The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he saw that as yet, the thousand steps were clear and he turned to Thomas who came splashing after him.

  “It is better than I hoped,” he said. “We have put a good distance between ourselves and the Scale. If we can but keep the pieces from their possession a little longer, the next conjunction will pass harmlessly.”

  “I don’t fancy turning into another Mulligan,” Thomas muttered despondently. “Flitting across the globe, lugging those evil things in tow.”

  “Perhaps it will not come to that,” Chattan told him. “Unless all of the sadhu’s words were false.”

  Thomas looked at him quizzically but then, cutting through the air above them, there screeched a horrendous, terrified squeal.

  “WOODGET!” the mouse cried, spinning around and charging back through the cavern. “What’s happening up there?”

  As the fieldmouse’s screams floated out into the night, Captain Chattan brandished his sword, but before he followed Thomas, he saw that far below, dark shapes were racing towards the bottom of the thousand steps.

  The Adept of Sarpedon

  Up to the Holy One’s chamber, Woodget had led Dahrem. Then through that bare room they had hurried, pulling aside the tapestry curtain and climbing the flight of stairs beyond where they discovered, to the fieldmouse’s relief, that the wooden door was unlocked.

  Into the livid green glare he scampered, over to where his bag lay propped against the curving wall.

  “Here be the piece old Mulligan kept,” Woodget declared, peeping inside to check it was still there. “I’ll take this, you get the other one, Dimmy.”

  As one in a beautiful dream, Dahrem stole into the domed, bronze-plated chamber, his pale grey fur steeped in the ravishing glow which beat out from the eighth fragment in its centre.

  Bathed in the cold gleam, flickering starkly as the lightning continued to crackle about the mountain, its flashes blazing through the large oval stone set into the far wall, he crept forward—entranced.

  Dahrem’s outstretched paws quivered with emotion as he beheld the gorgeous spectacle of the wondrous treasure. Here at last was the culmination of his yearning desire—the fulfilment of every, fantastical wish and his eyes sparkled greedily.

  To the middle of the chamber he went, crossing to the circular pool and reaching over to the silver dish that stood upon the crystal plinth.

  From the days of his infant youth, ever since he had been dedicated into his master’s profane service and his tail mutilated upon the altar, Dahrem had tried to imagine what it would be like if Sarpedon were ever truly to return. To that glorious end, every zealous member of the cult had toiled over a thousand generations but he suddenly realised that he had never quite believed it would happen, or that he would live to see it if it did. Now his lord’s rebirth depended solely upon him and his eyes grew moist at the awesome prospect.

  Wrung with emotion, he gazed on the splendour of the eighth fragment which the early inhabitants of this accursed city had stolen and carried back here in triumph.

  Although for many years the Scale had managed to reclaim most of the divided pieces, only the high priests and priestesses had been permitted to look on them and Dahrem often lusted to steal into their private sanctum to gaze on the mysterious fragments.

  Now, to his adoring eyes the cunning work of his beloved, dark sovereign was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Even the great, golden image which dominated the Black Temple was nothing compared to the exquisite, spellbinding skill that had gone into the making of this. The intricacy of the scrolling gold was bewitching and the lurid light that pulsed from the jade instilled him with pride and an avenging passion to destroy all who opposed Sarpedon the Mighty.

  Holding his breath, Dahrem opened his twitching fingers and the moment he had longed for throughout his wicked life took place.

  About the twisting lattice of gold he closed his paws and the touch of the cold metal tingled through his palms, invigorating and exhilarating his corrupt soul—inspiring him to fresh acts of violence and despair.

  Reverently, the pale grey mouse lifted the eighth fragment from the dish and, closing his eyes with pleasure, hugged it to his breast.

  “Hurry up, Dimmy,” Woodget’s voice intruded upon his black bliss. “We bain’t got time for you to dilly-dally.”

  Dahrem wheeled around and the faintest glimmer of gold gleamed in his heavily lidded eyes.

  “Stay a moment,” he uttered huskily. “Dimmy must put this in his satchel. He’ll be quick, you’ll see—you won’t be kept waiting long. I promise.”

  The fieldmouse grudgingly consented as Dahrem began unbuckling the flap of his satchel and, worrying over what might be happening outside, Woodget scuttled to the great oval stone set into the bronze and pressed his little face against its glassy surface.

  Behind him, Dahrem reached inside the bag and carefully fitted two curved, glittering blades onto his fingers.

  “Nearly ready,” he said with a hiss. “Dimmy’s just about done now.”

  Oblivious to the adept’s actions and innocently unaware of his murderous intent, Woodget was busily squinting through the translucent stone and down upon the huddled rooftops far below.

  Behind him, Dahrem took a prowling step closer, his eyes fixed upon the leather bag gripped in the fieldmouse’s paws, and where the baleful glow glinted in the razor sharp talons they cast bleak slivers of light across those small vulnerable shoulders.

  “You finished?” Woodget called.

  “Oh yes,” came the sibilant reply, “the time to end many things has come.”

  Woodget turned around but his first, unsuspecting thought was that Dimlon had not put the fragment in the satchel after all, for its ghastly light was still glowing in the chamber and he scowled at the simple mouse’s silliness.

  “What be you a-playin’ at?” he began. “There bain’t...”

  The fieldmouse’s voice died on his lips as he saw the glittering knives and his face was a portrait of blank incomprehension.

  Dahrem was almost unrecognisable. Infinite malice disfigured his countenance and a repellent snarl twisted over his mouth, drawing the thin lips back over the deep red gums.

  “Dimm... Dimmy?” Woodget stammered fearfully.

  Dahrem gave a sniggering hiss. “Dimmy was never here,” he taunted. “His character was but a mask I wore to gain your trust. How easily you accepted him, but then you were almost as much of a prize fool as he. Now it is time to curtail our acquaintance.”

  “Dimmy,” Woodget implored. “Stop this, it bain’t funny.”

  The adept of the Serpent stalked a little nearer—a mocking cackle rattling in his throat.

  Woodget shrank against the oval stone and his eyes grew wide with terror as, behind the pale grey mouse, he saw the switching tail slowly unpeel into two separate halves.

  “No,” he cried, “it ain’t true! Green save me!”

  At last the fieldmouse understood and his squealing shriek echoed around the domed chamber.

  Viciously, Dahrem swept the gleaming knives before his face and the yell was silenced as Woodget shuddered in fear.

  “Such arrogance!” Dahrem spat. “To think you could deny us the last two fragments. When His Unhallowed Majesty returns no other creed will thrive in any land. Now, surrender to me the ninth piece, or must I tear it from your poisoned corpse?”

  Tears of anguish welled in Woodget’s eyes. “Then it were you who killed Mister Mulligan,” he sobbed.

  Only a repugnant cackle answered him and the fieldmouse knew that as soon as he handed the bag over, he was dead.

  But then, as the blades shone before his face, from somewhere deep inside him there swelled a fierce resolve. Set against the awful doom which awaited the world, his life was unimportant. If he could only delay the evil creature a minute or two more, if only he could alert Thomas and the captain.

  Trembling, he lifted the leather bag that contained Mulligan’s life-long burden, remembering
the vow he had made to the dying Irish seafarer. Never would he yield the ninth fragment to a servant of the Scale.

  Without a thought for his own safety, the fieldmouse suddenly lunged forward and, using all his strength, shoved the bag in Dahrem’s face—screaming at the top of his lungs.

  Caught off guard, not expecting his petrified victim capable of such a desperate action, Dahrem staggered backwards and, still yelling for all he was worth, Woodget fled past him—swinging the bag in his fists as he raced for the door.

  But Dahrem rallied swiftly and, screeching with fury, bounded across the chamber to cut off Woodget’s escape.

  In an instant he had leapt to the entrance and with a perilous rumble growling in his throat, glared at the fieldmouse who skidded to a stop before him.

  “Keep away!” Woodget wailed.

  But Dahrem’s anger was boiling and his breathing became guttural and wild as he watched the frightened fieldmouse go scurrying back around the chamber. Over his large eyes flowed a film of gold and his pupils shrank into slits as the dark power which coursed through his veins seized control.

  Throwing back his head, he let out a horrific, bestial shout then sprang after his prey.

  Woodget’s short legs were no match for his great, leaping strides and a moment later he was plucked from the ground and sent hurtling through the air.

  With a juddering smack, the fieldmouse’s flailing body struck the great oval stone and he fell to the floor in a wriggling heap.

  Crowing with laughter, Dahrem loomed over him, with the eighth fragment grasped in one set of claws and the curved knives glittering upon the other.

  “Shall the blood of the Almighty Lord burn and froth within you?” he hissed. “Or will I dash out your feeble wits first?”

  Callously, with the back of his claws he gave Woodget a battering blow across the face and the fieldmouse let out a pitiful whine. But he huddled over the bag in defiance as Dahrem bent over him, and the cruel creature began to tortuously stroke the back of Woodget’s neck with the golden knives—tormenting him with the imminent threat of horrendous, agonizing death.

  “I must conclude this pretty play,” he sniggered insidiously. “If this is how you wish to die, grovelling in the dirt, then so be it.”

  “SPAWN OF THE SNAKE!” bawled a sudden, ferocious voice.

  Dahrem whisked around and standing in the doorway, with Thomas at his side, was Captain Chattan.

  “Dimlon!” Thomas spluttered. “What’s happening? Woodj—are you all right?”

  The mouse hurried forward but Chattan pulled him back. “Look at him!” the mongoose snapped. “We have been deceived. We have been harbouring a disciple of the Coiled One in our midst.”

  “Dimmy?” Thomas mouthed silently, and he stared in disbelief at the forked tail which Dahrem thrashed behind him, then beheld with revulsion the shining, reptilian eyes.

  Upon the floor Woodget wept with joy to see his friends but Dahrem’s menacing figure was standing before him, preventing his escape.

  Sucking the air through his teeth, Dahrem regarded the mongoose haughtily. “Tell me, Captain,” he hissed, “how does it feel to know the full measure of despair? By the morning your proud city will be in ruins and only vipers shall garland the broken walls to plague the ghosts of your kith and kin. All your paltry struggles have been as dust in the wind. You and all your kind have failed. Sarpedon has proved victorious.”

  “Lay down the eighth fragment,” Chattan commanded grimly. “I will not permit you to take it.”

  “Permit!” Dahrem roared with derision. “You have no authority here! Do you not have eyes to see? I am no common disciple of He who was banished long ago. An adept in his service am I—with all the power and privilege granted to that glorious and most august order.”

  Chattan stepped forward, his sword raised but Dahrem merely grinned hideously and beckoned him closer.

  “A contest?” he chortled darkly. “You are as idiotic as the fieldmouse. Presently my brothers shall swarm up the mountainside—if you fled now you might just escape them. Is it your wish to die needlessly, Captain? For against an adept of the Scale there is no deliverance.”

  “You waste your final breaths,” Chattan barked. “Are you afraid to face me? Is your courage confined to frightened folk smaller than yourself? What mettle is in you—accursed creature of the Dark Despoiler? None I would guess. A craven worm are you, like all members of your blasphemous, loathsome cult.”

  As he spoke, the mongoose stabbed out with his sword, taunting the foul grey mouse and Dahrem’s laughter was stilled.

  “So be it,” he swore. “The blade of Hara against the teeth of Sarpedon. May the venom bite you slowly.”

  With that he flew at Chattan, lashing out with the golden knives. But the mongoose jumped aside and brought the flat of his sword slapping smartly across his opponent’s back.

  “A little quicker next time,” the captain suggested archly. “Not as easy dealing with someone who’s armed, is it?”

  Incensed by these jibes, Dahrem spun around and the rage blazed in his eyes.

  “Prepare to meet your precious Green!” he shrieked, spitting with hatred.

  Like one demented, he sliced the air before him and pounced forward, but Captain Chattan’s sword came singing to meet them and with a screech of metal the weapons clashed together.

  As gold rang against steel, Dahrem pushed his head forward and his snapping jaws bit into the mongoose’s chest.

  Chattan yelled in pain and Dahrem spat a bleeding chunk of flesh onto the floor.

  Fiercely, Chattan thrust the creature away but at once he flew back, the knives razoring madly for the mongoose’s face before the sword parried and knocked them aside.

  Still standing in the entrance, not knowing what to do, Thomas watched the battle breathlessly. His own sword was gripped in his paw but he knew that any attempt to help the captain would only hinder him.

  Dahrem was a nightmarish adversary; his poisoned talons ripped murderously for the mongoose’s throat whilst his jaws sought to rend and tear. Fortunately for Chattan, the eighth fragment was still gripped in his other claw or the struggle would have been twice as brutal and savage.

  Sitting beneath the oval stone, Woodget wiped his eyes. He longed to scurry over to where Thomas was waiting and flee down the stairway, but whilst the battle raged about him, he was too afraid to budge.

  A dreadful chiming clamour resounded throughout the domed chamber as the weapons smote each other. Then, with a burst of strength, Chattan hurled the adept from him and when he came marauding back, flung his arm wide and the tip of the blade cut a scarlet arc across Dahrem’s body.

  Screeching, the creature stumbled back and glared down at the blood which soaked his fur.

  “Very well,” he seethed. “You wish to carve the skin from me. See now the splendour afforded to an adept of the Black Master. Look on me and die!”

  With that he raised his claws and, to Chattan’s dismay began to tear at the crimson wound.

  Cackling vilely, Dahrem clutched the bloody edges and with a deliberate wrench, tore the fur apart.

  By the entrance Thomas lowered his sword, unable to believe the gruesome spectacle unfolding before his eyes. Dahrem was insane. The treacherous mouse was tearing his hide clean away—pulling viciously at his own flesh, and a horrendous splitting noise issued from his back as the fur fell in two hideous, shredded scraps.

  From his legs the skin snapped as he yanked it loose, shedding it like a snake and with a final rip, he tore the covering from his head and onto the ground threw Dimlon’s pale grey face—ears, whiskers and all.

  Woodget cried out and buried his head in his paws but Thomas could not take his eyes from the apparition which now stood facing Captain Chattan, and the bile bubbled in his throat.

  There, his true, inner nature revealed at last, stood the thing that was Dahrem.

  As a lizard he appeared, yet it was an abomination of creation. Wet, slippery, dark green s
cales covered his repugnant body—from the tips of the forked tail to the squat crown of his square, grotesque head.

  Two great lidless eyes bulged from the sloping brow, set above a serpent-like snout and within the scale-ringed mouth were rows of needle-like teeth, rooted behind a pair of saliva-trickling fangs.

  Yet upon his great claws the knives still glittered and he raised them threateningly, the tatters of his mouse’s skin clinging about the wrists.

  Such was the heinous gift granted to the adepts of Gorscarrigern, for when they willed it they could slough off their mundane, warm-blooded raiment and parade their profane devotion in his honour.

  Thomas’s terror and revulsion finally overwhelmed him and he staggered through the doorway, unable to gaze on that detestable spectre any longer. Onto the stairs he blundered, struggling to master the nausea swelling inside him, and though he cursed himself, he could not compel his feet to take him back into that chamber.

  Down the steps he ran, shaking uncontrollably. Never had he been so afraid and he threw himself into the Holy One’s room, sobbing with fright and shame.

  Above him, Chattan looked on the hissing abhorrence of Dahrem and his sword quivered, betraying his fear.

  From behind his fingers, Woodget peeped out at the dreadful scene and saw the reptilian fiend take a purposeful step forward, beating the cloven tail upon the floor with relish.

  “You do well to quail,” Dahrem spat, his tongue flicking between the fangs. “The wrangling is over and death has claimed you.”

  But Chattan’s face grew dark and his loathing for the enemy only increased. Seizing the hilt of his sword in both paws, he charged forward but the apparition swerved nimbly and the stroke missed him.

  Then Dahrem lunged, his large, smooth head hunched into his powerful shoulders as his haunches bounded over the floor.

  The mongoose whirled about, just in time to meet the golden knives with his steel but, divested of his weak guise and waxing in foul might, his opponent was now possessed of an unnatural strength and the captain was driven back towards the wall where Dahrem intended to impale him.