by Robin Jarvis
Before the altar, the remaining chosen ones were also shrieking, for their furs were burning and though they tried, they could not extinguish the supernatural flames.
Making the loudest noise, pounding up and down and blowing upon her withering skin, Ma Skillet went screeching through the bejewelled entrance, leaving a trail of ash and smoke behind her.
Observing all that was done, and finding it to his satisfaction, Simoon turned to the mice who were still sitting upon the floor and helped them to their feet.
“Now it is time for us to depart,” he said. “Whilst the panic and fear is still upon these wretches, let us take a boat and return to Singapore—there you will find a ship which will bear you to your home.”
Thomas looked around them, not knowing what to say, but Woodget was bouncing up and down with unrivalled joy.
“I knowed you was a great magician!” he cried. “I knowed it all the time!”
The jerboa chuckled, then looked up sharply as if he had heard something that alarmed him. “Perhaps,” he muttered apprehensively, “yet not all schemes are infallible. There are some eventualities which even I might have overlooked. Come—we waste valuable time!”
With that he hared down the great steps and made for the door which the rats had originally carried them through and Thomas and Woodget raced after him.
At the rear of the temple, crawling from the place Simoon’s powers had thrown him, the High Priest looked on the chaos of his followers and knew the meaning of defeat. All his hopes, all his dreams of serving Sarpedon the Mighty, had come to naught and all that was left was a demented host of scale-covered horrors.
Bitterly, as the pandemonium erupted about him, he picked his way through the cinders of the adept’s skins and gazed upon the black, oozing mess that had ruptured from the dead slug, and wetted his parched lips.
If he were to dip his claws in that stinking sludge and drag them across his tongue, then his vanquished life would end. He did not care for the agonies that would ensue. All he wanted was to leave the world which, without the possibility of his lord’s return, was empty and devoid of hope.
Despondently he made up his mind and so, bending down he reached for the dark, venomous slime—then froze.
High above him, there came the sound of creaking metal and with his heart palpitating in his breast, the sable stared upwards.
Surely it could not be, surely even the Dark One could not perform such an astounding feat?
Breathlessly, with the shrieks of the legions screaming in his mind, as they slew each other in their madness, the High Priest gazed up and his eyes glittered, not daring to hope yet hardly able to contain the rejoicing in his foul heart if it were true.
Rearing into the darkness the gigantic, golden image of Scarophion was shuddering and, as he watched, there came the dull scrape of gold upon gold and, to his marvelling amazement, the massive, repulsive head twisted and shook and the jaws clanged open and shut.
Within the cavern the assembly fell silent as all wondered what this new miracle might mean, but over the marble floor, the High Priest ran until he stood upon the wide steps and the immense, glittering head towered straight above him.
“My Lord!” he yelled. “My Lord—Master! Scarophion the Mighty, I, your High Priest, welcome your blissful return!”
With a clanking grinding of precious metal, the enormous idol lowered its gigantic head and the rubies that blazed in the eyes shone with hellish fires, as the infernal spirit which now inhabited the statue, looked upon the rejoicing, exultant sable.
At the last, the Dark Despoiler had indeed cheated the designs of the Green Council, for though he was not clothed in flesh, his iniquitous spirit had fled from the egg and seized possession of his own mammoth likeness.
“SPEAK.”
The strident voice commanded and the sound of it blasted down upon the High Priest like a thundering gale from a mountain top.
Up into that dreadful face, the sable gazed and his eyes became filled with anger and hatred for the one who had so nearly ruined everything.
“First, My Lord,” he cried, “you must deal with your enemies!”
The golden jaws sprang open and from the titanic throat there streamed a strangling black vapour.
Through the tunnels Simoon and the two mice ran until, breathlessly, they came to the dark harbour and the jerboa cast around for a boat small enough to take them.
Quickly, he pattered down the various flights of stairs leading to the water and surveyed the craft that were moored there until he finally discovered a small rowing boat and called to the others to climb aboard.
“Make haste, Master Stubbs!” Simoon instructed. “Your arms are stronger than mine so you shall have to take the oars, I will hold the tiller. Quickly untie the rope—we must be gone.”
Thomas obeyed and, as Woodget settled down within the craft, the fieldmouse giggled merrily. “He bain’t called Stubbs, Mister Simoon,” he said, “from here on in, old Tom’s called Triton—bain’t you, Tom?”
“Ssshh!” Simoon hushed him. “I fear the danger is not yet passed. I did not reckon upon this chance—the enemy is treacherous indeed and I have underestimated him.”
Sitting down in the boat, Thomas grabbed the oars and dipped them in the water, heaving hard upon them.
Slowly the craft pulled away from the harbour wall and past the other vessels they sailed.
“Faster!” the jerboa urged. “Put your back into it!”
Thomas strained and dragged the oars through the water as fast as he could and the boat began to pick up speed—scooting out towards the island’s gaping entrance.
Outside, a faint, grey light was glimmering on the horizon as the first gleam of the early dawn climbed above the rim of the world and Simoon sighed with gratitude.
“It is well the day is here,” he said. “It encourages me, yet I fear what its light may show to us.”
Woodget looked at him and the lighthearted cheer that had sprung from the relief of being rescued, guttered inside him. The jerboa’s face was troubled and an edge of panic had crept into his voice.
“What be a-worritin’ ee?” the fieldmouse ventured.
Simoon shook his head. “It may be nothing,” he replied. “And yet...”
Out from the island the small boat sped, but a more pressing concern was worrying Thomas. “It’s no use!” he cried. “You’ll never be able to navigate through the reef. We’ll run aground in no time. I saw it when we arrived, it’s a maze out there.”
“You give up too easily, Master Triton,” Simoon declared, delving into his robe and bringing out a small glass jar. “We shall not falter—the correct path will be found.”
Gripping the tiller in one paw to steady himself, the jerboa rose and removing the stopper from the jar, threw it before them.
Woodget stared at the dark waters, then to his delight, there appeared upon the surface a patch of clear silvery light that radiated out in a twisting path between the rising spires of rock and beyond, to where the submerged reef lurked below the waves.
“There is our route,” Simoon announced. “Now, you pull on the oars and I shall steer us.”
Thomas laughed, but then from the island there echoed a tremendous roar and the oars skipped futilely across the sea as the mouse shivered with alarm.
“Green’s Grace!” he cried. “What was that?”
Simoon pressed his mittened fingers to his wiry temples and closed his eyes in an effort to calm himself.
“Ignore it, Triton!” he commanded. “All you must concentrate upon is getting us away from this accursed place.”
Woodget looked at the jerboa in surprise, then turned around to gaze at the vast, rocky hill which loomed from the waters behind them as another horrible, booming roar resounded from it.
“As I feared,” Simoon whispered to himself. “He is not beaten.”
Again the air shook with the muffled, baying screech and the fieldmouse frowned in puzzlement. “Sounds like them snaky
folk are blowin’ upon a load of cracked trumpets back there,” he muttered. “What do ’ee make of it, Mister Simoon?”
“Much,” the jerboa replied darkly.
Woodget’s frown became a deeper scowl at this cryptic remark and he was about to question him further when the cacophonous blaring sounded again, but this time when he stared back at the island, the fieldmouse’s face fell and he whimpered in fright.
At the summit of the great, rocky mountain, where the spears of stone spiked around the circular portal that looked down upon the altar, a plume of smoke was rising and, rearing amid the reek, was a great and hideous golden head.
“Save us!” wailed Woodget.
Out from the temple the statue of Scarophion came—into the upper airs he heaved his glittering, gem-encrusted body and, sitting astride his neck, his claws gripped tight about the horns that twisted back from the gleaming skull, was the High Priest. Over the rock the idol slithered—pulling the last of its flexing coils from within the temple and, to Woodget’s increasing horror the giant serpent writhed its monstrous way down to the water and flowed into the sea.
“I don’t understand!” Thomas cried. “The statue... how?”
“When the newly-formed worm inside the egg was killed by the hallowed fragment,” Simoon uttered fearfully, “the Dark One’s spirit did not shrivel back into the void as I expected, but took possession of a different raiment.”
“Quick, Tom!” the fieldmouse shouted. “It’s movin’ fast!”
Behind them, surging through the waves, its powerful tail propelling it with great speed, the gargantuan golden image came thundering in pursuit of the small rowing boat.
High into the dim sky, the skilfully-fashioned head rose, the pale light of the distant dawn glinting coldly in the myriad facets of its burnished scales. Pouring from the ravening jaws, behind the cruel pinnacles of the diamond-tipped fangs, the rivers of black, oily smoke billowed into the sky and blotted out the faint gleam of the failing stars above. Furiously, in that painstakingly-crafted, repellent visage, the ruby eyes were burning with a limitless intelligence and with a sudden clanking of metal, the segmented neck lashed forward.
Towards the tiny vessel the immense head lunged and a torrent of yellow flame went shooting from the great, black throat.
Through the darkness the fiery stream issued, blasting out a trail of scorching death.
In the boat, Woodget stared up at the blistering rivers of flame and squeaked in fear, spurring Thomas to row faster and the lethal, terrifying deluge fell only yards behind them—striking the water with a boiling hiss of scalding steam.
From high above, wreathed in the choking fumes that flooded from the apparition’s maw, there came the sound of shrieking laughter as the rancorous sable threw back his head and crowed his devilish glee.
In the boat the occupants were swallowed by despair and Woodget turned around to see how far they still had to go before they were clear of the reef, then muttered at his own foolishness—they would never be able to outpace that glittering monster.
That statue was closing on them now; every lash of its tail, every lithe thrust of its superior might, brought it nearer to their fleeing craft and Woodget knew that the next time it spat a rain of fire upon them it could not fail to miss and they would be engulfed in a ball of incinerating flame.
At his side, his fingers on the tiller, Simoon bowed his shoulders and hung his head, but with his arms straining upon the oars, Thomas was determined not to abandon hope and stared defiantly up into the resplendently diabolic face of Scarophion’s new form as a desperate and reckless idea took control of him.
“Simoon!” he called eagerly. “Can you summon a mist—like the one that surrounds the silver ship of Hara, the Chandi?”
The jerboa looked at him curiously. “Such a veil will not defend us,” he said forlornly. “My powers are useless against the Coiled One. In the past it took all of our order to destroy him, I cannot do it alone. The hope of the Council—the one chance I foresaw has proven ill.”
“Can you or can’t you?” Thomas demanded impatiently.
The prophet nodded.
“Then be quick about it!” the mouse bawled. “Make it rise up all around us if you can.”
Simoon closed his eyes and set to work at once, murmuring under his breath and, as Thomas heaved on the oars, the surrounding waters began to bubble and wisps of white vapour rose into the air.
Through the last of the steepling, fencing rocks, the little boat swept—then through the meandering channel that split the hidden reef.
Like a storm of splendour, roaring a fanfare of disaster and ruination, the statue came after, ploughing effortlessly through the water and slicing through the layers of mist which now spread across its surface.
“I need more!” Thomas yelled to Simoon. “A great big bank of it!”
Anxiously, Thomas laboured, his paws were almost raw and great blistering weals scored them. In his arms the muscles ached and screamed with pain but, gritting his teeth, the mouse ignored the tortuous fatigue and out of the murderous reef and onto the open sea the boat shot.
Yet hot in pursuit came Gorscarrigern. Cleaving a path through the mounting fog, his terrible, gilded head came racing and, with his long hair streaming in the wind—the High Priest spurred his sovereign on.
“What vain, childish tricks do they attempt now?” the sable hooted in derision. “Do they suppose thine eyes cannot pierce the mist to see them? Is that how they hope to escape you, Most Worshipful Malevolence? Disgorge your withering fires, destroy those who have dared to interfere in thy aggrandisement!”
In the growing light of the morning, the huge jaws shone brightly as they yawned open and into the dense, white fog another river of flame erupted.
This time it missed the boat by the merest fraction. As the fires came thundering down, the waves bucked and the craft pitched and rocked upon them as its timbers charred and the mist was suddenly illuminated by the dazzling flames.
Sitting closest to the blasting inferno, Woodget fell back from the tremendous heats as a fount of steam broiled upwards and at his side Simoon shook his head.
“We cannot weave in and out of this cloud to evade the demon serpent forever,” he told Thomas. “In a moment he will have us.”
“Not if I can help it!” the mouse shouted at him. “Now, turn the rudder sharply—we’re going back into the reef.”
The jerboa furrowed his brow, but there was no point in contesting with Thomas, no point in anything any more.
In a tight curve they wheeled around and Woodget buried his face in his paws when the leviathan coils of the living statue reared above them and Simoon steered them straight beneath its polished, arching body.
Back into the treacherous reef, Thomas rowed the little craft and high in the enveloping mist they heard the High Priest’s scornful tones mocking them as the idol twisted around and the opulent, ghastly head came bursting through the thick, clinging clouds.
Swiftly it came, yet Simoon pulled hard on the tiller and the boat jerked sideways, following the twisting path of the channel. Through the mist the head of the statue dived, plunging down until it skimmed the water then up again—sweeping agilely through the blanketing fog.
“A few more of those..,” Thomas mumbled to himself and, hearing him, at last Simoon understood and he grew agitated with excitement.
“Watch out!” Woodget squeaked.
Thomas leaned back when he next pulled on the oars and the bloody glare of the ruby eyes flooded the boat as the marauding, priceless head, rioted across its bows.
In a snaking loop the serpent rumbled over the boat and the High Priest trumpeted with mordacious mirth to see the mice and Simoon fall prey to his relentless, vitriolic and revenge-wreaking master.
Up into the fog the statue soared, towering like a fabulous, minted mountain, its loathly head rising high above the topmost swirl of cloud and the warm rays of the rearing sun burned and flared across the golden mirrors of
the gorgeously-wrought scales that plated the gleaming spectre’s neck.
Silhouetted against the rosy beams of the morning, the High Priest tossed his head and the long dark hair whipped about his sharply-boned features.
“Now, My Lord!” he screeched. “Let your supreme magnitude topple down and dash them to death!”
For an instant the perilous jaws clanged shut then they fell open again and with a deafening roar the golden nightmare plunged back through the mist.
In the boat, Thomas threw Simoon a desperate glance.
“Now or never!” he yelled.
The jerboa’s briar-like brows trembled but he gave the tiller an almighty wrench and Thomas heaved on the oars for all he was worth.
“A plague upon you, Sarpedon!” the mouse hollered. “Go back to the emptiness that awaits you!”
Woodget stared at him then looked nervously upwards. Through the fog, falling like a gold-smithied symbol of the sun, hurled from the chariot of a sky god, the head came speeding and flames dripped from the yawning mouth.
Suddenly the keel of the boat scraped against the sharp rocks beneath as they left the safe channel but Thomas still pulled on the oars and in an anguished voice repeated to himself, “Not yet, not yet.”
Then as the mists parted and the maw came lunging down, the mouse grabbed hold of Woodget and yelled, “Jump clear—get out!”
Leaping from the boat, they splashed into the surrounding water. But too late Scarophion and the sable who rode upon his neck, saw the impending danger.
Directly behind the little craft, rising from the reef and appearing without warning from the swaddling cloud, reared an adamantine crag of solid stone.
A pitiful, air-splitting bellow gusted from the statue’s gullet and, with terror in his eyes, the High Priest shrieked shrilly. But there was nothing they could do; the velocity of the glittering god’s descent could not be checked and so, into the small rowing boat the bejewelled, golden head battered and the craft splintered like matchwood. Yet immediately after, the gigantic and awful countenance went slamming into the immovable fist of rock behind.