Eagle Warrior

by Roger Mortimer

  Leaning out from the wall was a flaming torch in an iron bracket. Seizing the torch, Conal strode swiftly through the cellars that appeared in the flickering light like a long, gloomy tunnel. His sensitive whiskers thrilled to the myriad scents that came to him through the darkness: mouldy cider-barrels slowly rotting, old sacks, still smelling faintly of herbs and spices, and the sour reek of ancient wine-casks.

  On he passed until he reached the spiral staircase on the far side of the cellars. He paused ... listened ... nothing. In the dying light of his torch, he cautiously climbed the steps. As he reached the top his light went out but his night-vision was good and he knew he was standing in a narrow passage. Ahead, deeply shadowed, stood the great, iron-studded doors that led to the inner courtyard.

  Naturally, all doors leading to the outside world would, by now, be heavily guarded. Nobody would think that he would want to venture into the courtyard. But that was what he was going to do.

  Suddenly, a shadow emerged from the gloom and glided towards him. Conal heard the rustling of a silken robe and saw the familiar gleaming Star. Instantly, he pointed his rapier – but froze as a small pistol appeared in the Cardinal’s paw.

  ‘Lower your sword,’ said Rumont quietly. ‘Even now the General’s mice are heading for the battlements outside. We have little time and I mean you no harm. Indeed, I must compliment you on your performance in the Hall. Truly remarkable! But I cannot believe that you have acted purely on your own initiative. Tell me, does your presence here mean that the rumours are true, that Gideon is alive? Did he send you?’

  Conal said nothing.

  ‘Your silence betrays you,’ purred the Cardinal. ‘Naturally, you will give nothing away. But if Gideon lives, I must see him! I swear I mean him no harm. Will you ask him ... please?’

  Conal nodded.

  Rumont sighed with relief. ‘Thank you! Now – the tavern by the docks. Ask Gideon to come there. At night. My agent will be waiting every night for a week and will escort Gideon to me in safety. Tell him that. And do not fail me. It is essential, for the good of the country, that I speak with him! Do you understand?’

  Again, Conal nodded. Rumont put away his pistol. ‘Now go.’

  With a rustle of silk, the Cardinal passed swiftly along the passage and was swallowed up in the gloom.

  Conal’s head was reeling with astonishment. But there was no time to waste. Gingerly, he eased open the doors. Frost sparkled in the starlight, and Conal shivered in his rags. But his thick fur would keep him warm until he reached home. That, he reckoned, should not be so very long now. And what a story he would have for Lord Gideon!

  A sudden rush of feet! On the far side of the courtyard, a troop of musketeers was pelting up to the battlements. The soldiers were peering outwards over the wall and had not spotted him, but it only needed one of them to turn round ...

  With a leap of his heart, he spotted the familiar silhouette swooping over the unguarded wall to his left, and the great eagle made a perfect landing in the centre of the courtyard. Conal dashed across, scrambled up and held on tightly. At once, Galliard’s wings beat the air, but a sharp-eared mouse on the battlements turned and shouted: ‘Halt! In the General’s name!’

  But Galliard was already climbing and, as the soldiers raised their muskets, she swept over their heads and the last they saw of Conal was a cheekily waving paw.

  ‘Fire!’

  It was too late. Galliard was too high for the musket-balls to reach her, and with a piercing cry of triumph she soared towards home.

  3. Gideon Returns

  Before the Civil War, the old tavern in Vittles Lane had been called ‘The King’s Head’. But the landlord, a mighty barrel of a mouse called Barboza, had re­named it. He had painted General Cambray’s ugly head on one side of his inn-sign, and the sleek, slant-eyed face of the Cardinal on the other.

  Barboza hated them both. But these were dangerous times and he had to pretend that he was loyal to the mice who now held power in Aramon – especially since he had fought for the King.

  During the Civil War, Barboza had served as quartermaster in Gideon’s famous Regiment of Eagles, arranging supplies of what he loved best in the world – food and drink. After the Battle of Barrowdown, he had returned quietly to his inn, one of the finest in Aramon. He had thought that his adventures were over; but tonight he was bustling about his bar-parlour with an air of excitement.

  Three nights ago, he had received a message from an old comrade: Sergeant Conal, Gideon’s second-in-command. Conal was coming in secret to Aramon and wanted a private room at the inn. So, as he served his famous cheese and apple pasties and pulled pints of foaming home-brewed ale, ex-Sergeant Barboza wore a cheerful grin. Things were happening at last!

  At this late hour, the Port of Aramon was dark, silent and bitterly cold. Nobody noticed the two mice in the rowing boat which glided between the tall ships until it bumped gently against the harbour wall.

  While Conal secured the boat to an iron ring, his companion stretched his long, powerful limbs and clambered out on to the stone steps. He paused to adjust the rapier concealed beneath his war-cloak, and pulled his hat down so that its broad brim shadowed his face. Then he led the way up the steps.

  The two mice paced rapidly along the deserted dockside. Once, hearing the tramp of heavy boots, they dodged behind a pile of crates and boxes and waited until the night patrol of Cambray’s mice had passed. Then silently, they continued on their way.

  Entering Vittles Lane, they passed the little shops that supplied the ships lying at anchor in the port. These shops were closed, but the sound of voices grew louder as they approached ‘The Cardinal Rumont’.

  ‘Look at that!’ whispered the tall mouse. ‘Old Barboza’s swimming with the tide! No more ‘King’s Head’ for him!’

  ‘Sure, an’ he has to survive,’ replied Conal tolerantly. ‘Did I not tell you he has old Cambray’s ugly mug painted on the other side?’

  Gideon smiled. ‘So, he’s keeping in with both of them? Well, I can’t blame him. It may not be so very long before there is only one head to paint on his inn-sign; and pray the Lord of Light it won’t be either of those two scoundrels!’

  Creeping down an alley that ran along the side of the tavern, they reached a low door, lit by a torch burning in a bracket on the wall. Conal gave two loud knocks, paused, then knocked again three times. Seconds later the door was cautiously opened, and Barboza’s massive stomach caught the light from the burning torch before ever it reached his round, cheerful face.

  ‘Conal! It’s good to see you! Come in, come in!’

  While the landlord was bolting the door behind them, both newcomers swept off their hats. When Barboza turned to them again, he stared in blank astonishment at Conal’s companion.

  The handsome face was cruelly scarred but Barboza instantly recognized the mouse in the scarlet cloak.

  ‘You! But – you’re dead! Oh, Lord of Light!’

  Gideon scowled ferociously. ‘Sergeant Barboza! Is this a fit welcome for your commanding officer? You forget yourself, mouse! And you’ve got fatter.’

  At the sound of that sharp, familiar voice, Barboza had instinctively straightened his back. Now he stood as if on parade, his mighty tummy curving majestically out in front.

  ‘Sir! I’m sure I’m extremely sorry, sir! But I thought ... that’s to say, we all thought ... but praise to the Lord of Light that you’re still with us, sir! As to my ... er ... extra few ounces – ’ Here, Conal gave a snort of laughter – ‘I’m sure I’m very sorry, sir, but it’s what you might call an occupational hazard in my line of business, sir ... ’

  ‘Too much ale,’ interrupted Gideon, placing a friendly paw on the landlord’s shoulder. ‘And we should like some. Now. In the private room that Sergeant Conal requested.’

  Barboza grinned. ‘At once, sir! With pleasure! If you would just care to follow me, sir, and you too, Conal.’

  Barboza heaved his mighty bulk up a narrow, creaking staircase and
led the way down a dark passage. ‘In here, sir, if you please.’

  It was a cosy little room, glowing with candle­light, and warmed by a crackling log fire. Gideon glanced round approvingly, took off his cloak and flung it on the table. Unbuckling his sword-belt, he placed the rapier on the floor beside an easy chair. Then he sat down and held out his paws to the welcoming blaze.

  When both his guests were comfortably settled, Barboza stumped off, promising hot food and ale as quickly as possible.

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Conal, quietly, as the sound of the landlord’s heavy footsteps faded away. ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait,’ said Gideon. And leaning back against the comfy cushions, he closed his eyes.

  4. Secret Meetings

  Whenever the Cardinal needed a spy, he sent for Forstus. He was a priest of the Lord of Light, but he was far more interested in the devious ways of power than in serving either his god or his fellow-mice.

  Forstus was skinny with bulbous, staring eyes. Tufts of fur had fallen out of his narrow face, which was covered in angry, scarlet boils. He rarely washed and his body smelt strongly of dried sweat. His breath stank of rotting cheese, and he dressed shabbily in black clothes that he never took off. All he cared about was power: for his master, the Cardinal, and for himself.

  Tonight, he sat alone in the bar of Barboza’s inn. He was watching the landlord heap steaming dishes and mugs of foaming, golden ale on to a large tray. Forstus knew all about the secret message sent by the wily Cardinal to the Lord Gideon, and had visited the inn every night for the past week. Now, he guessed, the waiting was over.

  Silently, he followed Barboza up the creaking staircase. The landlord was quite unaware of his presence until, on entering the private room and laying down the tray, he turned to find Forstus standing in the doorway.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Gideon, as Barboza exploded in anger, ‘I am expecting him.’

  Forstus sidled in, his eyes bulging at the sight of the mouse who had courteously risen at his entrance. The spy recognized power when he saw it; but in the tall, stately figure of the King’s General, he sensed a power quite different from that possessed by the Cardinal and so admired by himself. Here was a power that inspired love and loyalty, even the respect of his enemies in Cambray’s army.

  Seeing Gideon now, his face scarred by his wounds, his clothes shabby and battle-stained, Forstus felt he was in the presence of a mouse in a million. And he hated Gideon because of it.

  Remembering his mission, Forstus pulled off his black cap and made a low bow. Bits of loose fur and crumbs of stale cheese dropped from his head.

  ‘Lord Gideon,’ he said in his oiliest voice. ‘My name is Forstus. My master, His Eminence the Cardinal, bids you welcome and thanks you for coming to Aramon. If you would come with me now, he awaits the honour of greeting you in person.’

  Gideon buckled on his rapier and gathered up his cloak and hat. ‘Conal, stay here. Eat the food that our host has provided. I am going under a pledge of safe-conduct, and don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. Very well, Master Forstus. Lead the way.’

  As the door closed behind them, Barboza collapsed noisily into the chair.

  ‘Where is he going? How can he trust himself with that stinking, evil-minded vermin?’

  Conal scowled. ‘He’s going to meet the Devil himself, that’s where he’s going. And the Lord o’ Light knows if we’ll ever see him again!’

  In the Cardinal’s oak-panelled study, Rumont and Gideon faced one another like two fencers at the start of a duel to the death.

  The Cardinal raised his glass, the firelight glittering on his priceless emerald ring. ‘To your health, Lord Gideon.’

  ‘And to yours, Eminence,’ replied Gideon, but he did not drink.

  The Cardinal noticed the subtle insult and smiled. ‘It isn’t poisoned. But I cannot blame you for being suspicious ... Oh, if you’d only joined me instead of my brother! With your eagles, we could have won in a week! Instead of which ...’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Gideon. After the Battle of Barrowdown, I expected to achieve my life’s ambition by becoming King of Carminel. And I’d have made a better one than my namby-pamby brother! But things have not gone according to plan.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Cambray, instead of being my loyal servant, has become my rival. Already he is demanding an equal share of power. And I believe he has the Crown! Not only that. Every day I hear rumours that he plans to murder King Auriol. And if he challenges me for the supreme power, he has the army to support him, while I ... have no one.’ The Cardinal was trying to sound his usual smooth self but Gideon could see his tail twitching nervously beneath the silken robes.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Gideon asked. ‘Since your treachery to your brother has got you nowhere.’

  Rumont sank his voice to a whisper. ‘I want the King back.’

  Gideon was thunderstruck.

  ‘Not my brother,’ said Rumont. ‘He’s dying. If Cambray doesn’t kill him, he’ll die anyway. He’s very ill. He can’t last.’

  Gideon’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you’ve had him poisoned, I’ll — !’

  ‘No! I swear it! It’s a natural sickness, one that killed dozens of our soldiers last month. And there’s no cure.’

  ‘Very well. If not Auriol, then – ?’

  ‘My nephew, Armand. Auriol’s son. He’s a fine young mouse. Strong. Intelligent. He’ll make a good king.’ Rumont spoke more confidently now.

  ‘But he’s in prison too.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rumont’s tail gave a convulsive twitch, but his eyes, staring at Gideon, were without expression.

  ‘And you want me to ... ’

  ‘Yes! I want you to arrange for his escape.’

  ‘And then?’ Gideon asked softly.

  ‘Hide him. Keep him safe. And when you’ve done that, find the Crown! It’s not in the Fortress. If it were, I would sense its power. Cambray has it hidden somewhere. Find it, and he’ll be powerless. All mice will support Armand,’ he declared with a broad smile, ‘and you!’

  Gideon did not return the smile. Rumont had always been persuasive, but never trustworthy.

  ‘And what will you get out of this?’

  ‘Me? I want my life – which Cambray will take if I don’t out-manoeuvre him! I admit I’d hoped for more. Much more! But instead of being King, I am about to be removed from the board like a miserable pawn. And I don’t want that. So. What do you say?’

  The seconds ticked by. At last, Gideon spoke. ‘All right. I’ll do it. But if I find you have betrayed me, your life won’t be worth that!’ And with a single, swift movement, he drew his rapier and slashed off the top of a candle.

  The Cardinal flinched. ‘There will be no treachery on my part, Lord Gideon!’ he hissed angrily, but his twitching tail showed his fear.

  ‘There’d better not be. Now – where is Armand?’

  Outside the door, Forstus pressed his filthy ear closer, held his foul breath and listened. He had been eavesdropping for some time. Now he heard the Cardinal reveal the most closely-guarded secret in the whole of Aramon.

  On the roof of the Great Fortress, the guards were frozen stiff, but none was colder than a small, young mouse called Dabo. He could no longer feel his feet. He sensed, rather than felt, the musket in his frozen paws. Drawing in a painful breath of icy air, he let it out in a long sigh of misery.

  He had never wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to be a farmer, and grow wheat, and make cider ... but like many of his fellow-students at the University of Aramon, Dabo had been forced into Cambray’s army. For months he had been on guard duty in one part of the Great Fortress or another. But tonight, resentment was burning in his heart.

  His comrades had long since trooped off thankfully to the warm guardroom on the floor below. Dabo could imagine them toasting their toes and thawing their blood with warm, spiced ale. But one of the soldiers meant to be taking over sentry duty was ill, so the Officer of the Guard had ordered Dabo, as the youngest,
to stay on duty. That was two hours ago. And Dabo had had enough.

  Cautiously, he looked round at the other sentries. All were in place, staring outwards. Greatly daring, Dabo took a step backwards. No one noticed. He ventured another. On numbed feet, he turned and inched across to the top of the stairs. Still no one noticed that he’d left his post. Probably all brain-frozen, he thought. Leaning his musket against the stone buttress, Dabo slowly descended the stairs.

  He crept down to the first landing. Now where? He dared not go to the guardroom. Suddenly he remembered the penalty for deserting your post on guard duty: death by firing squad! Oh, Lord of Light, what had he done? But he would have frozen to death anyway, had he stayed up there much longer.

  A door. Half open. Candlelight spilling out into the gloomy passage. The crackle of a fire! Creeping forward, he dared to pop his snout around the door­post. The room was empty.

  He scurried over to the fire and was basking in its warmth when he heard footsteps and a low murmur of voices.

  Across one corner of the room stood a tall, wooden cupboard. Dabo scampered over and managed to squeeze behind it. The old, wormy timber smelt musty, and cobwebs spanned the gap between cupboard and wall. But at least he was out of sight.

  Two pairs of footsteps entered the room: one, light and hesitant, the other clumping and purposeful. Then a voice, and at the sound of it Dabo wished he was back on the rooftop.

  ‘Shut the door. And stay by it. You stink.’ It was General Cambray!

  ‘As Your Honour wishes.’ Dabo did not recognize the voice, but the smell that penetrated even to his hiding place had him pressing his sleeve against his snout.

  ‘So!’ said the General, throwing himself into his chair. ‘Gideon – here? Actually here, in the Fortress – plotting treason with Rumont? Nah! I don’t believe it!’