Eagles' Revenge

by Roger Mortimer

  ‘Boss! Look!’

  With all sails spread and bright banners streaming, the three great warships seemed to fill the ocean. As they swept past the headland, their gun-ports flew open, and long cannon were rolled out, ready for action.

  ‘They’re altering course!’ cried Brains. ‘They’re going to attack!’

  In the village, the rats watched in a tense silence. Their own ships seemed paralyzed as the three warships sped triumphantly towards them. A shot crashed out from the leading warship, but the enemy was still out of range. ‘Any minute now,’ murmured Brains, his eyes gleaming. ‘Why don’t the rats’ ships move?’

  ‘They don’t need to,’ said Finn quietly. ‘Oh, Lord o’ Light! Will you look at that!’

  The three warships were slowing, the wind spilling from their sails. At the same moment, the rats’ ships sprang to life and surged forward. One of them swung round until it was broadside on to the nearest warship. Then it vanished in billows of smoke, as all its starboard guns roared at once.

  The stricken warship reeled, and tried to claw its way out to the open sea, but in those few seconds, the wind had changed, the tide had turned, and the rats’ ships were steadily herding their enemies away from the harbour, towards the rocks at the foot of the headland.

  Another broadside roared across the sea, and the second warship seemed to shiver. Slowly, its mainmast toppled, dragging sails and rigging over the side. The third warship was out of control, its sails flapping uselessly. The rats’ ships did not fire again: they had no need. Wind and tide were carrying the three warships to destruction.

  Finn snapped into action. ‘Silence! Get your section down the cliffs. When the ships strike the rocks, throw your ropes and try and save as many sea-mice as you can! Brains! Stand by to fire your rockets at the village! Burglar! Your section and Brains’s mice, get down the slope! Keep those rats’ heads down! They’ve seen what’s happened. We’ve got to get those sea-mice away!’

  The enemy ships were swinging away from the rocks; Finn could see small figures scurrying up the rigging and out along the spars to take in sail as the anchors thundered down. Gunsmoke billowed across the headland as the Dirty Squad opened fire, but the noise was drowned by a rending crash as the three warships struck the rocks.

  Silence’s mice were hurling lines to the helpless sea-mice. Through the flying spray, Finn saw several struggling ashore. But even as they began to scale the slope to safety, Finn realized that the rats were coming.

  ‘Burglar!’ he yelled. ‘Keep firing, but fall back on the ruins if those devils get too close! Then take the cliff path to Aramon, and hold them off as long as you can!’

  The first sea-mice were struggling up to the headland. ‘Back to the city!’ cried Finn. ‘We’ll cover you! Brains, get them rockets up!’

  A young sea-mouse appeared, his smart uniform saturated and dripping. ‘Thank you!’ he gasped. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Finn M’Conal, Captain of the Dirty Squad. Where’s your commander? Doesn’t he know anything about the tides and winds around here? The cardinal will have his guts, so he will!’

  ‘He’s dead,’ replied the mouse bleakly.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. . . Look, get your lads to Aramon, fast! The rats’ll be here any second!’

  The young mouse staggered away, his face contorted with misery. Finn turned to Brains. ‘Are those rockets ready? Then let them go!’

  Brains struck flint and steel and ignited the long fuse. A sizzling – a whoosh – and a dozen rockets powered into the sky. Six fell among the rats packed in the village square, exploding with an ear-splitting crash. Rats scattered in all directions, and the terrified Red Kites rose into the air, squawking frantically, and refused to take any further part in the battle. Five more rockets plunged harmlessly into the sea, but the sixth struck the nearest enemy ship, and its sails and rigging vanished in a thunderous roar.

  The rats faltered, but Saraband was urging them on. The Dirty Squad fell back in good order, firing steadily on the enemy. By now, all the sea-mice who could be saved were sprinting along the path towards the city. The Dirty Squad was using the cover of the ruins to hold back the rats, giving the sailors as much time as possible to escape.

  ‘Back!’ yelled Finn. He had seen more rats rapidly climbing the slope on his flank; they were trying to surround him. His mice left the ruins and dashed to the mouth of the narrow path that dipped behind the cliff’s edge, forming a natural tunnel of thick gorse and coils of bramble. As Finn was checking that all his mice were clear of the headland, he heard a whoosh and a roar as another flight of rockets swept across the ruins towards the advancing rats.

  ‘Brains! Leave it now! Come back!’

  Brains glanced round at him. ‘One more flight, Boss. Don’t bother waiting.’

  ‘Brains! Come back now! That’s an order!’

  ‘Sure, Boss, just when I’ve – ’

  Another flight of rockets streaked towards the rats, who fled in terror. But from the right, Gobtooth’s warriors suddenly surged across the headland. Brains swung round, levelled his rifle and fired. But as Finn watched in agony, Brains was overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.

  Finn ran along the path. Bullets were flying overhead and again and again he halted his mice to fire on the enemy. At last, the path ended. Across the open plain lay Aramon.

  The Dirty Squad halted, ready to fire as the rats burst from the path. But at that moment, as the first sea-mice were pelting across the plain, the big guns on the roof of the Great Fortress opened fire.

  Massive cannon-balls shrieked overhead and ploughed into the brambles along the path, showering the rats with earth and stones. ‘Come on!’ screamed Saraband, for the city gates were open. Only the Dirty Squad stood between him and Aramon.

  As the big guns roared again, a bugle sounded from the city and a horde of armed citizens poured out on to the plain. Swiftly, they formed ranks and fanned out, facing the oncoming rats. The Dirty Squad pelted up to them, flung themselves flat and were just in time to join in a devastating volley that drove the rats back in headlong flight, and not even Saraband could get them to advance again.

  The Dirty Squad trudged wearily along the streets. Mice leant from their windows, cheering and waving. But Finn and his soldiers could not raise even a smile in return. As they reached the broad open space that lay in front of the Great Fortress, Dead-Eye and his section ran to greet them.

  ‘Boss! Praise to the Lord of Light you’re safe! But what a foul-up! The cardinal’s going to be furious . . . Boss? Where’s Brains?’

  The look in his comrades’ eyes was answer enough. Dead-Eye turned away, swept up in the misery that had engulfed them all.

  Brains was dead. And Saraband, when his undamaged ship had towed the other crippled vessel into harbour, had all the siege-guns he needed.

  14. Aramon Besieged

  That night, the mice watching anxiously from the city walls saw lights moving in the darkness. By daybreak, Saraband’s siege-guns were in position, and his army was encamped in a wide semi-circle, cutting off the city. Beyond the harbour, the rats’ undamaged ship kept up a ceaseless patrol.

  Once they had established their siege-line, the rats began scouring the nearby farms for food, driving yet more country-mice to take shelter in the city. Saraband let them through, reckoning that the more mouths there were to feed, the quicker starvation would force the mice into surrender.

  His big siege-guns were half buried in trenches, out of range of the city’s guns, protected by tall, wickerwork shields and by the spells cast by the priests of the Sable Lord. Each night, the rats extended those trenches towards the city. Each morning, the guns had crept a little closer.

  On the third morning, Cardinal Odo ordered that the cannon on the roof of the Great Fortress open fire. But the siege-guns were difficult to hit and most of the shots fell short, or screeched harmlessly over the rats’ heads. Suddenly, three of Saraband’s guns flamed and roared. The Great Fortress took a battering as the rat
s struggled to perfect their aim. By midday, the guns on the Fortress roof were shattered.

  For the next three days, the rain sluiced down. It grew colder and colder, yet the rats toiled on through the waterlogged trenches, inching ever closer to the walls. On the third night, a hard frost turned the ground to iron and by morning it was snowing. Finn watched from the battlements, and he saw what Saraband was going to do.

  The strong Gatehouse in the north wall would be difficult to batter down but, further along, the old ramparts took a sudden dip; the foundations were weak, and patches of mould had spread between the stones. It was an obvious spot for Saraband to attack. Through the swirling snow, Finn saw two great gouts of flame; a second later, came the cannons’ roar. The mice flinched as iron round-shot crashed against the wall.

  All morning, the defenders crouched against the battlements, watching helplessly. Labouring in relays, the rats loaded and fired until their guns were so hot that the falling snow sizzled and steamed on their barrels. ‘Aim low!’ ordered Saraband. Shot after shot thudded against the base of the wall until at last, with a loud groan, it collapsed. When the choking dust had settled, the mice saw a mountain of rubble. It rose almost to the height of the battlements on either side, but its gentle slope would provide the rats with a pathway into the city.

  The siege-guns had fallen silent. In the narrow street behind the rubble, Finn and his mice were ready for the attack they knew would come. Up on the ramparts, to either side of the breach, the garrison silently stood to arms. Cardinal Odo fixed his eyes on the distant rats. Suddenly, he raised his club. It was the signal.

  ‘Come on, lads!’ cried Finn. The Dirty Squad dashed forward and clambered up the rubble, already slippery with snow. Finn had taken over Brains’s section; he halted them at the top, while Dead-Eye, Silence and Burglar led their mice slithering down the slope, seeking cover amid the tumbled stones. Across the snowy plain, a body of rats was charging towards them.

  ‘The wall’s down!’ yelled Saraband. He turned to Karabas, whose eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘Now, Lord King! Lead your warriors into the city!’

  ‘What?’ squeaked Karabas in horror. All week, he had been urging Saraband to launch an attack, but he never dreamt that he would be expected to lead it.

  The warriors were watching him expectantly. ‘Come, my lord!’ cried Saraband. ‘Here’s your chance. Our kings always lead their warriors into battle. Surely you will not refuse?’

  Karabas was trapped. Already, the warriors were nudging one another and sneering. ‘Of course I’ll do it!’ he exclaimed indignantly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him. ‘Er – how many warriors can I take?’

  Saraband smiled. ‘Oh, with you to lead them, you won’t need many . . . Two hundred?’

  Karabas felt sick. He had hoped for half the army at least. But when Saraband agreed to send in a flight of Red Kites as well, he had to give in. Drawing his sword and trying to look brave, he ordered his warriors to advance.

  As he drew near to the breach, his confidence returned. The ramparts were silent. The breach appeared to be undefended. As the Red Kites swooped overhead, Karabas waved his sword. ‘Onwards, my brave rats! Onwards to victory!’

  Suddenly, the walls erupted in smoke and flame. From the breach, Dead-Eye’s section fired, then Burglar’s. Silence’s mice were blazing away at the Red Kites, many of which fell to the ground, their riders dragged off as prisoners. The remainder wheeled and flew off in terror. By the time Finn’s section had poured in their deadly volley, Dead-Eye’s mice had reloaded and the rats reeled as the disciplined fire shredded their ranks.

  ‘Oh, help!’ cried Karabas. ‘Back! Retreat!’

  But the warriors could not hear him above the crash of gunfire and had no intention of retreating anyway. Karabas found himself swept to the very foot of the pile of rubble, the Dirty Squad’s bullets zinging round him.

  As the undaunted warriors began to climb the slope, Dead-Eye’s section dropped their rifles, drew their daggers and hurled themselves at the rats, stabbing, scratching, biting, tearing, yelling and screaming. The rats faltered. And the snow turned red.

  ‘Tell the Cardinal we need fifty mice from the walls!’ yelled Finn. But Odo was already directing eager mice to help the Dirty Squad. As the reinforcements arrived, Finn ordered them down the slope, where Burglar’s mice were fighting ferociously alongside Dead-Eye’s. Silence was directing his section to fire over their heads into the densely packed warriors still waiting to attack.

  ‘Look out!’ screamed a mouse as a second flight of Red Kites swooped through the falling snow. Silence felt a sudden searing pain in his sword-arm as a savage beak tore into it. Finn took swift aim, fired, and the huge bird fell dead. But Silence was down, and his mice were forming a circle round him, hacking, stabbing at the enemy, and ripping with teeth and claws. Now the rats were attacking in overwhelming numbers. Gradually, fighting every inch of the way, the Dirty Squad was forced back up the slope. Karabas and his warriors scented victory.

  ‘Back!’ yelled Finn. ‘All of you! Back into the city!’

  Slipping and slithering, the mice turned tail and fled up the slope. Tumbling, falling down the far side, they dashed for the shelter of the streets. Turning once more to face the breach, they swiftly reloaded and waited tensely for the rats to appear.

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Karabas. ‘We’ve won!’

  The cheering rats followed him until the outer slope was thick with advancing warriors. But, as they reached the crest, they heard a loud whooshing sound; from far down the street, trails of fire were streaking towards them.

  CRASH! The rockets struck the top of the slope, exploding with a deafening roar. Stones flew upwards, the rats yelled in terror and, from the streets below, the Dirty Squad poured in a deadly volley.

  A second flight of rockets soared above the rats’ heads, exploding with a rending crash against the outer slope.

  ‘Back!’ screamed Karabas. ‘BACK!’

  The rats pelted back down the slope. ‘Come on, lads!’ yelled Finn, and the Dirty Squad once more hurled themselves up the pile of rubble. Reaching the top, they saw the rats fleeing in disarray. The mice gave them one more volley for luck, then they hastened to help their wounded comrades. From all along the ramparts, mice were cheering, laughing, and crying with relief. They had won.

  But only because Brains’s section still had their dead leader’s rockets, which Finn had prepared in case the rats should overwhelm the breach. Now he had used them all up, and could make no more, since Brains had never written down his invention. As Finn peered through the falling snow towards the huge army that still encircled them, he wondered how much longer the city could hold out. Burglar touched his arm. ‘Boss. Silence is hurt. You’d better come . . .’

  Their heads bowed in shame, the warriors stood before Saraband’s tent, silently enduring his bitter tongue-lashing. ‘You miserable, cowardly vermin! Afraid of a few bangs? You’re not fit to be called warriors. You had a victory and you threw it away. Get out of my sight!’ Bitterly ashamed, the rats turned away. ‘Wait. Where’s Karabas?’

  A group of warriors slunk up to him. They were carrying something. As they laid it down and crept away, Saraband found himself looking down at the dead body of their King. He turned aside, so that the warriors should not see his smile. Entering his tent, he rubbed his paws with glee. Of course, he had known that the breach would be strongly defended; he had not expected a victory. That was why he had sent Karabas, so that he should suffer the shame of defeat. But, by a stupendous stroke of luck, Karabas was dead. Now, Saraband had only to wait for the moment of victory for his warriors to hail him as their King.

  Part Three: The Sword and the Crown

  15. Wiglaff

  Rufus was running for his life. Tall trees with outstretched skeletal, limbs tried to bar his way, dangling twigs raked his face and tendrils of mist snaked about his feet, hiding the spiteful coils of bramble that tried to trip him. Somewhere ahead,
Elana was fleeing with the precious Chalice, but the moles were gaining on them, their pounding feet echoing the thudding of Rufus’s heart. He was gasping, the freezing air burnt his lungs. He staggered on leaden feet, and as he tripped and sprawled, the moles surrounded him, a brutal kick thudded into his side and a voice yelled, ‘Wake up, slave!’

  Rufus groaned. The dream was fading, but the pain in his side told him that the kick had been real. The moles hauled him up and dragged him from his cell to the end of a short tunnel.

  ‘Start digging, slave. There’s worms a-plenty in there, and we’ll expect your bowl to be full when we get back, or no breakfast.’

  The moles clumped off down the tunnel, but Rufus knew they would not go far. Sullenly, he began to dig. He was fed up with being insulted and ordered about by these blank-faced moles, but he sensed that they were waiting for an excuse to attack him, and he would stand no chance against so many. So, with an effort, he kept his temper.

  In the Rats’ Castle, he had at least been able to see daylight. Here, in his new slavery, he toiled, ate and slept in perpetual night. He had lost all sense of time. Worst of all, Elana was a prisoner somewhere else in this dark labyrinth. Though Rufus had no idea where she was, he was determined to rescue her.

  His food was gathered from the woods by a little mole called Wiglaff. He was so clumsy that the cry of ‘Oh, Wiglaff!’ echoed frequently through the tunnels, as he dropped something or tripped over something. But Rufus noticed that Wiglaff rarely dropped his meagre ration of berries and nuts. He looked forward to the mole’s visits, for Wiglaff hated Rhiannon and Oslaf, and whenever the guards were out of earshot, he would tell Rufus, in a breathless whisper, just what had been going on in the city.