by Robin Jarvis
“The army of Ysabelle!”
“’Tis the enemy!” Aldwulf snapped, raising his eyes to stare into the night sky as dark shapes coursed overhead. “Behold!” he yelled. “There fly the pouch bombers with their fiery burdens. That pack of barbarous savages will soon know the meaning of terror.”
Vesper gaped upwards, and as he stared, he could see other squadrons gathering in the heavens. “You must stop this!” he demanded. “You know not what is truly happening! The squirrels are not our foes!”
“What treason is this?” Aldwulf cried. “If thou wert not so green in years I would smite thee with mine fists! Bite thy mutinous tongue—no pity shouldst thou feel for that heathen dross! Death is too blessed a gift for them and if there were another fate I could deliver I would not hesitate. All should perish and so they shall.”
“You must listen to me!” Vesper shouted. “You all must, this is not how it should be—the Hobbers are the true menace!”
Aldwulf grabbed him by the throat and bared his fangs. “Avaunt!” he spat. “No craven weaning shall utter such filthy lies in my hearing. Go join the other cowards and collect chiff-chaff eggs!” He thrust his screechmask back over his head and started to beat his wings, leaving the spineless youngster behind.
“Wait!” Vesper begged. “I have spoken with the Ancient! The messenger of the Lady—please you must listen!”
But the warrior soared away in disgust—his talons glittering a trail of silver light beneath him.
Vesper rose to follow, but Aldwulf was speeding towards a vast legion of Moonriders mustering in the sky and the young bat’s nerve wavered. The moon-sent angel had been wrong to choose him; no one would ever believe what he had been entrusted to say.
As he hesitated, high in the chill airs a trumpet blast blared from the forest and rang in his ears. The army of the Hazel Realm had arrived at last.
Vesper’s stomach lurched—he was too late.
Thundering shouts came echoing from above as the forces of Hrethel roared for blood and, flying from legion to legion, the large form of General Rohgar called out his final instructions. Suddenly he shot upwards, giving the signal to the pouch bombers and with terrible shrieks, the bearers of the fire-eggs veered away from the main host.
Upon the ground, the mighty army that had set forth with Ysabelle from the Hazel Realm drew their swords and raised their spears as the holy land loomed before them. Vesper could just make out their shadowy number far below and his pity went out to those who had once held him captive as the pouch bombers spiralled down.
Soon the first explosion would erupt at the foot of the blasted hill and the carnage would begin.
“There must be something I can do!” Vesper wailed. “I have to stop this!”
Thrashing the air desperately, he raced towards the huge cloud of Moonriders, yet they were already swarming after the pouch bombers to assume attack formations. In a moment, the first of them hurtled past Vesper as he shouted at the top of his voice trying to make them hear him.
“’Clear the way!” shrieked a furious Knight of the Moon who sent Vesper spinning as he rocketed hazardously close.
“Wait!” Vesper yelled until he was hoarse from shouting. “This is wrong—listen to me!”
The immense host swooped over the hillside and circled round the lower slopes where the army of Coll Regalis waited defiantly.
Ysabelle’s faithful border wardens strung arrows to their bows as the tremendous cloud of winged enemies blotted out the starlight.
Since their sovereign had been taken from them, the highest ranking royal guard had assumed command. Warden Mugwort he was called and by his strength of will the forces dispersed by the Hobber attack had mustered and continued the solemn march to Greenreach.
Now he strode to the front of the thronging mass of black and red squirrels. Holding his sword high in a gesture of challenge, he called to the assembled force.
“We stand before the holy land!” he shouted gravely. “Let us offer our prayers to the spirit of the Green and hope that wherever our Lady Ysabelle now resides she will be proud of us this night.”
At the rear of the troops a small figure wept into her cap as Mugwort continued.
“From darkness into darkness we have come, yet let valour and courage light our way now. Above us the enemy are poised to strike and we are but few in comparison. Our kindred of the remaining houses have proven faithless, so in the name of the Hazel Realm alone let us show these winged rats what it is to battle bravely. With their lives shall they pay for defiling the holy land!”
A resounding cheer was sent up and a volley of arrows flew into the sky as a sign of defiance to the reviled flying vermin.
With scornful laughter, the first phalanx of pouch bombers dived down. “The flame of victory is with us!” they sang. “Let us scorch the earth with our fierce flowers.”
Numb with horror, Vesper could do nothing but watch as the first pouch fell to the ground and a ball of red fire erupted in the midst of the squirrel army.
“I have failed,” he murmured dismally, “now there is no hope left. The children of the Raith Sidhe will be the only victors and the world will be plunged into eternal suffering.”
Another explosion burst into the night and the ferocious flames tore upwards. Even from where he despondently fluttered his wings, Vesper could feel the unbearable heats singe his fur, yet despite this a freezing chill crept over him. He was witnessing the end of everything, the only forces capable of purging the forest and ridding the land of the Hobber threat were annihilating one another.
The young bat trembled as, far below, the slaughter commenced. Squirrels burned in the dreaded flames and Moonriders plummeted to the earth—pierced by many arrows.
As the fire-eggs continued to blast and shake the ground, Rohgar’s voice bawled the order and his legions plunged downward—their razor sharp talons outstretched.
“Forgive me,” Vesper whispered, “I did all I could, yet it was in vain.”
He could stand it no longer. Torn with remorse and filled with the dread of what was to come, the bat turned from the carnage that raged below and flew away.
“Oh, Ysabelle,” he wept, “where are you?”
14 - The Fall of the Oak
The Lady Morwenna hurried up the steep stairway clutching the silver acorn tightly to her bosom. This was the moment she had waited for, the only delicious dream that had kept her in the Starwife’s service all those tiresome and humbling years. Now a power older than the foundations of the world would be hers to command and wield. Under the Triad she would have complete mastery over the creatures who survived the tumult that would shortly lay everything to waste.
Up she sped, pausing only to hear the sounds of battle echoing from outside the Hallowed Oak. Soon those meagre forces would be overthrown by Hobb’s followers and true darkness would be reborn.
Hastily she climbed the sacred stair and with her breath rasping from her chest, she stood at the entrance to the Chamber of the Starglass.
It was exactly as she had left it. Her old cloak, embroidered with powerful charms and black enchantments still covered the great device and the circular room was filled with shadow.
Morwenna waited to catch her breath before entering. She had endured much for this one moment and she wanted to savour every instant.
“At last,” she panted, “all my struggles and hardships are ended. The old life shall wither and the new will begin.”
An exultant expression lit her bony features as she stepped across the threshold.
In her fist, the silver acorn tingled and pulled her towards the centre of the chamber.
“The Starglass,” Morwenna breathed, “it calls to the silver and the metal hearkens to the summons.” She closed her claws about the precious symbol of the Starwives to prevent it flying from her grasp and stepped nearer to the covered glass.
“Have patience,” she crooned to them both, “you shall greet one another presently and I shall rule each.”
The closer the acorn came to the Starglass, the more agitated it became and Morwenna strove to control the violent tugs which wrenched her forward. Finally she held the amulet above the dark spells sewn into her cloak and through her claws a pale radiance welled up...
The silver of the talisman glimmered, shining from the tarnished metal, and the light grew in intensity, until it filled the chamber with a harsh glare. Beneath the embroidered cloak the Starglass rippled and the black material billowed as power surged from its immeasurable depths.
A triumphant laugh issued from Morwenna’s lips and she took hold of the cloak to drag it from the magical device. Then she froze.
“But wait,” she reproached herself, “if I uncover the Glass then the walls of defence shall spring back around the hill. I would not be able to break the sorceries in time for the arrival of the Worshippers of Hobb. They will be unable to invade and those who stand in our way will survive!”
Her claws twitched away from the cloak and she staggered back to the doorway.
“I shall not be thwarted!” she cried. “When the black tide pours from the forest I shall return.”
The silver acorn grew dull once more behind the immovable blood stains as Morwenna fled down the sacred stair. In the deserted chamber, the Starglass became still and the cloak continued to suffocate its magic.
Ysabelle shrank against the damp and dripping wall. Two bloated and glistening toads stalked her and behind them she could see another emerging from the scummy water.
Over the bone-strewn mud, the misshapen, squabfaced monsters came squelching. Splaying their webbed claws wide, they swaggered after the squirrel maiden, their bulbous eyes almost popping from the livid sockets. Their mistress had fed them well; on tender young flesh they had gorged—satiating the brutal appetite which always festered and inflamed their putrid bellies. Yet their last victim had been sent to them days ago and they had since picked the bones clean and sucked out the final dregs of marrow. In the dark water they had waited, the hunger growing once more until they did think their benefactor had forgotten them.
Now, however, a fresh morsel had been given, and their ravening mouths dribbled greedily as they approached.
Ysabelle looked from one hideous toad to another and knew there was no escaping them.
A long tongue lashed from the nearest slime-oozing beast and flicked across Ysabelle’s arm. She cried out in revulsion and terror, then the tongue came snaking for her again, this time slithering around her tail before it snapped back inside the wide gaping mouth.
The second toad snorted a snotty bubble from its nostrils and sidled closer. An odious grin split the squat head and the green lips parted as it prepared to strike. Eyeing the squirming bait and carefully selecting the tenderest cut, it inhaled as though relishing a sumptuous and mouth-watering scent. Indeed saliva did slobber from the ogre’s jaws as its own tongue unravelled and shot out.
The squirrel screamed as the fleshy pink rope wrapped tightly about her waist, constricting and forcing the breath from her body. Another tongue caught hold of her wrist, gripping fiercely until her fingers throbbed and she squealed in pain.
With their luminous eyes swollen and projecting more than ever from their glutinous heads, the creatures gurgled and slowly began to draw Ysabelle to them.
“No!” she protested, slipping on the mud as the whips of muscle dragged her forward. But there was nothing she could do and when a third tongue twisted about her—this time squeezing around her neck, all Ysabelle’s cries were strangled into a choking silence.
The unclean beasts bobbed excitedly as they trawled their catch in. Their webbed claws slapped the mud with malevolent glee and the squirrel was pulled to her knees. The fattest and most deformed of Morwenna’s beauties waddled up to her, its sticky tongue retracted swiftly into the twisted mouth and it brought its stinking face close to hers.
Ysabelle tore at her throat as she struggled for breath. The grotesque nightmare licked its cold lips as it reached up a clammy claw—enthralled and captivated by the luscious delectable. It clutched at her, running its slime-dribbling fingers zealously through her fur. The other toads gave guttural croaks and belches as it opened its monstrous mouth and lunged to snap and bite.
Ysabelle closed her eyes and shuddered.
Suddenly the mouldering timbers of the door splintered, bursting asunder as a raging fury came crashing into the dismal grotto.
Morwenna’s pets blinked in surprise and splashed in the mud—wild with dismay.
“Begone!” commanded a voice that boomed throughout the cavern. “Release her!”
The toads cringed and flinched as the hateful intruder charged at them, rising into the stale air, beating them with its wings and lashing out at them like a thing demented.
Gulping their tongues back into their throats, they shuffled away from the squirrel and slithered down the bank to the safety of the water.
Ysabelle gasped as the air filled her lungs and she rubbed her bruised neck. “Vespertilio!” she cried. “I never thought to see you again!”
“Nor I you,” the bat said, taking her by the paw and helping her up, “till I did hear thy voice calling. But be quick, little time is left to us.”
“Where is Morwenna?”
“Who? When I entered this mighty oak I did meet no other. Is she a friend of yours?”
“Hardly that!” she replied. “She is the cause of all this madness and has taken the acorn from me!” And running from the cavern, she hastened through the passage behind the shattered doorway.
From the chill water the forlorn toads gazed miserably at Vesper as he hurried after her and each began to howl retching wails.
Up through the narrow tunnels Ysabelle ran until she reached the entrance to the Hallowed Oak and passed within, swiftly climbing the stairs beyond.
But on arriving at the grand hall, she hesitated—a fearful clamour was issuing through the great doors and, with cautious steps, she ventured towards them.
Vesper flitted behind her, flying over the winding stairs and came gliding into the hall, alighting at her side.
Ysabelle stared out at the withered hilltop and hellish lights starkly lit her face.
“Vespertilio,” she breathed, “what riotous uproar is that? What are those flames which blister into the heavens yonder?”
“Princess,” he began, “thine army has arrived. That is the sound of my kind destroying the forces of thy mother’s realm.”
“My army?” she repeated. “Why do they engage so soon? Have the other squirrel houses joined them?”
“They have not.”
Ysabelle held onto the door as her hopes were dashed. “Then all is lost,” she murmured, “every one of my royal guards will be slain—against your fire-eggs they are defenceless. The Knights of the Moon have conquered.”
Vesper cast his eyes down guiltily. “No, we have not,” he muttered, “for only the Hobbers shall be victorious. Our triumph, shameful though I find it, will be shortlived.”
The maiden reached out for him and he took her paw in his wing. “Without the amulet there is naught we can do,” she said sorrowfully, “the battle will rage until no more blood can be shed and a darkness with no chance of dawn shall creep over the land.”
In stricken silence they watched the fierce red flames blast upwards and the clashing of steel against steel rang in the infernal night.
The scarlet fires of those warriors he had once so admired were reflected in Vesper’s dark eyes and remorse wrung his spirit until he felt as hollow and desolate as the scorched realm about him.
Unfurling one wing, he spread it about them both, as if to shield them from the horror to come. As he did so, Vesper’s thumb brushed the strap fastened over his shoulder and he tugged at it irritably. The leather bag at his waist gave a jerk and Vesper stared down—amazed at his own stupidity.
“Ysabelle!” he cried. “Come—before it is too late!”
Dragging her from the vast tree and out into
the troubled night, the bat bounded over the hill to where a small neglected campfire brightly crackled.
“What are you doing?” she yelled above the thunderous din. “There is naught we can do—the span of this world is ended!”
Vesper tore the bag from about his shoulders and wrenched it open. “Not yet!” he declared. “There may still be a way!”
Stepping up to the flames, he held the gift of the Ancient aloft and, glancing desperately at Ysabelle, poured the powdered contents into the fire’s heart.
On the slopes of Greenreach the bitter war rampaged, bloody and savage. The squirrels of Coll Regalis had lost many of their host to the scalding flames of the pouch bombers and countless archers had fallen before the steel gauntlets of Hrethel’s forces. The standard bearer had been one of the first to die and his lifeless body smouldered in the terrible heat, sprawling across the banner he had once been so proud to carry.
The Knights of the Moon plunged amongst them, ripping and slicing with their talons. Yet they too suffered losses; nigh on a hundred slaughtered bats lay on the battlefield—stuck through with arrows and spears or hacked by swords. The withering grasses were dyed crimson and the soil had turned into a mire of gore.
All around, trees blazed like gigantic torches and choking plumes of poisonous smoke flooded the air, forming an immense ceiling of fumes that blanketed the entire sky.
Courageously the squirrels fought on, brandishing their glittering blades and striking whenever the enemy swooped to tear at them, yet they knew that their numbers were dwindling.
Despair and vengeance drove them, repaying the bats as viciously as they could for the loved ones they had left behind in the Hazel Realm. Those innocent families that the Moonriders had ruthlessly murdered in their hunt for the silver acorn.
“In the name of the Hazel!” Warden Mugwort roared, cleaving a wounded bat in two.
Boldly he fought and with each drop of blood that he spilled he called out the names of his dead children.
“For Penda! For Sorrel! For Bellinia!”