“Yes,” said Padra, and felt his heart would burst with joy. And Husk, too, heard the depths of his own heart.
Fear nothing until squirrels fly through the air.
Slowly, sickeningly, he felt his courage drain. He did not want to see what the rest of them saw, but he turned to the window, leaned out, and screamed at the archers.
“Fire! Wake up, you fools! FIRE!”
Urchin’s ears were sharply pricked, and his eyes shone with joy. The tower was before them. But why were those animals huddled on the rocks, and why was nobody else about?
“Get down, Urchin!” yelled Crispin. “Arrows!”
Urchin ducked, pressed his head down against the swan’s neck, and gripped tightly. The swan swerved, bobbed, and rose so steeply that it took all of Urchin’s balance to stay on. He raised his head a little, just to anticipate the next flight of arrows.
“Urchin!” called Crispin. “We’re putting the swans in danger! We’ll have to jump. Ready?”
“Yes, captain!” called Urchin. Still holding on, he struggled to his hind paws. He saw Crispin spring, all paws extended, to the windows of the Gathering Chamber. Then the swan swerved and, for the third time in his life, Urchin fell from the sky.
He landed on soft sand beyond the Spring Gate, rolled, and drew his sword as he ran at the gate. Nobody was there to stop him, and he was dashing to the Gathering Chamber when a noise from below the ground made him stop.
It was the thin, quavering voice of a young animal in distress. A hedgehog, from the sound of it. It was too far away to hear the words, but the voice was angry and close to tears at the same time. There were other voices, too, unpleasant ones.
Irritation ran through Urchin. He should be with Crispin, flying into the Gathering Chamber in triumph. But somewhere nearby was a very young animal in distress, and almost certainly in danger. He knew what Crispin would want him to do.
Urchin didn’t often use tunnels. Trying to remember what Padra had taught him about them, he found an entrance in a corner of the wall. The frightened hedgehog voice was closer, and so was cruel laughter and then, to his horror, the rasp of a sword being drawn. Urchin tore toward it.
The tunnel opened out so suddenly that Urchin wasn’t ready for what he saw, and had to pull himself together. He was in some sort of guard room, where a platter lay on a small table, a lamp glowed on a wall, and two moles, who neither looked nor sounded like Mistmantle moles, had their backs to him. They were pointing their swords toward a hedgehog so small, so scruffy, and so brave in its terror that fury fired Urchin.
“I’ll fight you…” the hedgehog was saying, though his voice was thin and his mouth trembled. “I’ll fight you. One at a time. But you’ll have to lend me a sword, or it’s not fair.”
Soundlessly, Urchin sprang onto the table and picked up the platter for a shield. If the hedgehog had seen him, it was wise enough to keep quiet. The entrance was free, so the moles would probably escape rather than fight.
“Captain Padra will be very cross,” said the hedgehog, trying very hard not to cry.
“Aah! Poor ickle hedgehog!” said a mole.
“Aah!” said the other, and was turning away as Urchin sprang from the table. “Aaaarh!”
There was no need to fight. The moles had seen, not a young squirrel, but a raging armed warrior. The first fled, and the other followed as the flat of Urchin’s sword skimmed across his flank. Urchin slipped the sword back into its sheath and knelt by the trembling hedgehog to stroke the soft spines. It snarled, but not very convincingly.
“I won’t hurt you,” said Urchin gently. “The moles have gone. My name’s Urchin: I’m Captain Padra’s page. Who are you?”
“I’m Hope,” said the hedgehog. “I’ve heard about you. The funny-colored squirrel?”
“That’s me,” said Urchin, remembering the nearsighted hedgehog from the nursery.
“Thank you for chasing the moles away,” said Hope. “I would have fought them, you know, sir.”
“Yes, I know,” said Urchin, and wondered what to do next. He really wanted to rush to wherever Crispin was, but he couldn’t leave the hedgehog. It could hardly even see where it was going, and the moles might find it again.
He sighed quietly. It had been like this before he came to the tower. Since then he’d served two great captains, nearly been killed, crossed the sea in a storm, and flown through the mists on a swan. Now he was back to looking after infants.
“Come on, then,” he said, and lifted the lamp from its bracket on the wall. “Where are you meant to be?”
“I think I can manage now, sir,” said the hedgehog. “I can do tunnels.”
“It’s a good thing one of us can,” muttered Urchin, who had just realized that he wasn’t at all sure which way he’d come in. The hedgehog trundled along at his side as Urchin tried to remember Padra’s map of the tunnels. He must be heading either back to the Spring Gate or forward to the Gathering Chamber. As his confidence returned, the hedgehog chattered to Urchin about how he’d had a lovely time at the Spring Festival except he didn’t see his mummy, and she might be sad at missing him, so he thought he’d better go to the tower and find her, because he knew how to do tunnels.
“She works here,” he explained. “She makes Threadings. She’s very clever. And very, very beautiful.” He told Urchin how he had got a little bit lost and a very little bit frightened, but he’d kept searching. It was a long time, and he’d got very hungry.
“I should have thought of that,” said Urchin, and slipped the satchel from his shoulder. There was a bottle of water and some very squashed biscuits and berries. The squashed berries were impossible to eat without making a mess, especially in a dusty old tunnel, but the hedgehog enjoyed them and didn’t notice the stains of juice on his chest and the stickiness that glued cobwebs to his spines. They hurried on, Urchin carrying the lamp, Hope walking on his hind legs with a biscuit in his paw, talking with his mouth full. The moles had found him and asked him a lot of questions, “and they were very rude about my mummy,” he said indignantly. Then he dropped to all fours and sniffed.
“It’s this way,” he said. “There’s a nasty smell and a nice one. Yes, this way.”
“But it’s downhill!” said Urchin.
“It’ll go up again,” said the hedgehog. “It gets nasty farther on, but I can smell candlelight. And a squirrel. A nice squirrel.”
“It’s narrow, too,” said Urchin. He didn’t know of any other way, and he couldn’t leave Hope. But something about this tunnel made his fur bristle with cold. He didn’t want to go on.
Husk didn’t know how he came to be in the middle of the hall. He supposed he must have backed away as Crispin sprang down from the swan. Squirrels flying through the air. This should be his hour of triumph, and everything had turned against him.
Padra’s joy shone in his face as Crispin balanced on the windowsill. And Padra knew that Crispin did not come with bitterness, or for revenge. It was simply time to finish what should never have started, and he was the one to do it.
“Padra, please send someone to find Urchin,” said Crispin, but his eyes rested on Husk. Padra nodded to a few eager squirrels.
“And Padra,” Crispin went on, “if you were about to settle this vermin, will you please stand back?”
“You have a higher right to it,” said Padra, and took a pace backward. Needle, not wanting to be in the way, scurried away to a side door to watch.
Silence had settled on the hall. Miraculously, wonderfully, Crispin was here, in command, raising his sword, kissing the blade, his face steady and set against the wild-eyed Husk. Then with a scream of outrage, Husk lifted his sword and leaped at Crispin, who darted from beneath the blade and swung to face him, parrying the swinging blow. The creatures gasped.
Husk fought furiously, but skill and planning were deserting him. He turned his back to the window. No, no, he mustn’t let Crispin force him to that open window. He swung around, his back to the door—but then Padra wa
s behind him.…
There was a passageway from this room. A passageway, a flight of stairs, a tunnel reaching to draw him down to welcoming darkness. That darkness called him. The absorbing, breathable evil of the pit drew him. Nobody was near that door, except a young hedgehog.
He fought on, letting Crispin force him back to the place where he wanted to be. He could feel it behind him, the side door, the sharp turn through the shadowed gap in the wall. Nearly there, and as Crispin’s sword plunged toward his heart, he slipped backward through the door, turned sharply, and was running wildly to the place where he belonged.
Needle whisked around the corner just in time to glimpse Husk’s vanishing tail tip.
“That way, sir!” she called, and Crispin darted after him. Padra followed, twisting his way through the gap, with Needle at his heels. As they raced after Husk into darkness, they followed the sound of squirrel paws and wild laughter.
Husk ran through the tunnels as if he ran to destiny, faster, faster, leaping over stones: fierce, wild, and driven. The place of darkness would save him. He only had to lead them to it, open the door, and stand his ground. It was too narrow for them to come at him in a rush. They would come one at a time, and he could pick them off one by one and fling them into the pit, alive if necessary. Crispin first, then Padra, then any animal that still dared challenge him. He could hear the paws that followed him. Let them follow. He gathered speed. He was nearly there when horror transfixed him.
It was the horror of light.
The door of the dungeon stood open. Light glowed from inside it, the dancing light of hundreds upon hundreds of candle flames, flickering as if they were laughing. Even the water and slime twisting down the walls were transformed into gleams of gold and silver. Husk put a shaking paw against the wall. Fear gathered around and inside him, all his fear, his nightmares, and the greatest fear of all, the terrible fear of all his life, the fear of helplessness, crippled him. His nerve failed. The sword fell from his paw.
He could not go back. Crispin and Padra were there. With both paws to the walls, he inched forward, creeping past the open door of the dungeon. Then he saw the unspeakable thing.
He closed his eyes, and looked again. Aspen was not there to wake him up, and the thing of nightmare was running toward him. But he knew he was awake. It was real. Prince Tumble was stumbling toward him, cobwebs hanging from his prickles, his eyes half closed as he sniffed out his murderer. The stain on his chest was deep and drying, just as he remembered it. Unstoppably, the prince came on. Light followed him.
Urchin followed Hope, staying close, holding up the lamp before him, taking shallow breaths and holding his courage together. He remembered this place with its terrible smell of death and fear, but Hope needed him, and as he went on, there was light ahead. He kept going. There in the dim tunnel ahead of him was Husk, and Urchin had never seen such terror.
Husk was backing away. His eyes were staring, his paws shaking, his coat bristling. “No!” whispered Husk. “No!”
“It’s only me, sir,” said the hedgehog.
“Stay away!” pleaded Husk. “Away, you!” He inched backward, staggering. No!”
From the dungeon, Urchin heard Brother Fir’s voice. “Husk! Stop! Take care!”
Urchin dashed past Hope. Crispin and Padra were running in from the other direction.
There was no time to take it all in. He was aware of a grim place softened by candlelight; Brother Fir hobbling forward, stretching out his paws; a last cry—then somehow Husk disappeared, and the cry sounded farther and farther down and turned into something that was half a cry and half bitter laughter—then it stopped.
“Keep away from the edge,” said Fir sharply. “All of you.”
Urchin stepped back and put out a paw to stop the hedgehog from going any farther. Crispin and Padra were beside him. He saw and smelled a damp cellar, but its slimy walls were softened by the shining of candles, rows and rows of them, like jewels. There was a faint scent of beeswax. Deep sorrow lay in Brother Fir’s dark eyes. Padra’s warm paw was across Urchin’s shoulders.
“What is this place?” asked Crispin.
“It is a place of ancient evil,” said Fir gravely. “I myself have only just found it and attempted to cleanse it of its past. We should leave it for now.”
“The king,” said Padra. “What’s the quickest way out?”
“Excuse me,” whispered the hedgehog. “What happened?”
“Never mind,” said Urchin. “Come with me, and we’ll find your mum.”
Brother Fir led them away. Padra gave Urchin’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s over now,” he said. “Well done.”
“I didn’t run away this time,” said Urchin.
Padra’s paw tightened on his shoulder, and there was a catch in his voice. “I know, Urchin. You didn’t run away.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AYING LITTLE, THEY MADE THEIR WAY BACK through the tunnels to the rocks below the Gathering Chamber. Urchin gulped the fresh sea air gladly. Waddling and wobbling, Apple ran to him, and he left Hope in her care while he followed Fir and the captains across the rocks.
Arran had taken charge of the king. He lay with his head in her lap; his wounds had been dressed, but Arran shook her head. A few paces from them, Gleaner knelt in a crumpled mess of torn silk and bent tearfully over Aspen, lifting her head to hold a drink to her lips. A dented bracelet lay on the rocks.
Urchin glanced from Aspen to the king. Sooner or later, somebody would tell him what had happened, but both were so wounded and bruised that it was impossible to work it out. Padra and Crispin were kneeling before the king, so Urchin did the same, and the king turned his head a little.
“The page,” he said. “Nice young chap.” With sorrow in his eyes, he turned to Crispin, struggling to speak, and Urchin felt Padra’s paw on his shoulder.
“We should leave,” he said. “Let them be alone.”
There was real warmth in the morning sun. While Padra issued orders about the prisoners, Urchin stood on the shore and drew in deep, long breaths of Mistmantle air. Two swans glided across the bay toward him, and he waded out to meet them.
“Thank you,” he said.
Lord Arcneck inclined his head. “The tree-rat who sent his mole to our island,” he said. “Is he dead, servant?”
“Yes, Lord Arcneck,” said Urchin.
“We have generously decided,” said the swan, “to release Crispin from our service. You may tell him so.”
“Thank you, Lord Arcneck,” said Urchin.
“And we will rest here tonight before returning to our realm,” said Lord Arcneck. “Direct us to fresh water.”
Urchin led them around the shore, left them in the care of an otter, and returned to Padra.
“Crispin’s still with the king,” said Padra. “We should see what’s happened to Aspen.”
But they knew before they reached her. Gleaner was crouched over her, sobbing desperately, with Lady Aspen’s paw in hers. When Padra knelt beside them, she leaned across like a mother defending her young.
“Leave her alone!” she snarled.
“We’ll do no harm,” said Padra gently. He put a paw to Aspen’s throat, and shook his head.
Gleaner dried her eyes on the back of her paw. “I tried to save her,” she gulped. “She knew I tried.”
“Of course you did,” said Padra.
“I ran down here and she was still alive,” Gleaner said. “She was trying to say something about the queen. I helped her to nurse the queen; I know all about the medicines; so I knew which was the queen’s special medicine. Lady Aspen was most particular about it. She used it only for the queen, and it was only her and me that gave it to her. She wouldn’t let anybody else near it.”
Padra met Urchin’s eyes across the body, but his face gave nothing away.
“It was the best medicine on the whole island,” said Gleaner, sniffing. “There wasn’t much left. I took the last of it and mixed it
like she taught me and ran down as fast as I could to give it to her. She tried to say something, but I don’t think she knew what was going on. I got her to drink it. I don’t think she wanted to, with it being so special and her being so noble, but I got it into her. I stayed with her all this time, but it’s no good. My lady died!”
Apart from Gleaner’s muffled sobbing, everything had become quiet. Urchin could hear the slow, painful rasp of the king’s breathing. Other animals stood anxiously at a distance. Some wept silently.
The king opened his eyes slowly, as if it took a great effort, and whispered to Fir. Urchin heard Crispin’s name, and Brother Fir nodded as he placed a paw on the king’s head.
“May the Heart claim you with joy and forgive you with love,” he said gently. “May your heart fly freely to the Heart that gave you life.”
Urchin wasn’t sure exactly when the king died. He only became aware that the harsh breathing had stopped, and Arran was smoothing the king’s face. Padra and Crispin removed their circlets. Urchin thought of the times when he had carried spring water to the Throne Room and the king had been so kind.
He realized that Padra had dropped to one knee. He had drawn his sword and was holding it by the blade across his clenched paw, with the hilt toward Crispin.
“Kneel to your king, Urchin,” he prompted.
Urchin knelt, copying Padra, as he presented his sword. He tried not to look over his shoulder at such a solemn moment, but he heard the brush of fur as every animal knelt. Padra raised his head to look into Crispin’s face, but he remained kneeling.
“Crispin of Mistmantle,” he said, “I acknowledge you as rightful king and lord of this island and all its creatures. I ask that you rule with wisdom and love, and I place my sword, my captaincy, and myself at your service.” There was a pause, then he added, “I confess to you that I have fought and shed the blood of Mistmantle creatures, and I ask Your Majesty’s pardon.”
Urchin raised his head and saw Crispin’s eyes fixed on Padra’s. It was as if Padra were prompting him, helping him to be the king.
The Urchin of the Riding Stars Page 20