The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “What’s that, Belto?” called the ragged-eared one carrying the jerboa. “An’ you think it’ll be to yours? Didn’t you see what the High One robbed from these three bits of wholetail scum?”

  “Gnyarr!” the rat snarled back. “What of it, Seska?”

  “It were only the last bit of that treasure they an’ all their blood-curdling adepts have been searching fer all this time. Pyerr! Didn’t that old soak of a father ever tell you owt before he was gutted by Ma Skillet for sickin’ on her floor?”

  “So they found what they been looking fer,” Seska snapped back. “Should make it all the easier fer us. Maybe now we’ll get a bit of a rest—some proper grog for a change, not her dishwatery slops.”

  Belto snorted and spat a glob of yellow phlegm down into the water. “Always were gormless, weren’t you!” he muttered. “The fighting won’t stop now. The wars are only beginning. Don’t you know what them shiny fragments are?”

  “I only does what I’m told,” Seska replied. “It’s best not to go pokin’ your snout into the High One’s affairs—I seen too many get spiked by the great adepts fer doin’ just that.”

  Belto grunted. “You’re a fool,” he declared. “From tonight it’ll all change, an’ fer the worse—cause Him’s coming back. Yes, the snaking devil himself. All them old tales, all that plaguey history they ram down our throats at these musterings, where you get soused on blood an’ liquor—they’re all true and tonight you’ll see it fer yourself.”

  Seska said nothing, but Woodget could feel him quaking and found it terrifying that even the servants of Gorscarrigern feared the thought of their infernal lord’s return.

  The rats lapsed into silence but they did not venture much further before the ledge ended and the way was barred by an iron door.

  A clangorous report echoed about the cavernous harbour as the rat bearing Thomas gave the door a fierce kick and it swung open to reveal a slightly wider passage beyond which was lit by flickering torchlight.

  Into this dipping way the prisoners were carried and the path twisted and turned for some distance before abruptly, when they turned a corner, a fierce radiance welled up and the tunnel opened out into a monstrous chamber.

  Thomas squirmed in the rat’s grip to see where they had been brought and his eyes grew wide in amazement.

  In the very heart of the great, lonely island, generations of the serpent cult had toiled with chisels and hammers, quarrying out the rocky centre, expanding the existing caves and creating a monumental cavern in which they had raised again the altar of Suruth Scarophion—dedicating it with the blood of his enemies.

  Here then, was the second Black Temple—a shrine of despair to replace the profane cathedral which was destroyed in the great long ago when the combined host of the Green conquered and slew the serpent god’s mortal flesh.

  Since that distant, cataclysmic time, the followers had worked long in secret and as their numbers swelled, the devotees and skilled paws of their slaves had laboured with unceasing fervour to recall the diabolic glory of that first and most terrible of heathen temples.

  From the floor of solid rock, a wide flight of steps, which spanned the entire length of that gargantuan space, rose with regal majesty to a raised platform where four massive pillars of black marble towered upwards to support the lofty ceiling.

  Wide as the trunks of ancient trees was the girth of those mighty columns and bands of gold encircled their stupendous heights. Beyond them, in the main sanctum of the unholy shrine, the walls were set with precious gems and the hellish glare of a hundred ruby-encrusted lamps bathed the place in a scarlet light.

  To the rear of the temple, upon a raised dais that was black with the age-old gore of countless sacrifices, stood the altar stone and high above that, where the vaulted roof towered out of the reach of the garish lantern light, the chamber was open to the sky.

  A vast and perfect circle gaped in the chiselled rock and through it streamed the light of nine bright stars.

  Yet the whole panorama of this awesome, reviled spectacle was nothing compared to that which dominated the entire, horrible scene and Thomas cringed when he beheld it.

  Rearing higher than the towering pillars, up to where the roof melted into the darkness, was a colossal and nightmarish statue.

  Over the marble floor its sculpted body writhed—coiling about the columns, its tail tapering into a twisting loop before the altar. Yet rising to the ceiling, the arched neck touched the rock then curved down again to culminate in an abhorrent fearsome head which surveyed the temple below with fiery eyes.

  Here was the gigantic image of Sarpedon the Mighty—the Dark Despoiler of the Eastern Lands whose name meant death and whose reign was darkness.

  Fashioned in loving, dreadful detail, the likeness had taken longer to construct than the temple which housed it. Each of the innumerable scales were painstakingly wrought from the purest gold and the patterns which adorned the length of its frightful body were picked out with emerald and sapphire.

  Never had Thomas witnessed such a foul monstrosity as the head which loomed through the central pillars. As great in size as Kaliya, the ship of the Scale, was that repulsive, glittering aberration. The rubies which shone in place of the eyes were as large as himself and the open jaws were crammed with teeth of black steel. But the two huge fangs which protruded from that horrendous mouth were tipped with diamond and from the depths of the throat a great black smoke issued, for fires were constantly kept ablaze in the serpent’s belly and the reek streamed upwards—obscuring the ceiling in a canopy of choking fumes.

  Before the face of that hideous idol, the worshippers of Gorscarrigern would fall to their knees and offer up their blasphemous prayers, for it inspired them with terror and the very mention of His evil, exalted name was enough to instil them with dread. It was said that this ghastly image was but a fraction of their lord’s true horror, that his earthly form was many times the greater—and that thought alone filled them with devout, demented despair.

  Staring up at the terrifying spectacle, Woodget shut his eyes and turned away, back to the relative darkness that spread before the wide marble steps upon which their captors were standing. Yet when the fieldmouse opened his eyes again he uttered a whimpering groan—the unbounded gloom which stretched below the temple was not empty.

  Within that pagan place, crammed inside that tremendous cavern, the assembled host of Gorscarrigern’s followers was gathered, and the sight made Woodget’s blood run cold.

  Thousands upon thousands of squint-eyed, malignant creatures were jostling and squirming in the murk. In that great, hollow space their thronging, stinking bodies were crowded and not a chink nor a gap of room was there between them.

  With a putrid light their eyes sparkled, glinting in the reflected glare of the fiery lanterns and as a shimmering, stagnant sea it appeared.

  Never had Woodget seen so many diverse creatures massed together before. Towards the front the smaller creatures had congregated and in the infernal glare he recognised rats, stoats, squirrels, shrews, martens, weasels, ermine, mice, voles and marmots—to his mournful surprise he saw that there were even some mongooses down there. But behind them, the larger members of the despicable cult were crouched—waiting for the ceremony to begin.

  There he saw foxes and hyenas, even a number of monkeys—yet in the deep darkness beyond, his sharp glance picked out the squat shapes of four crocodiles and his mind flew back to the attack on Hara.

  Shifting his gaze, he saw that the walls of the cavern were carved into terraces and there too the hordes were pressed and wedged in tightly. Then lifting his face, he saw high above, perched upon shelves of rock, were many flocks of carrion birds.

  At appointed times in the year the host of Scarophion’s worshippers would make their way to this unhallowed place to hear the fearsome words of the High Priest as he read the black scriptures and witness the dreadful rituals of their nightmare lord.

  That night they had all come expecting the
revels to be high and overflowing with blood, for never in any of their lives had the constellation of Sarpedon appeared in the firmament and their pledged souls thrilled to the knowledge that the nine stars meant their evil sovereign was close to the living plane.

  The atmosphere within the enormous chamber was rank and stale. The hot, stinking breath of the expectant congregation mingled with the burning reek that flowed from the golden idol’s mouth and the corrupt foulness was so strong that Woodget could almost taste it.

  When the pagan multitude saw the three prisoners carried from the doorway at the side of the great steps they jeered and sent up a vile clamouring—yelling gruesome curses and horrific oaths then laughing to see the mice’s terrified faces.

  Thomas looked on the mustered legions in dismay, their calls rang in his ears and he wished that he had been spared the sight of them, envying Simoon’s unconscious state. All he, Woodget and the jerboa could possibly hope for now was a swift and painless death but he knew that such a blessing would be denied them. The High Priest would not end their lives so mercifully; no, most likely he would cast them to the mob to be torn to shreds by their claws or perhaps he had contrived an even more terrible fate for them.

  Without ceremony the three rats carried the captives up the steps until they were standing between the two central pillars with the ghastly golden head of the statue rearing directly above them. Then the mice and Simoon were thrown to the floor and the rats went scampering back down the stairs to join their comrades below.

  Lying face down upon the cold marble, Thomas strained at the ropes that tied him but they held him tightly so he rolled over and managed to raise himself to a sitting position.

  Close by, Woodget was attempting to do the same, but all he could manage was to flounder upon the ground like a stranded fish and the crowd roared to see him struggle in vain.

  “Tom!” he wailed. “I can’t move, these knots be too tight—I doesn’t want to get killed a-groveilin’ on the floor.”

  “Hush,” Thomas said gently, “don’t show this scurvy crew that you’re afraid. At least we’re going together, Woodj, and the next life can’t be any worse than this one.”

  Suddenly, there began the beating of drums and the sea of hideous faces which stretched from the bottom of the steps into the distant dark, ceased their raucous shouts and an eerie silence descended.

  The fur on the back of Thomas’s neck prickled—the eager, apprehensive stillness was even worse than the previous clamouring and he wondered what the steady pounding rhythm could mean.

  But he and Woodget were not kept in suspense for long.

  To the right of him, where the near wall of the temple’s inner sanctum rose into the smoky gloom, there was a large, ornate entrance, studded with jewels and, as he stared, the door was swept open.

  Louder rang the incessant beating din and from that entrance marched six voles with drums of taut skin about their necks and slender bones grasped in their claws.

  Sharp and unharmonious was the harsh noise of those strident drums and into the shrine the voles came, bowing before the altar. Then down the steps they strode, halting midway where their drumming mounted in intensity until with a fierce yell they stopped and raised the bones above their heads.

  Thomas grimaced at Woodget, then from the entrance others came and he shrank against the base of the nearest pillar when he beheld them.

  Into the temple strode the great adepts—chosen creatures with the power to slough their skin and walk unclad in the scales of their true nature. Dahrem had been one of their number but with his death the count of their order was reduced to eight. Yet even though they entered as beings of mortal flesh, the congregation still feared them and ripples of horror echoed about the cavernous gloom.

  Proud and haughty they were, those select few, whose skill and knowledge of the base, occult arts had elevated them to such an infamous rank. The first was a great and odious-looking mole, whose misshapen face held a permanent sneer and in his massive claws he carried an object wrapped around with many peeled and dried skins.

  After him the other adepts came; a stoat with a circlet of gold upon her head, a lemur whose chattering jaws lunged tauntingly at Thomas when he swaggered by, he was followed by an Assam rabbit covered in dark brown bristles with grotesquely long teeth. One by one the adepts entered—a squirrel, a twitching palm civet, a long-eared hedgehog and, bringing up the rear, an Indian ratel.

  Like the mole, they each bore a bundle of skins and in a semicircle they gathered around the altar and waited.

  Woodget stared at them fearfully. “What they doing, Tom?” he asked. “What they got in their fists?”

  Thomas had already guessed, but there was no time to answer, for at that moment the drums rolled again and into the temple came the High Priest and after him. Mother Lotus.

  To edge of the wide steps, the cloaked sable paced and the flabby rat trundled up to be at his side.

  With a triumphant look illuminating his sleek, black face, the high priest regarded the silent masses below and held up his claw in greeting.

  “Servants of Sarpedon!” he shrieked and his shrill voice went slicing through the dismal murk, echoing around the deep, vaulted cavern.

  “You have come this night to celebrate the rare blazing of the nine stars in heaven—yet the tidings I bring outshine even their magnificence!”

  In the darkness the assembly muttered and stirred approvingly. Most had heard the rumours of Hara’s downfall and they thirsted to hear the salacious details of the vicious battle.

  “Know now that the fortresses of our enemies have been utterly conquered!” the sable cried. “The Shrine of Virbius has been despoiled and the city of the Green is no more. From those squalid dens of our weakling foes the seventh and eighth fragments of Our Lord’s precious work have been restored unto our keeping.”

  At this the multitude roared with exultation—yammering the Dark Despoiler’s praises and cheering the victories of the High Priest.

  Basking in their screaming tributes and adoration, the sable stepped aside and with a flourish of his claw gave a signal to the adepts.

  As one, they tore the preserved, furry wrappings from the bundles they held and there in their clutches they held the eight plundered fragments.

  At once the baleful glow of so many pieces welled up within that hellish place and their livid effulgence burst out into the cavern—drowning out all lesser sources of light until even the darkest cleft was flooded with a sickly, green radiance.

  Thomas screwed up his face at the loathsome glare; it was many times greater than the light which had filled the domed chamber in the Holy One’s mountain and hurt his eyes. It was as if the moon had sickened in the sky and had fallen into the temple to shed corrupt and gangrenous beams upon the earth and he felt unclean and sullied at the sight of it.

  But when he turned away, the full extent and measure of the infernal cult’s forces was revealed under the repulsive, putrefying incandescence and his mind recoiled at their countless number.

  Below him, and covering every available space into the furthest possible distance, the massive congregation were blinking and holding their rancid breaths as they saw for the first time the exquisite designs of their maleficent master.

  As the deathly light pulsed and beat from the eight, separate pieces of jade, the chosen ones raised their claws above their heads and gasps of alarm and unease issued from the stunned, thunderstruck crowds.

  Thomas glanced back into the intense, unwholesome glare and saw that, within each fist, the fragments were moving.

  Surrounding the diseased splendour of the flaring, shining jade, the golden traceries became molten and were imbued with a frightful life of their own. Around the irregular edges the scrollwork was writhing and the intricate lattices were peeling away to search and grope in the air like the raised heads of serpents.

  Crowing with dark joy, the High Priest threw back his head.

  “Eight pieces we had!” he yelled.
“Yet this very night, providence and my own guile and artifice have rewarded these long empty years of waiting. For here, at this critical hour when the heralding stars swing in the sky, I have delivered unto this sacred place, the sanctum of the Black Master, the ninth and final fragment!”

  Casting aside his cloak, he brought out the remaining segment which Mulligan and his ancestors had kept safe and secret throughout the ages and brandished it high for all to see.

  Like a septic sun, the fragment shone and the gathering shrieked with insane voices.

  “At last!” the sable screamed. “The time has come—the Lord Suruth Scarophion shall be reborn. His shell shall be remade whole again and this night of the great conjunction will witness a return to the dark years of the past. No dawn shall rise with the morning—His black strength shall blot out the light and under the ravishing shadow of his being all things will turn to us or rot and be forgotten in the dust and slime of his ruinous wake.”

  Thomas stared up at the forbidding figure of the High Priest and winced at the madness that distorted those sharp and cruel features. The absolute devotion to the evil serpent god was horrific to see but he could not tear his eyes away now, for the moment that would pronounce the doom of the present world was fast approaching and he steeled his nerves to witness it.

  Flourishing the ninth fragment in his claws, the High Priest whirled around and strode to the centre of the adepts, stepping onto the blackened, blood-stained altar stone and, as though they were controlled by one single mind, the eight creatures closed in around him.

  “Too long has His Dark Majesty been banished from the waking world!” he cried, his voice rising to a crescendo of fanatical jubilation. “Too long have our enemies denied us the means for His deliverance! But now the hour is upon us! Sarpedon will rear amongst us again, the eternal night has come at last!”

  Lifting the fragment over the altar, he shrieked with rapture and the chosen ones moved their radiant charges ever closer.

  Thomas watched aghast, as the golden edges of the reunited pieces thrashed feverishly. With every passing instant that the jade fragments drew nearer to one another, the glittering, encasing metal strove and flailed more violently until, finally, the snaking arabesques seized hold of their opposite numbers and with a resounding discordant note that went chiming through the cavern and out through the portal in the ceiling, the fragments locked together—flying from the adept’s clutches with the violence of their union.