by Robin Jarvis
The loris’ voice trailed off and he closed his eyes as a bitter tear trickled down his wrinkled face and disappeared into the fine whiskers of his beard.
“Fikal Khatmal lies slain,” he uttered hoarsely. “Even now his corpse is withering as the black blood of Gorscarrigern devours it. As I speak, Dahrem is operating the mechanism which raises the barrier from the river, leaving the harbour open to attack. This night the forces of the Scale will storm through the outer defences and assail the inner wall and find it undefended. I have given orders that the sentries should keep a vigil elsewhere. They do not question the wisdom of their sadhu, never has it proven false—not until now.”
The rat sucked his teeth and grunted. “If I’d known that grey mouse was an agent of Sarpedon,” he said, “I would have let him get to Mulligan sooner.”
“It would have changed nothing,” the loris answered, “except perhaps those two merry friends from a distant land might have been spared this horror, but the plundering of Hara was inevitable.”
“Be a proper night of slaughter,” the rat stated coldly.
“I know it,” the Holy One whispered with dread. “Help me to the steps, there is one final task I must complete. No, say nothing, the deed is mine to accomplish, this I determined from the beginning. Earlier this night I told Chattan that I might outlive him—that is a prediction I shall take great pleasure in disproving. I have betrayed my sacred trust and therefore go to my death gladly. My final act is to be one of ultimate treachery, and so the sooner I embrace death the better. Now, come!”
Reaching out his spindly paws, the ancient loris clasped the other’s strong arms and Jophet, the rat, helped him to the doorway.
Woodget stirred in his sleep then found himself wide awake and sitting up in a darkened room.
At first the unfamiliar surroundings confused him but, as he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, he heard the reassuring snores of Thomas rising from the other side of the bedchamber and he quickly recalled all that had happened since the audience with the Holy One.
On their return down the thousand steps, the mice and Chattan had discovered Dahrem waiting for them and, in the gabbling guise of Dimlon, he quizzed them on all that had taken place.
Passing back into the city streets the mongoose had offered them the hospitality of his home and they accepted gladly. The Giri household was a two-storied, lime-washed building with flowers spilling from the balconies and there they were greeted and made most welcome by a pretty mongoose maiden whom they learned was the captain’s sister.
After a bite of supper they mulled over all that had occurred, but it was not long before Woodget began to nod and so the guests were shown to their rooms.
Now the fieldmouse wondered what had awoken him, but he suspected that Thomas must have given an extra loud, piggish snore and he hoped he would remember it in the morning so that he could tease him.
It was a warm night, but Woodget snuggled back under the sheet and plumped up the pillow as he tried to get comfortable again and return to sleep.
After several restless minutes, to his annoyance, he was still wide awake and sitting up again, he hugged his knees.
“Must be all the excitement,” he murmured, careful not to disturb Thomas. “P’raps my poor noggin can’t quite believe that it really is over and soon I can head back home. Well, Woodget lad, you’ve seen a tidy bit more of this ’ere world than you ever thought was likely. Still, you’ll be a lot happier with one of your mum’s hot dinners inside you and a certain pretty paw a-holding yours.”
The fieldmouse twitched his whiskers; it was no use trying to get to sleep. His head was too stuffed with thoughts and he tutted in vexation.
“Maybe a little stroll and a breath or three of air will bring on the drowse,” he decided, and so he slid from the sheets and padded noiselessly over to the door.
Past the room where Dimlon was apparently sound asleep he pattered, then down the stairs and in a moment had slipped out of the house.
The night was still and strangely silent. No jungle noises were carried upon the slight breeze and the deserted city streets were engulfed in shadow. All the buildings were dark and blind. No cheery glow shone from the picturesque houses, all the windows were shuttered—their occupants deep in slumber and even the twinkling glass lamps which were strung overhead had burned themselves out.
Yet over all, the baleful light that shone out from the jewel, high upon the mountain, cast a ghastly sheen and Woodget’s meandering steps instinctively led him away from that reminder of his recent burden.
Down a narrow alley he wandered, keeping track of the way he had come so that he would not forget and spend the rest of the night lost in some remote quarter of this sprawling city.
His pace was slow, for he was not anxious to explore; the excursion was merely an effort to induce sleep, so he was able to study the buildings around him in detail and appreciate the skill of the folk who had built them.
It was undoubtedly the most beautiful and harmonious place in all the world and he felt content that he was soon to return home, for nowhere else could ever compare or match the wondrous city of Hara.
Just when he thought it was time to start retracing his steps, the sweet sound of running water came to his large ears and he determined to press a little further to discover its source.
Beneath an archway festooned with flowers he went and, to his delight, found himself standing in a charming, high-walled garden with a silver fountain in its centre—surrounded by trees that bore all manner of different fruits and from which dangled delicate wind chimes that jingled faintly in the breeze.
For some reason the ghastly pallor of the eighth fragment did not invade this pleasant area and over everything that grew there, the vines which covered the walls, the deliciously scented blooms, the heavily-laden trees, even the lichen that sprouted between the paving stones, shone the bright, milky radiance of the moon.
Stepping between the fruit trees, Woodget gazed at the water that flowed from the fountain. It was sparkling with frosty stars, catching and reflecting the moonlight and dappling the garden with soft, argent ripples.
Enchanted, and realizing that he was thirsty, the fieldmouse walked through the lush, daisy-speckled grass and cupped his paws, noticing as he bowed his head to drink that the fountain was fashioned into the shape of a horn of plenty.
The water was icy to the touch and he drew his breath sharply, yet when it passed his lips Woodget felt a marvellous peace and contentment flood through his being and he wiped his mouth, chuckling unaccountably.
“You are far from your field, little master.”
Woodget jumped and peered around him to see who had spoken.
The voice was rich and softly spoken, and though he was not afraid in that fair garden, the fieldmouse was perturbed that he was unable to find anyone nearby.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Do you not know me?” came the silken reply and there was a quality in that voice that reached deep inside Woodget’s soul and instilled a sublime feeling of awe.
“Few have ever found their way to my garden,” the voice continued, “and fewer still have quenched their thirst at the fountain.”
Woodget glanced into the dim shadows behind the trees. “What you be hiding fer?” he called.
“On such a night as this even the greatest may hide and not be ashamed,” came the response. “For in the dark before the dawn, terrible deeds shall be committed and there is naught I can do to prevent them. My pity reaches out to the folk of this city and yet how can that avail them?”
“What does you mean?” Woodget asked, straining his eyes towards the farthest corner where he thought the owner of the voice was lurking. “What be going to happen?”
Around him, the leaves of the trees rustled upon the branches, the fruit quivered on the bough and the wind chimes jangled in discord.
“Much that I do already lament,” the velvet voice said forlornly. “The path of life is strewn with
many perils and the folly of knowledge is one of the greatest dangers. Wisdom is a treacherous weapon, little master, for it is sundered from compassion. All too often the end of the journey gains more import than it should and the wise become blind to the road and the method of their passing.
“Thus it is here, and I mourn the act which will be done in my name. Remember this, you wanderer who have drunk at my fountain; it is the journey itself that matters and how you fare upon the road. If you falter and cannot gain the end of the path it is no failure. I am watching, I gather all unto me—whether they stumble or no.”
Woodget scratched his head. “Well I does want to get to the end of my journey,” he said, “’Ain’t nowt more important to me—I doesn’t know what you be blatherin’ on about and I doesn’t want to know neither.”
“Then perhaps there is hope for this land yet,” returned the voice and Woodget fancied that its sorrow was now tinged with gratitude.
“Well I can’t be stayin’ here for what’s left of the night, gabbin’ to someone who I can’t even see,” he declared. “Goodnight, whoever you is.”
“Till the next time we meet, little master.”
Shrugging, Woodget gave a cursory wave, stepped through the trees once more and passed under the flower-covered archway.
Behind him, within the deep shadows that lay beneath the rambling vine, a pair of gleaming, green eyes shimmered between the leaves and the garden suddenly burst into blossom, before fading into nothingness—returning to an empty, neglected courtyard where the faint jingling of wind chimes hung briefly upon the air before that too disappeared.
About the city the darkness deepened as storm clouds rolled across the stars and, from the depths of the jungle, there began the solemn beating of many drums.
13 - The Betrayal of Hara
Returning through the empty streets, Woodget plodded, his small shape dwarfed by the tall, sculpture-encrusted buildings which hemmed in the cramped, slanting ways. It was all so grand and marvellous but he doubted if he would ever learn who the figures that clustered around the doorways and upheld the balconies represented. Despite his travels and adventures he still felt lamentably rustic and untutored and, as he continued to wend his solitary way, a terrible sense of loneliness and insignificance overcame him.
Now the adventures were over and soon he would be returning home to startle and amaze Bess with his incredible tales. But he reflected that, in the years to come, these terrible events would fade into the past and be only a dim memory of his reckless youth which perhaps in time even he would begin to doubt as his mind became fuddled with age.
“Least I been a part of summat exciting and important,” he told himself. “Though I don’t s’pose I’ll ever know what’ll happen in the end. Not unless the enemy wins o’ course, then we’ll all find out right enough.”
In the ghostly light that beat from the jewel in the mountain, his russet-coloured fur was ashen grey but soon the shadows began to deepen as the moon was hidden behind the rolling clouds. Then Woodget’s sharp ears heard the distant, rhythmic pounding of drums and he wondered what they could mean.
To him the unceasing beat sounded unpleasant and even threatening, but perhaps such noises were commonplace here in this strange land. All the same, the desire to return to the Giri household became uppermost in his thoughts and he consciously quickened his pace.
Overhead, the dense clouds continued to drift and gather—blotting out the stars and circling about the craggy peak of the mountain.
“A nasty old storm’s a-brewing,” the fieldmouse muttered to himself and he considered that the relentless drumbeat might be a warning, telling everyone to beware the approaching severe weather.
Then the first rumbling of thunder boomed out over the jungle and beyond the city walls the horizon flared white with a crackle of lightning.
Woodget hastened down the sloping paths that led to Chattan’s dwelling and another flash exploded in the thick clouds above. For a blinding instant the city flickered beneath the harsh glare and the darkened streets were flooded with a shivering light.
At once the fieldmouse stumbled to a halt and he stared ahead in disbelief.
For an instant, revealed under the jagged lightning, he thought he had seen the frail and shambling figure of the Holy One hobbling slowly down the stepped street which led to the great doors of Hara’s inner defences. Then just as quickly the scene was engulfed in shadow and the fieldmouse tutted at his own credulous senses.
“You be a-dreamin’, Pipple,” he mumbled, “’twere only the lightning a-playing tricks. What would the likes of he be a-doing out tonight? You’d best get in afore the downpour starts.”
Hurriedly, he darted aside and found at last the home of Chattan and his sister. Pushing open the door, he silently crept inside and gingerly climbed the stairs.
A minute later, Woodget entered the room given to him and Thomas and, after fumbling around in the gloom then stubbing his toe on one of the bedposts, slipped back into bed.
“Where’ve you been?” asked a sleepy voice from the other cot.
“Only out for a walk and some fresh air,” the fieldmouse replied. “Did I wake ’ee Tom?”
“Probably,” his friend grumbled, “but I don’t mind, I was having horrible dreams. I thought we were back on the Calliope again—right in the middle of the storm.”
At that moment another dazzling bolt of lightning blistered from the skies and through the fenestrated shutters which covered the window there stabbed countless brilliant rays that punched into the room like shooting spears of intense white flame.
“Good grief!” Thomas exclaimed loudly, his face momentarily caught in silhouette before the darkness sprang back.
A second later there came the sound of heavy raindrops clattering on the roof slates as the deluge fell from the heavy clouds—followed by a tremendous clap of thunder.
Outside the bedchamber, across the landing, they heard footsteps, followed by a gentle knocking upon their door.
“Is all well with you my friends?” Chattan’s voice asked. “I heard you cry out.”
Woodget giggled. “That were just Tom being scared of the storm,” he answered.
“There is nothing to fear,” the captain’s calming voice told them. “Often the weather changes without warning. It will swiftly pass.”
“I was not scared!” Thomas hissed but Woodget was not listening.
“Well I done heard a warning,” he chirped. “I done heard them drums a-beating out yonder in the forest.”
At that, the door opened and Captain Chattan entered the mice’s room with a lighted candle in his paw which he lifted until its gentle beams played over the fieldmouse’s face.
“Drums?” he asked, a slight frown puckering the dark mask of fur around his eyes. “What do you speak of?”
“Afore, when I went out for a stroll,” Woodget answered, not liking the anxious tone that now rang in the captain’s voice, “there were a beatin’ an’ a bangin’ of drums.”
In the glimmering candle glow, Chattan’s face clouded with concern—his eyes now almost completely hidden beneath the deep scowl which furrowed his brow.
“You ought to have awoken me at once,” he said crossly. “Let us pray no evil will come of this. It may yet prove to be nothing and you were mistaken, but now my heart is uneasy and I must go seek out the sentries on watch to hear their tidings.”
“I’ll come with you,” Thomas suggested.
“And me,” added Woodget, feeling horribly guilty as if he had failed the trust the captain had placed in him.
The mongoose stared at them a moment then shook his head and bid them to remain.
“If there were indeed such drums as you claim,” he told the fieldmouse, seeing the nervous, anxious look on his little face and trying to reassure him, “then the guards would most certainly have sounded the trumpets to alert the city. “No, most likely it will prove to be no more than the beginnings of the storm which you heard. I will not be
gone long and I would rather you were here in case the thunder awakens your friend Dimlon and my sister.”
With a nod to each of them, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
“Tom,” Woodget whimpered unhappily. “I knowed what thunder sounds like and what I heard weren’t that. Them were drums out there in the jungle—I be certain of it.”
Thomas clambered from his bed and opened the shutters, ignoring the rain that splashed into the room and fell onto the back of his head as he gazed down into the street.
“I hope you’re wrong Woodj,” he murmured. “For all our sakes.”
Girding a sword about his waist, Captain Chattan descended the stairs. There was no time to struggle back into his armour, so he simply wrapped a light blue cloak around his shoulders to ward off the worst of the rain, then out into the city he went.
The stepped streets were already flowing like mountain streams as the rain rapidly gushed down them and, glancing around him, the mongoose saw that here and there, in the surrounding buildings, lights began to glimmer in the windows as the thunder continued to crash overhead.
Turning left and cutting westward across the city, he ran—heading straight for the inner boundary wall and the nearest sentry tower.
Like a pale phantom, driven by the ravaging squall, his cloaked figure darted—the ankle-deep rainwater splashing wildly around him as he charged through the narrow, rushing rivers that the streets had become.
Then he saw it, the inner wall, carved with the images of countless exotic creatures and, rising high into the turbulent night, a round tower covered with a foliate pattern skilfully chiselled from stone and painted a warm orange, delineated with broad white lines.
Squinting up into the battering rain, he gazed at the high, covered ramparts, straining to see the sentries—but upon the silver-roofed platform at the topmost turret, not a soul was stirring.
With the thunder blasting in his ears, Chattan barged through the entrance at the base of the tower and glared around the guard room.