by Robin Jarvis
There, slumped across the mess table, fallen from stools or slouched against the walls, were over a dozen mongoose sentries and to his anger, each one was fast asleep.
In nearly every paw there was a drained goblet and upon the flagged floor were pools of spilt wine. Chattan ground his teeth together furiously—the guards were drunk.
Wrathfully he strode up to the table and slammed his fist down upon the board. With a shudder, a goblet leaped into the air, losing what was left of the wine it contained and, though the heads of the snoring mongooses jarred and jolted under the violence of the captain’s blow, not one of them stirred.
“Get up!” he bawled, cuffing the closest to him about the ears. “How dare you leave your posts! Up I say!”
The inebriated sentry did not move and, in a rage, Chattan kicked the stool from under him and the mongoose dropped heedlessly to the floor, his chin striking the ground with a horrible crack.
Yet still he was not roused and Chattan’s outrage turned icy cold as a dreadful suspicion formed in his mind.
With growing unease, he snatched up one of the goblets and sniffed it warily. Masked by the rich fruity scent it was impossible to tell, but his instincts told him that this was no ordinary intoxication which had overwhelmed the guards.
“How many others have supped this way tonight?” he asked aloud, staring accusingly at the drinking vessel as though it might answer. “How many other guardrooms bounding the city contain this same terrible scene? Are there no patrols outside our borders—are they lying drugged also?”
Frantically, he hurled the goblet to the floor and rushed to the spiralling steps that ascended to the lookout turret. Yet all the while his misgivings grew and he feared that the worst nightmare of all the folk who dwelt in Hara had at last become a reality.
Breathless, he lunged through the trapdoor which led to the high platform at the top of the tower and, with blinding spikes of lightning erupting in the troubled heavens all around him, flew to the western side which overlooked the wide, orchard-filled gulf between the outer defence and the inner boundary.
All was lost in the obscuring torrent of rain that lashed from above, but with every livid, electric flash, the horrific scene was finally burned in upon his senses.
Where the outer wall curved around, towards the crescent-shaped harbour, he beheld a great, golden ship come sailing under the stone archway.
About its hideously-shaped prow, the threads of storm which had survived the tangled passage of the overgrown river still rampaged, and bolts of energy went hissing into the water.
“Kaliya,” Chattan croaked in horror, “the ship of the Scale has come. It has passed the iron gateway—what treachery is this?”
A horde of ugly, yammering creatures filled the slave-worked vessel’s upper deck, and they jeered at the top of their raucous voices, brandishing bright swords, flaming torches and curved scimitars in the air—thirsty for blood and slaughter. But behind the ghastly figurehead, standing silent and sinister as he looked up at the reviled city which rose before them, was the cloaked figure of Gorscarrigern’s pitiless high priest.
Long had he waited for this moment and, closing his bright yellow eyes, he breathed deeply to savour the unholy rapture that consumed his sable soul.
At last the impregnable refuge of the vainglorious Green was about to fall and he let loose a shrill cackle of evil, gloating laughter.
High in the sentry tower, immovable as the marble sculptures which crowded the inner walls, all Captain Chattan could do was look on in despair.
Into the harbour the Kaliya came and the water boiled and steamed with her passing. At first Chattan thought that was merely because of the lightning which snaked about her glittering hull, but then he saw that dark shapes were swimming alongside and toiling in her putrid wake.
Under the stone arch poured a thousand disciples of the Dark Despoiler, with knives and daggers clenched in their teeth, and flanking them, churning their wriggling bodies through the frothing tumult was a seething mass of cobras, pythons and sea snakes—all under the high priest’s command.
Then, bringing up the rear, drifting like fallen, ulcerous trees, came fifty monstrous shapes whose bulging eyes barely skimmed the surface of the water. Into Gorscarrigern’s service the high priest had seduced the crocodiles of the Periyar River and their mighty tails pounded against the stonework of the archway as they streamed through the Haran outer defences.
For several minutes, the captain watched them, too aghast and stunned to move. Past the white fleet of the city the loathsome Kaliya sailed, ploughing straight through the small barges and straw-canopied river craft which were moored in her way until finally she reached the quay—coming to a juddering stop alongside the Chandi.
At that instant, the horror that had rooted Captain Chattan and frozen his limbs, suddenly thawed and he knew what had to be done. There was still a chance. If his folk could be roused then the inner walls might yet be defended.
Leaping to the turret’s central pillar he wrenched a silver tipped horn from its hook and, running to the eastern window which looked out onto the city, blew three piercing blasts upon it.
Gulping down the tempest’s pummelling air he put the instrument to his lips a second time and again the blaring notes trumpeted across the roof tops.
Then his thoughts flew to the main entrance. In their endeavour to break in, the Scale would launch their first attack upon those two great doors and his mind reeled as he tried to calculate how long they could withstand the battering fury before they were splintered and torn from their hinges.
Looking south he strove to see what was happening, but the entrance was hidden behind the huddled roofs, so, sounding the horn three times more, he leaped for the stairs and fled down them.
Through the guard room where the sentries still slept soundly, unaware of the peril that assailed the city, he hurtled. Then out into the pelting rain, noticing with scant satisfaction that several more lanterns had been lit in the surrounding windows, and in a fierce, shrieking voice he cried a further alarm.
“The Scale are here! The Scale are here! Awake folk of Hara! The hour we have long dreaded is upon us! We must fight!”
As he sped down the spouting, flooded streets those who had not partaken of the wine that night came scurrying out, with spears and bows in their trembling paws and frantically they charged after him to defend their city.
Startled and afraid, Thomas and Woodget had heard the horn blasting over the city and, peering from their window, had seen the captain go racing by in the street below.
Fearfully they scampered down the stairs and hurried outside, where they were quickly joined by the mongoose’s sister and, with a wicked sneer threatening to erupt onto his face at any moment—Dahrem.
The adept of Scarophion had remained awake throughout the night, listening to the approach of his hellish brotherhood and relishing every dark moment. Now he was eager to look on the slaughter that would ensue, but another more appealing thought loomed large in his malignant mind and so he determined to remain as Dimlon a little while longer.
“What’s happening?” Thomas cried to a nervous looking musk shrew that went puffing by with a quiver of arrows in one paw and a bow in the other.
“The enemy have come!” came the urgent, squeaking reply. “Nearly all our great warriors are drugged; only a handful and we smaller ones are left to defend the walls. Arm yourselves—come aid us.”
Thomas stared at Woodget then looked back at Sobhan.
“Are there any weapons in this house?” he asked grimly.
The mongoose maiden made no reply but raced indoors and returned, bearing a long knife for each of them and a sword of her own.
“Bless us!” Woodget whimpered, gripping the knife in his little paw and staring at the glinting blade.
“Stay by me, Woodj,” Thomas told him. “I’ll make sure those devils don’t get you.”
Into the streets they ran, joining the throng of frightened mic
e, shrews, marmots, voles and palm squirrels that rushed after Chattan.
Down toward the main entrance, the captain raced; already he could hear a squawking clamour of evil voices as the nightmarish host of Gorscarrigern leapt ashore and surged up the steps behind the fearsome menace of their High Priest.
With his heart hammering upon his ribs, the mongoose heard a thin, hideous cry cut through the thundering storm and the great doors reverberated with a thousand blows before an ominous silence fell that was followed by a single, horrible, shivering crash as a battering ram smashed against its silver-studded timbers.
It was not far now, Chattan thought, leaping through the deluged streets—around the next bend the gurgling thoroughfare dipped sharply and he would see the main entrance rise in the sloping distance.
With his saturated cloak flapping madly behind him and his sword in his fist, he hared around the corner—but the sight which met his eyes caused his bounding stride to falter and he slithered to a standstill.
A long, agonizing time it had taken him, and the journey had been slow and painful. Every brittle joint complained and pronounced its grinding protest but finally he was here.
Soaked to the mottled skin, leaning upon a short staff, his fine wispy beard hanging like dripping, bedraggled threads and his long, scrawny legs bowed almost as much as his back—was the Holy One.
Many years ago, he had resolved to do the deed which now lay before him and nothing, save a blade in the breast, could have stopped him now.
As Chattan and those who flowed into the street behind him watched, the ancient loris shuffled through the rushing flood-water, right up to the huge double doors.
“This cannot be,” Chattan breathed, staring at the scene, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing. Into his unblinking eyes drove the stinging rain but still he could not wrench his gaze from the awful, deranged spectacle and all around him the stricken crowd whispered in fear.
“What’s he doing?” Thomas muttered. “I don’t understand.”
Behind him Sobhan’s grip tightened on the hilt of her sword. “He is betraying us all,” she said bitterly.
Around her the other folk had also guessed what the Holy One intended, yet no one wanted to believe it.
The colossal doors of the city were barred by three stout and sturdy beams, but the manner of their release had been conceived by the same minds who constructed the iron barrier which spanned the river. Thus each of those mighty shafts could be drawn by the pulling of a single lever, positioned in the stone to the right of the entrance—and it was to this mechanism that the Holy One now shambled.
“NO!” Chattan yelled and he plunged down the stepped street with his sword raised, ready to strike down the aged sadhu if he had to.
But it was no use. He had not travelled half the distance when the wizened loris took hold of the operating lever in both bony paws and, summoning the last reserves of his withered strength, threw it down.
Iron wheels turned and the ages-old apparatus began to clank inside its stone housing.
With a blank expression upon his rain-stung face, the Holy One picked his way to a point directly behind the sweep of the doors and waited—waited—watching as the first of the massive beams were drawn across the timbers and slid into the gargantuan wall.
“He is in league with the Scale,” Chattan murmured wretchedly. “Our sadhu has surrendered us to the enemy!”
It was too late now to attempt to reach the entrance and reverse the mechanism, already the second beam had rumbled free of the doors and in a moment the third would follow.
Chattan thought wildly and strove to quell his panic. All that was left to them was battle, but of that he held little hope. Behind him the assembled city folk had crammed into the winding street like so many tightly squeezed sheep and he knew that if something was not done, then their foes would find them easy prey. They had wedged themselves into a confining space which would take precious time to clear and the captain’s dismay came close to mastering him.
But if they were to die then it would be as warriors and in a mad, screeching voice, he bawled.
“Make way there! Disperse the ranks. Take up your arms! We must stand and fight—this night shall decide all our fates. Into the jaws of death we are staring but let us not waver or show the hated foe any sign of fear.”
The faces that looked to him, however, were truly frightened. But there in the crowd, the captain saw a chubby, red-bearded countenance that was flushed with anger and he cried aloud in rejoicing.
“Karim!” the mongoose called. “A thousand blessings upon you! My heart soars to see that you did not drink of the wine this night.”
Through the crowd the lieutenant came, arrayed in his gleaming armour, wielding his spear and his sword and a defiant, deadly fire blazed in his eyes.
“Captain!” he bellowed. “My blade is yours to command. Many of the heathen filth shall fall before I do.”
Even as he said it, the third shaft was clear of the doors and with a dreadful creak they swung open.
All eyes were trained on the ever-widening space that lay between them, many small voices wailed with terror and knives went clattering to the ground as the horrific legions of the enemy were gradually revealed.
With torches held above their heads, the flames spitting in the rain, thousands of red-rimmed eyes were shining in amazement at the opening doors, fearing some unexpected trick. Poised outside the entrance, blinking suspiciously and licking their fangs, the assembled forces of the Scale were an abhorrent, petrifying sight.
Standing in an avenue of dagger-wielding creatures, a hundred great rats held a huge battering ram in their claws but their dribbling jaws lolled open at the sudden unbarring of the entrance and they stared upwards and about them for any hidden traps.
Behind them the first of the crocodiles had already clambered from the harbour and were glaring into the city, and all around their repulsive, scaly feet twisted a knot of venomous snakes whose reared heads were swaying from side to side as their tongues flicked in and out of their mouths to taste the unfamiliar airs.
But standing before the entire host of this pagan, murderous rabble, with a hood overshadowing his face, stood a figure of infinite menace and eventually all eyes, those of Hara and those of Scarophion’s followers, were drawn to look on him.
Hissing in the shade of his cowl, as the lightning blasted overhead, the High Priest peered across the threshold and looked on the frail form of the Holy One who stood there—shivering from the great age of his bones rather than from fear.
For over a minute the two sides, good and evil, regarded one another and not a voice uttered a word. Only the thunder and the noise of the teeming rain disturbed the silence. It was a balancing moment of fate—a destiny that had long been awaited by both forces, and the march of advancing doom was felt by everyone present.
Then, with an arrogant swagger, the High Priest strode forward until he was standing in front of the Holy One and the unnatural calm was shattered as his shrill voice mocked the ancient sadhu.
“Witless ape!” he shouted with a hissing scorn. “Your line has ended and the time of your false, grubbing deity is over. Death has found you out at last—you and the rest of your squalid rout who infest these dirty, middenish hovels!”
With that he raised his claws from the folds of his cloak and all saw that upon them he wore two golden talons.
“The Lord Suruth Scarophion is the one true god—may every unpledged mind tremble at his worshipful name!”
Screeching with hideous laughter he lashed out, but the loris did not flinch and when the poisoned blades ripped through his throat it was exposed and ready for them.
Like a rag doll, the Holy One crumpled to the floor but with his last breath he gave thanks and then perished—his blood mingling with the seething rain-water.
Crowing in ghastly delight the High Priest sprang aside and leapt onto the base of a nearby statue then, with a high-pitched yell, gave the order to attac
k.
At once the demonic army came charging through the entrance, whooping and screaming bloodthirsty oaths.
But before them, at the summit of the stepped thoroughfare, Captain Chattan had not been idle. Quickly he had made his plans and, whilst the High Priest was cackling with foul glee, he barked instructions to Karim.
At once the lieutenant led a division of spearbearing voles and the handful of other mongooses down an adjoining alleyway. Swiftly they hurried along, for the path wound around a block of two-storied buildings, emerging once more halfway down the sloping street, where they lay in ambush ready for the marauding devotees of the Serpent to go stampeding by.
Then Chattan ordered a detachment of squirrel archers to climb onto the balconies above and shoot at the enemy from there. The rest of his host he told to stand firm and beware the blades of their foes.
Yet that was all he had time to say, for the enemy was already upon them.
Up the stepped street the invading disciples of the Coiled One surged, slashing the lightning-rent night with their scimitars and shrieking with savage voices.
Into their berserking midst a hail of arrows fell from the bows of the palm squirrels who began leaping from balcony to balcony to evade the barrage of missiles and poisonous darts which immediately ensued. In the street below, ten of the fork-tailed devotees were slain, with feathered shafts buried deep in their necks and over the fallen bodies of their dead confederates the infernal horde rampaged—trampling and crushing the corpses under their relentless, screaming advance.
As a thickly-flowing tide of claw and cutlass, the hideous creatures came rioting up the thoroughfare and crashed viciously upon the city’s defenders.
Into the soft flesh of tree shrews their poisoned knives swiftly sank; arms were hacked from shoulders and faces raked with venom.
Yet Chattan was at the forefront of the assault and his slashing sword wove a barrier of steel that none could pass.
Before his bloodied blade seven great rats had already fallen, but more came leaping to take their place and their scimitars rang against the mongoose’s sword, chiming and clashing with powerful strokes—the razoring edges barely missing his face.