The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  At the front of the armour-clad strangers, the tallest of them raised a gauntleted paw and, with the great spears raised, they charged up the bank towards the place where Thomas and Woodget stood behind the twisted hedges.

  “Tom!” the fieldmouse cried. “No!”

  Thomas let the weapon fall from his fingers, for he too recognised the figure that had come lumbering upon them and he opened his mouth in shocked astonishment.

  “Mulligan!” he yelled.

  Through the pine woods Mulligan had staggered, hurrying from the Shrine of Virbius as fast as he could, before the venom that had entered him could execute its lethal work.

  Yet the Irish mouse had not gone far before the first bitter pains began. His right paw turned black and from his punctured thumb there dripped a foul-smelling ooze which withered the undergrowth when it splashed over the ground.

  Further along his arm the pricking, shooting agonies travelled and from his dissolving tattoos the dark blood bubbled—forming ghastly, frothing pictures over his withering flesh.

  But for a long time Mulligan denied the pain, holding out against the excruciating torments that ravaged his arm, clenching his teeth as he hurtled on. Through the trees he bolted, his wooden stump smashing against snaking roots and ripping through the ferns and grasses, but never once did he falter or fall.

  Only a single thought burned fierce in his mind, outshining the pain that bit into his shoulder and crept across his chest—the fragment had to be taken as far from the ruined temple as possible and he knew that he would die in the attempt.

  In his left fist he clutched it, the thing which had cursed his family throughout the ages, and he was determined never to let it fall into the enemy’s grasp whilst there was a breath still in his body.

  Then, when the eaves of the wood were within his swimming sight, the venom found his heart and the poison flowed swiftly in. That was when Mulligan cried out. It was too much to endure in gritted silence and his tortured voice flew high and shrill over the tree-tops to herald the rising dawn.

  Such was the savagery of the blistering, scalding pain that his convulsing spasms hurled him against the trunk of a stately cypress. The wound in his shoulder that the rats had inflicted upon him in Cornwall gushed with steaming blood and his shrieks cut through the cool airs.

  In his paw the green and golden device slipped from his loosening fingers. Then amidst his racking anguish, he heard a voice come hissing from the woods behind him.

  “No escape, Peg-leg!” it called. “Your office is over.”

  “Dahrem,” Mulligan gasped. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  Goaded by the threat of the evil, pursuing mouse. Mulligan seized hold of the fragment more firmly than ever and threw himself from the tree trunk and darted for the meadow.

  But the insidious, chilling voice grew louder in his ears as Dahrem came hunting, gaining upon his hobbling progress and hissing his hatred.

  “I can hear your sweet agonies, Peg-leg,” he cackled. “Do I not know that delicious sound too well? Thus did the bosun perish. Soon your eyes will boil, Peg-leg. Give up—the contest is ended. I and my beloved Lord have beaten you. The time of the Green’s insipid sovereignty is over! The darkness is falling, just as it now veils your stinging sight. Yield to the majesty of Sarpedon.”

  Another, bellowing scream issued from Mulligan’s throat, but this time his voice was cracked and gurgling, for the venom was filling his lungs.

  Behind him the adept of the Scale leapt from the pines and his swivelling, reptilian eyes scanned the meadow for his stumbling prey.

  A malevolent sneer distorted the pale grey mouse’s face as he beheld Mulligan’s tormented form struggling through the flowers. The fool was his now, his to toy with before the final piercing agonies snatched his unworthy and wasted life away. How amusing it would be to wrench the ninth fragment from him whilst he yet lived.

  “For him to go yammering to his doom knowing that his puny efforts have all been in vain,” Dahrem hooted. “Such sport must not be denied.” And with a whoop of malicious mirth he hared after his hapless victim.

  Even though it seemed as if the end had indeed come and his labours proved unavailing. Mulligan forced himself on. Choked from the rising, poisonous bile that frothed up his throat, the Irish mouse staggered towards the tangled shrubs that fenced the meadow. The breath rattled in his breast as he strove to gulp down the sweetly-perfumed air, but each gasp was shorter than the last and his dissolving lungs were almost utterly consumed.

  Before his streaming, rolling eyes the world was falling back into night and to him the sun’s glimmering rays were like the shadows of death. Then, as he went crashing through the last swathe of growth that separated him from the hedge and the shore, two blurred figures reared in front of him.

  At first Mulligan thought that they were more vile members of the heathen cult and he tried to barge past them but his good leg collapsed beneath him and within the wooden stump of the other the flesh liquefied and, like ink, his lifeblood welled up—spilling over the earth.

  Thomas and Woodget stared down at the awful apparition that had blundered into them and the fieldmouse yelped in fright and horror.

  Upon the ground, writhing in his unnumbered agonies. Mulligan yelled and squealed. In his paw he clasped something bright and gleaming but it was as if he was mortally afraid of his two friends and tried to ward them off with ghastly screeches and frail thrashes of his shrivelling arms.

  “Mulligan!” Woodget whined pitifully. “’Tis us—Tom and Woodget! What’s happened? What is it?”

  The Irish mouse screeched as the vile, foaming toxin flooded into his mouth and spurted from his nostrils, then as if the veil had been torn from his eyes, he saw a brief, clear vision of the two mice standing over him.

  Hope soared in Mulligan’s twitching heart and the ghost of a grin haunted his face as he reached up with his paw and pushed the loathsome treasure into Woodget’s astonished grasp.

  “T... Take it!” he commanded, through his final torments. “To... to Hara... to the... the city of the Holy One. Swear to me... swear!”

  Woodget stared down, tears welling up in his eyes. “I... I swears,” he stammered.

  A tremendous sigh galed from Mulligan’s lips. There was still a chance to cheat the unholy fiend and he bowed his head in gratitude.

  “My... my thanks,” he murmured.

  “What can we do to help?” Thomas asked, distressed by the horrific sight of the once solid seafarer whose quivering frame was dwindling before their eyes even as they watched.

  “Keep back!” Mulligan warned in a grotesque, poison-babbling gargle. “Don’t... don’t come near—the... the serpent has bitten. Beware my friends, beware... of him.”

  “Who’s done this to you?” Thomas cried angrily.

  With his last strength. Mulligan pointed a shaking finger back over the meadow, but before he could utter the name, the venom claimed him. Emitting a strangled gasp, he slumped into the grass like a salted slug, threads of oily smoke streamed from his ears and the slime-filled sockets that had once housed his eyes crumbled and caved into the decaying skull.

  So perished Mulligan, the last in his line and penultimate custodian of the ninth fragment. But in the end he had not been vanquished and the toil of his ancestors had not proven worthless, for the evil had at last been passed on and he died with a triumphant smile traced upon his flaking, rupturing lips.

  Appalled and aghast, Woodget wailed and threw his arm before his face to hide from the nightmarish scene, whilst at his side, Thomas stared dumbly down as the hideous, steaming corpse was completely destroyed by the virulent, devouring, black blood of Suruth Scarophion.

  “Save us!” he whispered.

  “Mister Mulligan!” the fieldmouse wept. “I don’t understand. Tom—what’s happenin’?”

  Backing away from the stinking pool of dark, oozing sludge of grizzled fur and glistening, black putrescence, Thomas shook his head wildl
y. “I don’t know!” he cried, his voice unnaturally high with terror. “I feel sick.”

  Dragging the back of his paw over his eyes, Woodget turned away then gazed at the thing the Irish mouse had entrusted to him.

  “Thomas,” he murmured in a hushed, awe-filled voice. “Look, this must be what he had in his bag all that time.”

  Rebelling against the mounting waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, Thomas gazed at the object in the fieldmouse’s paws and blinked in wonder.

  In Woodget’s fingers was a large piece of curved jade and, under the morning sun, the countless hues of rich swirling green that spiralled within its ravishing depths appeared to move and pulse with an inner light all their own.

  Yet, surmounting the splendour of the precious jade were carved bands and curling patterns wrought of the purest gold. In glittering fronds and sweeping arabesques, the gorgeous metal wove an intricate design that encased the livid mineral entirely—bordering the irregular edges of its peculiar, fragmented shape with cunning and skilful craftsmanship.

  “What do you reckon it is?” Woodget asked. “Some kind of bowl it looks like, but if so then one fit fer a king.”

  “It’d be a broken one,” Thomas observed. “It looks to me like a piece of something bigger. A vase maybe?”

  “You think Mulligan did steal it after all?” Woodget muttered, daring to gaze back at the horrendous, smoking remains of the Irish mouse.

  Before Thomas could answer, a cold, brutal voice resounded in their ears. Woodget dropped the treasure in surprise and they whirled around in astonishment. In all the confusion and despair surrounding Mulligan’s death they had forgotten about the figures emerging from the mist down on the shore behind them.

  “Take them!” the savage voice snapped. “Take them!”

  Over the sands the armed warriors had come, following the sound of Mulligan’s dying howls and now there they stood—towering over the frightened mice, with no expression in their eyes save icy condemnation and bitter enmity.

  Twice the height of Thomas stood the leader of these strange creatures. His sharp, pointed head was mostly hidden beneath an ornate helmet, fashioned in the shape of a snapping maw and decorated with the colourful plumage of exotic birds. But, under the shadow of this and above the mouthguard which protected his snout, his eyes glinted bleakly and as fiercely as the polished silver armour which covered his menacing bulk. Even his long, powerful tail was covered in sections of jointed, beaten metal, although tufts of brindled brown fur could be glimpsed poking through the narrow, flexing gaps.

  In his fist a tall, tassle-adorned spear was firmly gripped and he glared at Thomas and Woodget, snorting with disgust as though the very sight of them repelled him.

  Around him the other warriors were regarding the mice in a similar, detesting manner then, as if he could stand to look no more, the leader gave a curt signal and at once three of the great, snarling ogres rushed forward to seize them.

  “Be sure to bind their claws,” the tallest spat as he glowered down his barbed snout at the mice. “Then haul them onto the sands and hack off their treacherous heads!”

  Kicking and struggling, Thomas and Woodget felt their paws being tied roughly behind their backs and they were plucked from the ground and carried through the twisted shrubs onto the sandbank.

  “Stop!” Thomas cried, squirming for all he was worth. “Put us down!”

  “Listen to the maggot-folk cheep,” roared the one carrying Woodget.

  “They’ll not be wriggling for much longer,” rejoined another. “Chattan will set their heads up for all to see in this hateful place of death.”

  “Make the ending swift,” the leader barked, glancing across the meadow to the pine woods and beyond to where the now faint trails of smoke rose before the mountains. “There may be more of this detestable breed lying in ambush. Karim—wield your sword!”

  On to the sand the two mice were thrown and kicked until they rolled on their stomachs with their necks stretched out, ready for the execution.

  “Wait!” Thomas yelled.

  But it was no use, there came the ominous ring of metal as a gleaming, curved sword was drawn from its sheath and into the air it sliced—tracing a brilliant arc of white light before it came scything down upon their necks.

  10 - The Legacy of Mulligan

  “Hold!” the leader bellowed. “Stay your stroke Karim!”

  Above the two mice, the creature with the sword growled impatiently and waited for the order to complete the execution.

  But from the gnarled shrubs bounded the tallest of the armour-clad warriors and in his steel gauntlet he grasped the glittering fragment of gold and jade that Mulligan had given to Woodget.

  Nudging Thomas with the toe of his boot, he scrutinised his tail then turned his attention to Woodget and did the same to him.

  “Adepts can cleave the halves together at will,” Karim whispered.

  His leader ignored him and gave Thomas an annoyed kick.

  “Raise your eyes!” he commanded. “What have you to say of this? How came it into your possession?”

  The mouse turned and a green and gold radiance fell upon his face.

  “I don’t know what it is,” he said gruffly. “It was given to my friend here. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Given!” the leader roared sceptically. “Such horrors as this are not simply given away. Always they are dearly bought, now—answer me with the truth, or Karim’s blade shall drink of your worthless blood.”

  Thomas glared up at him. “You’re going to kill us anyway,” he said belligerently, “so that’s not much of a threat, is it? What I’ve told you is true, but if you’re too stupid to realise it then it’s your fault not mine!”

  The leader snarled and the other warriors murmured indignantly.

  “Permit me to kill the insolent whelp, Captain Chattan!” Karim demanded. “The tail of the beast may not be cloven but its unholy tongue is surely forked.”

  “Thomas ain’t lying!” Woodget piped up. “Mister Mulligan done gave that sparkler to me afore he died. We doesn’t know where he got it from, nor who it belongs to—that’s the Green honest truth.”

  Towering over them the leader sharply drew his breath, then crouched down to inspect the prisoners more closely.

  “What know you of this Mulligan?” he demanded. “Describe him to me.”

  Woodget’s fears seemed to be confirmed. Mulligan must have stolen the object from some fabulous palace and these fearsome soldiers were obviously in search of him.

  “He... he were an Irish mouse,” he began, “who liked a tot of rum now and then. Gettin’ on a bit he was, with tattoos down his arms.” Woodget’s description faltered as he recalled Mulligan’s final tortured moments and he fell into silence.

  “He had a wooden leg,” Thomas finished for him. “Look, if that thing belongs to you then take it and leave us alone. We don’t want it, all we want is to find a way back to our home—that’s all.”

  “This Mulligan,” the armoured creature asked. “He was a friend of yours?”

  Thomas glanced across at Woodget and wondered what he should say for the best, but it was the fieldmouse who answered and in a bitter, forceful voice.

  “Yes he were!” Woodget cried. “Mulligan was our friend, an’ if you don’t like it, Captain Chattan—then it’s just too bad!”

  A soft chortle issued from behind the mouthguard of the helmet.

  “I believe you,” the leader replied, but now his tone was gentler than before.

  Lifting his gauntleted paws, he carefully removed his plumed headgear and scratched his tiny ears.

  The captain’s head was small but it sat upon a thick and brawny neck that was covered in the same brindled brown fur that poked from the segmented armour which encased his tail. Down the length of his pointed muzzle however, and across the width of his eyes, was a patch of darker growth which gave him the startling appearance of someone wearing a mask. Yet the finely-shaped feat
ures of this warrior were genial and kind and a faint smile was traced upon his lips.

  In spite of his predicament, Woodget found himself liking that face. It was stern yet trustworthy and again he wondered what manner of creatures these soldiers were. To him they looked like a large breed of weasel, but he had never seen anyone quite like them before.

  Thomas however was still not certain, he was full of questions and impatient for answers.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you treating us like this?”

  Chattan’s eyes fixed upon him for an instant. “We are the enemy of he who was vanquished in the first pages of history,” he told him, “and are sworn to destroy all who still worship that base and faithless father of despair.”

  Turning to his troops, he nodded and said, “Remove their bonds, I do not think we have anything to fear from these two. My judgement tells me that here are no members of the evil brood.”

  In a moment the ropes that tied the mice’s paws were cut and they sat upon the sand, rubbing their aching wrists.

  “Thank ’ee,” Woodget said.

  “My fingers are numb,” Thomas muttered ruefully. “Your folk weren’t too gentle with the knots.”

  “They had excellent reason,” came the sharp reply. “For it is well known that the Scale dip their claws in venom.”

  Woodget’s thoughts returned to Mulligan once more and he hung his head sorrowfully. “What do this poison do?” he ventured meekly. “Do it eat at you and turn your blood black and foaming?”

  The leader’s face darkened. “How do you know of this?” he asked.

  “That’s what happened to Mulligan,” Thomas answered with a shiver. “But he said he’d been bitten by a serpent. He shrivelled right in front of us. It was horrible! Poor Mulligan—I... I can’t...”

  “Then alas, I see that he is indeed slain,” the leader lamented. “This is evil tidings. He was a most valiant and praiseworthy hero of your kind.”

  The mice stared at him. “I thought you was hunting him!” Woodget declared in astonishment.