ground. It was not easy, for Morwenna’s candle failed to illuminate the squelching road, yet the other squirrel hardly seemed to need its light. Hurrying swiftly ahead of the maiden, she ducked beneath curtains of fibrous roots before they were even caught by the feeble flame.
Ysabelle knew that she had made a grave mistake coming down here, but she could not turn back now, for the blackness behind was absolute and when she glanced over her shoulder it was like looking down the throat of some immense fiend of darkness that was ever trying to swallow her.
“My Lady Morwenna,” she called to the receding figure, “was it really wise to bring the Starglass down this far?”
A mocking chuckle came back to her and Ysabelle wished she still possessed the knife of the high priest.
“Not far now,” Morwenna’s voice assured, “the chamber is very close.”
Ysabelle drew a paw over her forehead. What had she done? She had been fool enough to follow this deceitful creature and had become utterly ensnared by her lies—abandoning Vesper to the perils of the wild night. The maiden was furious with herself; here at the very end of her journey she had been tricked.
“Here our descent finishes,” said Morwenna, coming to an abrupt standstill and flourishing the candle before a low doorway. From a belt around her waist, she took a ring of keys and fitted one inside the lock. The mouldering door creaked open and she stepped inside.
“Enter, oh Starwife,” she hissed.
Ysabelle’s scalp crawled. The chamber beyond was pitch dark, yet a damp, stale smell flowed from it and for a moment she was beside the haunted mere once more.
“I cannot go in there,” she said.
“But you must,” Morwenna insisted, beckoning with a finger that ended in a long curved claw.
Ysabelle took a step backwards, “No sign of the Starglass can I see,” she muttered, “nor thy sentries. Where are they?”
“Oh they are here,” the other said with a faint snarl purring in the back of her throat, “come and see. Tell them of thy stricken friend.”
“Where have you brought me?” the maiden asked, staring fearfully into Morwenna’s heavily-lidded eyes.
“To a most lovely corner of the realm,” came the chilling response, “this is where the survivors of the Moonriders’ assault were brought and where you can at last greet thy new subjects.”
Ysabelle was breathing hard now. She knew it would be madness to step over the threshold of that vile chamber. There was something unclean and terrifying about the impenetrable blackness which seemed to seethe and swirl beyond the candle flame.
“Do not keep me waiting,” came Morwenna’s cruel voice, “do you not wish for the Starwife to accede to the throne?”
The way she said it left Ysabelle in no doubt exactly who she meant.
“You betrayed them didn’t you?” she said. “You were the one!”
Morwenna stepped back through the doorway and Ysabelle pulled away from her. “Oh the poor little maiden is affrighted!” she declared with feigned concern. “Come, take my paw, let me guide you inside.”
“How did you break the defences?” Ysabelle cried. “What evil arts caused the Starglass to fail?”
A light, careless laugh broke from Morwenna’s thin mouth. “Such fancies,” she sighed. “Here am I doing my utmost to help you and all you can do in return is lay such callous treacheries upon me.”
She took a step nearer and Ysabelle stumbled out of reach. “What did Hrethel promise you?” she asked. “What possible rewards could justify such abominable treason?”
“Hrethel?” echoed Morwenna innocently. “You think I laboured all those detestable and loathsome years simply for the benefit of that wizened bat?” Her voice rose until it became a shriek and she pounded the candle staff on the ground in anger, finally casting aside the last vestiges of pretence.
“He and his wretched forces were simply my instruments!” she snorted. “And how well I used them, how easily were they deceived by my great art and their own lusts. Didst thou really think I brought about the ruin of Greenreach merely for them? Soon they shall be swept aside and perish in the eternal fires!”
Ysabelle shuddered at the sound of that voice. It was totally consumed by evil and she continued to retrace her steps backwards. “Then why did you do this?” she cried.
Morwenna’s eyes threw back the light of the candle and came stabbing through the darkness at her. “I did it for my Lord!” she proclaimed. “I did it for He who was unjustly banished from this world by those who usurped Him. Now that mighty majesty shall come forth and govern a new darkness, every creature will worship Him, and despair reign over all.”
“Hobb!” Ysabelle murmured. “You are a worshipper of Hobb!”
Morwenna faltered and a curious expression crossed her face. In one quick movement, she removed the circlet of silver from her brow and held the candle near so that the maiden could see. There, upon her forehead was a tattooed image of a staring eye.
“I am the priestess of Mabb!” she spat. “When my Lord emerges from the imperishable darkness He shall release my true mistress from her long imprisonment and I shall serve them both!”
“You are insane!” Ysabelle yelled.
“Oh no,” the other replied softly, “my mind is clear—I know precisely what I am doing.” She stepped closer and her paw stretched out. “Such a pity about the high priest,” she muttered, “yet Wendel was always rash. He will not be missed—another will rise to take his place. I congratulate you on the good fortune which has followed you from your squalid homeland; many times have you confounded my designs—yet no more, alas. Here I command and thy fate is sealed.”
Swiftly, she snatched Ysabelle by the hair and the maiden screamed in pain and terror, trying to prise away the claws, but Morwenna’s grip was tenacious and strong. Desperately Ysabelle lashed out and struck her across the face.
The priestess fell back—outraged and astonished at the ferocity of the blow.
“How dare you!” she screeched. “How dare you raise a paw to me!” Bristling with graceless indignation, she shoved Ysabelle against the wall and tightly twisted her claws in the long tresses. “Too many drab, dreary years have I toiled in the service of others to let my plans slip now. Did you really think a paltry beggar from the crude, peasant-filled waste of the Hazel could replace me?”
She gave the tangled locks a vicious tug until tears sprang from Ysabelle’s eyes, then her fingers closed around the silver acorn and she pulled it viciously from her neck.
“No!” wailed Ysabelle. “You cannot take that! It belongs to me!”
Morwenna cackled, “The amulet is mine!” she hissed. “There shall be no Starwife but me!”
Clenching the acorn in her claw, she dragged Ysabelle towards the dank chamber and shrieked, “The time has come for my darlings to feed!”
Fiercely, she hauled Ysabelle into the dismal grotto then gave her a rough push which sent her slithering over the muddy ground.
“Come my pretty ones!” Morwenna crooned, holding the candle high above her head. “See what new morsel I bring!”
Ysabelle stared about her, expecting the shadows to be filled with hellish rats with knives and cudgels in their fists, but there was nothing and all that happened was a distant gurgle which issued from the far darkness. Morwenna gave a satisfied smile, then strode to the rocky wall and lit a torch that was mounted there.
It spluttered into flame and by its greater light, Ysabelle could see that she stood upon a slimy shore which dipped into oily black water—yet upon that slippery bank she saw a sight which churned her stomach and froze her blood.
Scattered all around were hundreds of chewed and crunched up bones—the grisly, skeletal remains of some horrendous, carnivorous feast. Ysabelle cried out, for grinning from the mire was the skull of a squirrel.
“Is this what became of the survivors?” she shouted. “What poison flows through your veins—what
diseased canker pulses inside your breast?”
Morwenna held the silver acorn aloft and twirled it in the firelight. “Even in the throne room I could hear their screams as my pets devoured them,” she murmured. “I wonder if thy piteous wails will carry so far?” Then, gazing at the dark water she added, “It has been two whole days since last they dined. I am certain your end will be a swift one—alas.”
With that, she returned to the doorway, pausing only to listen to the faint splashes that drifted ever nearer to the shore.
“I am not afraid,” Ysabelle called defiantly.
Morwenna looked at her in mild amusement. “Not yet, perhaps. You are still very much the little royal princess, stiff-necked and proud. How many of those have I seen in my drudging years? Yet all are gone now; they either burned or were brought hither—how my ears were amazed to hear their ignoble shouts and screams.” She chuckled ever so faintly. “Soon you too will squeak as they did before you. Squeak and squeal until your lungs rupture.”
“You will not hear me cry out,” Ysabelle swore, “I shall not satisfy thy black heart by shrieking for mercy!”
Morwenna put her claw on the iron handle of the door. “Most commendable,” she said sourly, “but you really are no different to the others. When the time comes I shall hear you sing as they did.” A sudden thought seemed to take her and she gave a hissing snigger.
“Oh,” she cried, “perhaps you hope to be rescued? Ah, my dear vulgar peasant urchin—how simple thou art. Tell me that you do not put thy faith in the churl-filled forces of thy mother’s stinking and noisome land!”
“How do you know of them?”
“I shared all that Wendel knew. Oh yes, I know that thy dispossessed army of paupers will strike, but you see—so do the Moonriders. As we speak, they are preparing for battle—why do you think they wore their ridiculous tin pots on their ugly heads? Not to greet thee alone.
“As for the other squirrel houses, thy arrogant mother was deluded. Never will they open their borders to take up arms and venture to march here. We have all been sundered too long, why should they hazard such a risk? No, only two armies will do battle this night and when the dregs of both are spent, the children of the Raith Sidhe shall destroy any in their path!”
“No!” cried Ysabelle.
Morwenna sneered then pulled the door shut.
Hearing the key turn in the lock, Ysabelle came sliding through the mud and beat her fists upon the door.
“Wait!” she shouted. “Morwenna!”
No sound came from the other side and Ysabelle slumped against the sealed entrance in despair.
On the surface of the dark water a large bubble burst and she stared across to see what had caused it.
“Save me,” she whispered, “Green save me.”
A pair of bulging, golden eyes swept towards the shore and, as a repulsive, wart-covered head rose beneath them, they swivelled round to glare at her.
Ysabelle ran to the burning torch, but it was fixed into the rocky wall and when next she looked round, two further pairs of eyes were sailing out of the blackness.
On to the shore the first of Morwenna’s disgusting pets lumbered. Its bloodless lips gaped open as it gazed greedily at the squirrel maiden and an enormous tongue flicked out like a whip of flesh.
Ysabelle hurried back to the door and screamed for help, but Morwenna had gone and there was no one to hear her.
Throughout the trackless and gloomy forest, an atmosphere of expectancy and tension thrilled and charged the deep shadows.
Beneath his covering of leaves, Vesper slowly unfurled one wing and gave a weary groan. Gradually the young bat stirred but before he had a chance to look about him, a searing pain stung in his cheek and he delicately touched the wounds that the gore crow had torn in his face.
Vesper sucked the air sharply through his teeth and grimaced. “A fine sight thou must surely be,” he grumbled to himself, “scored and slit like the pastry crust of a pie.”
Covering his head with his wings he gave another groan. “What dull hammering throbs under my skull, and why does mine chest burn and plague me?”
His complaints suddenly disappeared as his face reared from the leathery membranes of his wings and he stared about the dark woods aghast.
“Ysabelle!” he cried. “Ysabelle—where are you?”
Quickly, he staggered to his feet, brushing away the leaves that clung to him, his tongue clicking all the while to pierce the surrounding shades of night.
No sign of the squirrel maiden could he see, and there was no clue as to where she had gone.
“Ysabelle!” he called. “Ysabelle!”
Countless possibilities as to what had happened flooded into his throbbing head. What if the gore crow had carried her off to devour in seclusion? What if she had run away in terror and had fallen and injured herself? What if...
“Stop this,” he berated his fevered imagination. “Jumping to wild fancies shall achieve naught but a greater pounding on the skull than already exists. No, you must be calm Vespertilio, think wisely, for tearing about the forest is no solution.”
He gazed at the leaves which had covered him and nibbled his wispy beard. “That is a proof that someone cared enough to try and conceal me from hostile eyes,” he muttered. “Only Ysabelle would do that. If she had time to contrive such a screen then surely that shows she was not taken by force and went from here of her own free will.
“The question remains, however,” he mused, “what am I to do now? Did she mean to return? And how long was I lying senseless? Perhaps she departed only a short while ago.”
He scowled and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then am I to wait here?” he asked himself. “Would it not be better to scout the land? From the air I might catch a glimpse of her.”
That decided the matter for him and Vesper stretched out his wings to see if they too had suffered any damage from the crow’s attack. Gingerly he shook them, then caught the air between his fingers and rose gently from the ground.
Flitting in a cautious circle to begin with, the bat tested the strength of his shoulder and was satisfied that it would bear him safely. Then he beat his wings more rapidly and shot up through the branches and into the heavens.
With the high air currents ruffling his fur and cooling the stinging cuts that marred his face, the bat gazed in surprised wonder at the vast bulk of the blessed hill which reared from the forest.
“Then we did reach her holy land,” he breathed and at once Vesper realised that there he would be sure to find her.
Fluttering his wings, he wheeled a wide arc in the starry sky and swooped towards the land of Greenreach.
The dark shape of the hill rose beneath him as he flew low over the steep slopes.
“Ysabelle,” he called, peering into the veiling gloom.
But the young bat’s voice dried in his throat as he witnessed for the first time the destruction his kind had inflicted upon the land. The blasted trees lay stricken and mutilated all around and Vesper felt deeply ashamed.
The grievous sight wrung his heart and he wondered what Ysabelle had thought when she had looked upon the charred wilderness. Perhaps that was why she had not returned; what if the maiden now despised him?
With these wretched notions weighing heavily on his spirits, he flitted miserably over the devastation.
“Hold there!” bawled a commanding voice.
Vesper was shaken from his thoughts and fluttered to a surprised halt. “Who is it?” he cried.
From out of a knotted web of cindered branches, a Knight of the Moon came flying. He was almost twice the size of Vesper; a fearsome screechmask covered his head and the outstretched wings were painted with flames and images of the moon. Snarling, the bat zoomed about Vesper—glaring and squinting at him.
“What is this?” he barked. “A puny weaning come to play at battle! Declare thyself and thy errands here.”
“I am Vespertilio!” he obeyed. “Son of Indith and Novatus of the ruined t
ower and second colony. My errand is a most urgent one. I must speak with...”
“Novatus?” broke in the fierce Moonrider, eyeing him with suspicion. “He was a courageous warrior and died in great honour. If thou art in truth of his blood—name me his battle helm.”
“Terrorgrin,” came the instant response.
The bat flew beside him and gave Vesper a hearty clap on the back. “Welcome friend,” he said, “thou wilt pardon my mistrust but ’tis a deadly time and I have mine orders from Rohgar himself.”
He fluttered down to the gnarled and blackened branches and beckoned Vesper to follow him.
Alighting, the Knight of the Moon removed his screechmask and scratched his ears. He had a stronglooking face with many old scars across his snout and a tuft of fox-coloured hair sprouted on the top of his head.
“Aldwulf am I called,” he said as Vesper landed at his side, “and this grim helm is ‘Warbrow’. Now, relate unto me the unusual chances that bring thee here, for I know thou art too young for combat. Yet what caused those vicious cuts upon thy face and that raw wound in thy chest? Hast thou encountered the enemy?”
“I have not come to fight,” returned Vesper, “but to find... someone.” He stared nervously at the other bat and tried to muster the courage to say what he must.
Aldwulf snorted at his hesitation. “I perceive what has brought thee!” he roared. “Why, do I not have two fine sons of mine own reaching thy years. Mischief doubled are they—is it thine intent to observe the final battle? Aye, my offspring have tormented me with the same desire. The art of the pouch bombers is fine indeed yet the field of combat is no place for idle spectation.”
“No!” Vesper cried. “I have not come to view the battle either...” Frantically, he gripped Aldwulf’s shoulders and his eyes grew wide. “What battle do you speak of?” he asked. “Why art thou bedaubed with paint? Who art thou preparing to fight? Have the Hobbers assailed this hill?”
The Moonrider pulled away from him. “What riddles are these child?” he murmured. “’Tis the tree worshippers we ready our legions for. Didst thou not know that a host of those foul tree rats are marching towards us?”