Eagles' Revenge

by Roger Mortimer

  ‘Come in, sirs!’ cried Pozzo, all smiles. ‘The barrels are in the cellar – thirty-six in all – and the finest wine in Aramon!’

  ‘It’d better be,’ muttered Gobtooth.

  Night was falling as the final cartload disappeared round the corner. ‘Now, sir,’ said Pozzo, as Bradwen appeared in the bar-parlour, ‘will you take some supper before you go?’

  Bradwen was far too nervous to eat. But he could not let the landlord see his fear. ‘Just a mug of your best ale, Pozzo, and pour one for yourself. Here’s to victory!’

  Pozzo was feeling just as scared as Bradwen. ‘Here’s to you, sir! And the best of luck!’

  When Bradwen arrived in the Great Hall, the victory feast was in full swing. The stench was ghastly, the noise deafening. As Bradwen strode in, an expectant hush descended. “Lorenzo” was already famous, and the rats were anticipating a treat. With pounding heart, Bradwen approached the shadowed figure slouched on the throne at the far end of the Hall. Sweeping off his cap, the mouse made a low bow. ‘Your majesty! I am most honoured – ’

  ‘Just sing!’ snapped Saraband. ‘And you’d better be good . . .’

  Conquering his nervousness, Bradwen struck a chord and began his opening song. As his voice soared to the rafters, the rats fell under its spell.

  In the wine-cellar of the Great Fortress, Rufus was crouched inside an empty barrel. As soon as he was sure that the rats had left the cellar, Rufus levered off the lid. As it clattered to the floor, he clambered painfully out and collapsed. His limbs ached, and his head was reeling from the fumes. He longed to close his eyes and sleep for ever. But he dragged himself to the darkest corner of the cellar and slumped against the rough stonework until the cold air had cleared his throbbing head.

  The door opened and two rats came in. Rufus ducked and froze while the rats rolled barrel after barrel out of the cellar. By the time they had gone, only a few barrels remained. Rufus listened intently. At last, through the thickness of the walls, he heard a distant, muffled bell tolling midnight. It was time!

  In the Great Hall, Bradwen felt as if he had been singing for ever. After every song, the cheering rats would demand another and another. At last, as he came to the end of a rousing battle-song, Gobtooth appeared and thrust a mug of wine into his paw. ‘Have a drink, minstrel! We’ll hear more later.’

  With a sigh of relief, Bradwen put down his harp, took off his feathered cap, and poured some wine down his aching throat. The Fortress clock tolled twelve. Down in the cellar, thought Bradwen, Rufus would be going into action.

  Rufus eased open the cellar door and peeped out. All quiet. To the right, he could see steps, spiralling upwards. At the top, Pozzo had warned him, there would be a rat on guard. Moving softly, and gripping a crowbar, Rufus turned left and followed the dimly-lit passage until he arrived at the far end. Even before he reached the barred gate, Rufus’s whiskers were twitching at the dreadful smell of sickness.

  The great dungeon was unlit. Rufus made out a crowd of densely-packed bodies, all snoring, snuffling, twitching in uneasy sleep. He reached through the bars and gently shook the nearest mouse. ‘Wake up! I’ve come to get you out!’

  The mouse opened his eyes. He was pitifully thin, but Rufus recognized him. ‘Finn!’

  ‘Who’s that? Rufus, is it you? Lord of Light! Did you bring the eagles?’

  ‘Yes. They’ll be here soon to fly you all to safety. Wake the others, while I work on this lock.’

  At the far end of the dungeon, at the top of the spiral staircase, the jailer awoke. He stared wearily at his candle-clock. Past midnight? Stupid thing must be fast! But an officer would be along soon, so he’d better check on the prisoners. Reaching for his lantern, he heaved himself out of his comfy chair and headed for the top of the steps.

  In the Great Hall, Bradwen was trying to make his drink last as long as possible. The racket was deafening. The rats were drunk; several fights had broken out. Gobtooth was lurching towards him. ‘Gi’s another song! We didn’ bring you here to drink all night! On your feet, minstrel – sing!’

  In the dungeon, the prisoners were awake. Sick, wounded, they had given up all hope of rescue. But as Finn and Dead-Eye spread the news that Rufus and the eagles had come, a fever of excitement swept over them. Suddenly, Finn heard the jailer’s footsteps clumping down the stairs. He must not hear the grinding of Rufus’s crowbar attacking the lock.

  ‘Sing!’ he hissed. The mice opened their parched throats and launched into the song that every mouse in Aramon knew and loved: the rollicking marching song of the Dirty Squad.

  ‘Once we fought in gutters, now we fight the common foe!

  We are few and they are many –

  Are we frightened? NO!

  Scratching, kicking, biting, we will show them where to go!

  We are the mice who will con-quer!

  Look out – you rats – you’d better quake with fear!

  Look out – you rats – the Dirty Squad is near!

  We’re the mice who’ll bash you, smash you, boot you out of here!

  YES! We’re the mice who will con-quer!’

  The jailer listened, then he shrugged, grinned sourly, and returned to his comfy chair. The song reached its rousing climax as, with a splintering of metal, the dungeon door burst open.

  28. Eagles Over Aramon

  The sentry was standing with his back to the steps, listening to the faint sound of Bradwen’s singing. He never heard Rufus, and slumped unconscious as the crowbar struck his head.

  ‘Truss him up. Use your bootlaces, strips of clothing, anything!’ As Finn and Dead-Eye swiftly obeyed, Rufus became aware of a mouse staring at him. He was dreadfully thin, and one paw hung uselessly at his side.

  ‘That’s Silence,’ said Finn. ‘He can’t speak. He was wounded in the siege but he’s still a great fighter. Silence, this is Rufus.’

  The mouse smiled. Then, reaching out his left paw, he gently touched Rufus’s head. ‘Why did he do that?’ asked Rufus.

  Finn looked embarrassed. ‘We told him about our meeting with you, on the night of the Lord of Light’s Birthday, and how you were able to touch the Crown. He let us know, by signs, that he reckons . . . well, he reckons you’re the king foretold in the old prophecy.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Rufus. ‘I didn’t believe it at first. But now I’m certain.’

  Finn felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. ‘I thought so, sir! And not just because you alone were able to touch the Crown. You’re the one we’ve been waiting for, no doubts about that! If I had my sword, I’d pledge it to your service, so I would!’

  Rufus smiled. ‘We’ll get you another sword. But first, let’s get out of here! According to Pozzo, there’s a side door leading out into the courtyard.’

  ‘There is, sir. This way!’

  Barely able to see, they crept along the passage. Many of the mice were limping from wounds. All were weak from starvation, and several were so ill their comrades had to support them. But their hearts were beating joyfully as they followed their new king to freedom.

  ‘Wait!’ said Finn as they reached the door. ‘Pass me your crowbar, sir. There’ll be more than one sentry on the outer gate. This is a job for the Dirty Squad.’

  Easing open the door, Finn and Dead-Eye melted into the darkness. Hugging the wall, they inched forward until they saw the gloomy outline of the main Gatehouse, where two sentries were blowing on their paws and stamping their feet.

  ‘It just ain’t fair,’ said Nym. ‘They’re all up there enjoying themselves and we’re stuck out here in the cold!’

  ‘Oh, leave off moaning,’ said Skillet. ‘The relief’ll be along soon. Honestly, the way you go on – ’

  ‘Here’s the relief now,’ said Nym, as two shadowy figures marched boldly towards them. ‘Are we glad to see you! Here, just a minute! You ain’t – ’

  Crack! As Nym collapsed, Finn and Dead-Eye hurled themselves at Skillet. Dead-Eye grabbed the rat’s paw as he s
truggled to draw his pistol, while Finn thrust a gag into his mouth before throwing him to the ground where Dead-Eye swiftly bound the astonished rat’s paws.

  ‘Round the corner with them!’ said Finn.

  They dragged the rats out of sight. Returning to the Gate, they removed the bar and flung open the great doors.

  Their weakness and hunger forgotten, the mice poured across the courtyard and followed Finn into the dark, silent city. Rufus remained behind to close the door and the Gate. Then, keeping in the shadow of the north wall, he hastened after the others towards the breach.

  Bradwen played a final chord and stopped singing. No one was listening. The rats were all fighting drunk and the uproar was deafening. He glanced at Saraband; his eyes were closed. Tucking his harp under his arm, Bradwen forced himself to walk casually down the Hall. After side-stepping several fights, he reached the doors unnoticed. With a final glance over his shoulder, he slipped out into the courtyard. No sign of the sentries. That meant Rufus had succeeded! Bradwen grinned with relief and was halfway to the Gate when – ‘Minstrel! Stop!’

  Bradwen swung round and saw Saraband.

  ‘Trying to sneak out, were you, Minstrel? But you cannot go yet. Here!’

  Saraband was holding a little bag. Hearing the clink of coins, Bradwen almost collapsed with relief.

  ‘Thank you, my Lord! I am most. . .’ He reached up to sweep off his cap in a low bow. But his head was bare.

  ‘Yours, I believe,’ said Saraband, producing the cap from behind his back.

  Bradwen silently cursed his carelessness. ‘Yes, Lord King! How kind of you . . .’

  Saraband was examining the cap. ‘This feather is very handsome,’ he said with a smile. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Oh . . . I bought it. A long time ago, in the market, here in Aramon…’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ purred Saraband, drawing his pistol. ‘In my castle we have many like this, carefully preserved by the priests. So, where did you get this – eagle feather?’

  Bradwen smiled. ‘From my eagle. And one day, she and the rest of the Squadron will sweep you and your kind out of Carminel for ever!’

  Turning swiftly on his heel, Bradwen gripped Saraband’s paw, twisted it, and flung the rat over his shoulder. As Saraband flew across the courtyard, his pistol clattered to the ground. Bradwen picked it up, retrieved his cap, flung open the Gates and vanished.

  As he sprinted along beneath the north wall, the Great Cathedral clock tolled one. Suddenly, the stars were blotted out as a flight of eagles swooped over the battlements. Caval led the Squadron in a low, steep turn over the sleeping city, then back to the walls. Looking down, he saw eager paws reaching up as the whole eagle line hovered with wildly beating wings.

  ‘Grab hold!’ yelled the riders, and the mice who had fled from the Fortress leapt for the talons, gripped tightly, and were whisked away to the safety of Barrowdown. Again and again the eagles flew; several landed on top of the breach, where Rufus and Finn were helping the sick and wounded. These mice found themselves snuggling among soft feathers, then soaring into the sky and away.

  ‘Nearly finished!’ panted Rufus. ‘One more flight should – Bradwen! I was wondering where you’d – ’

  But his smile of welcome faded as Bradwen gasped, ‘Got caught – by Saraband – better hurry – rats here soon!’

  ‘Rats here now,’ drawled Finn, as a horde of warriors came pounding up the lane.

  The rats were so drunk that it had taken Saraband all this time to organize them. Eventually, his ranting and roaring had penetrated their fuddled brains. Grabbing their weapons, they reeled out of the Hall, tripping, sprawling, running the wrong way.

  ‘Move, you drunken imbeciles, the prisoners are escaping!’ At last, they were running after him, following the north wall. ‘There they are! Get them!’

  As Saraband ran towards the breach, he wondered why the mice were not scampering away. He could see they were unarmed. But then he saw the eagles.

  They came swooping out of the darkness, straight for the rats. Tarquin’s open beak was like a sabre. Caval’s great jewelled Sword seemed to take fire from the stars. Behind them, the rest of the warriors were screaming in excitement as their eagles wheeled into arrowhead formation for the charge.

  The rats skidded to a halt, staring in horror. To their drink-sodden brains, these eagles looked like fiends from a nightmare. They turned and fled. ‘Stand and fight, you damned cowards!’ screamed Saraband, but the eagles were upon them and ‘AAAARRRGGHH!’ Forty pairs of talons flashed down, forty rats swung into the air. The eagles dropped them into the harbour, before returning for more.

  Saraband found himself deserted. He had lost his pistol but as the eagles swooped again, he defiantly drew his sword. As Tarquin hovered over him, he yelled, ‘You can’t kill me! I have a charmed life. Morvan said so!’

  Tarquin’s wings were beating the air, Caval’s cloak was streaming out behind him, and he lowered his glittering rapier until it was pointing at Saraband’s heart.

  ‘I could kill you now, rat! But it is not the time, nor is it my destiny to end your miserable life. But you will die soon, Saraband. Very soon!’

  With a triumphant screech, Tarquin soared into the sky. The stars were fading, but light still streamed from Caval’s Sword.

  And as Saraband realized whose weapon it was, he felt, for the first time, a tiny prickle of fear.

  29. The Waiting’s Over

  Wild rumours were sweeping across Carminel. Every bird, every tiny creature, all whispered the same dreadful tales of Aramon in ruins, the cardinal dead, Rufus and Elana slain by savage moles! In the Castle in the Marshes, the mice were close to despair.

  But not Amren, Elana’s blind father, or Seth the blacksmith. They steadfastly clung to their faith in the Lord of Light, and refused to believe that all was lost.

  One morning, Seth helped Amren up to the battlements. The mild sunshine warmed their fur, and the air smelt sweet with the promise of spring.

  In the high meadow beyond the encircling marsh, mice were hoeing and planting seed potatoes, beans, carrots and parsnips. But Amren knew that their hearts were not in their work. What was the point, when sooner or later the rats would turn their fury upon this, the last place to hold out against Saraband? Amren rested his paws on the warm stonework and sighed.

  ‘Don’t give in,’ said Seth.

  ‘I won’t.’ The old mouse smiled sadly. ‘I just wish I could give them some hope. But we’ve heard nothing of Rufus, nothing from Odo. Just these terrible rumours.’

  Amren would not speak of the fear that haunted him: that his beloved Elana might be dead.

  Seth understood. ‘Rumour feeds on bad things, never good. Why, if all these tales were true, Saraband would be here by now. But he ain’t! So keep up your courage! You know the old saying: the darkest hour is always before – ’

  ‘The dawn. I know . . . Seth? What is it? What have you seen?’

  Seth had seized Amren’s paw, and the old mouse could feel that his friend was trembling with . . . dread? Excitement?

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Amren!’ cried Seth. ‘The eagles! A great mass of them, flying in from the east. And – and they’re carrying mice! Hundreds of them!’

  As Amren listened, he too could hear shouting and cheering growing louder. A sudden rush of air set his fur rippling, and his whiskers quivered to a warm, unfamiliar smell. Mice in the meadow were shouting too and a great cheer echoed round the courtyard as the Eagle Squadron landed in a flurry of wings.

  ‘The mice are clambering down,’ said Seth. ‘There’s Rufus!’

  Suddenly, all was quiet. Seth let go of Amren’s paw. The old mouse listened intently. Somebody was running up the steps and along the battlements to reach him. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

  Warm arms encircled his neck, warm tears of joy splashed on his fur. ‘It’s me, Father! I’ve come home!’

  ‘Feeding your face again, I see!’

/>   After his imprisonment, McCrumb had been overjoyed to see Odo again, but he would not admit it to the cardinal. Now, on the morning after their arrival at the castle in the marsh, the cantankerous old mouse was glowering down at Odo, who was perched on a rock in the courtyard, contentedly munching rolls and honey.

  ‘I’m making up for lost time!’ exclaimed Odo. ‘Or lost weight, rather. By the time the eagles rescued us, I was fading almost to nothing.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘What about you? Did they feed you well in prison?’

  McCrumb nibbled his breakfast nut. ‘I’ll no’ pretend the food was appetizing – but it was perfectly adequate for a soldier like me.’

  Odo stifled his laughter. Ever since his part in the defence of Aramon, McCrumb had fancied himself as one of the Dirty Squad. He now wore a brace of pistols in his belt and lectured Finn on battle tactics whenever he had the chance.

  ‘Well, Captain McCrumb,’ said the cardinal, ‘how did you enjoy your first eagle ride?’

  McCrumb gave his tail a brisk, military flick. ‘It was no’ so bad, but I’d no’ want to make a habit of it. In the Dirty Squad, we fight on foot.’

  Odo would never forget that wonderful evening when the sky had filled with eagles. Since leaving Aramon, the cardinal and his band of refugees had trekked wearily from one farm to another, only to find them burnt and abandoned. For many days they had stumbled across blackened fields, with nothing to eat but the few tufts of grass that had escaped the rats’ fury. For most of the time, they had lived on hope, but even that was running low. Odo knew that the eagles’ rescue had come just in time to save them from starvation.

  Beyond the castle, where the water-meadows sloped up to a ridge, Snout and his gang were on watch. Odo had told Finn how these children from the back alleys had scavenged for food in the woods, made stretchers from fallen branches for the sick and elderly, and had wandered far in search of water. Their reward was to join the Dirty Squad. Now, they were taking turns with Finn’s telescope to scour the surrounding countryside for any sign of the rats. For no one doubted that Saraband would come.