by Robin Jarvis
“No!” Indith firmly replied. “It is no merry game that General Rohgar leads the might of the twelve colonies into. All have been trained and know their part exactly. The pouch bombers must learn each other’s movements to the smallest degree—the slightest deviation from their plotted route would be disastrous. Fire eggs are deadly tools of war, Vesper, not nursery toys and only the most skilful Moonrider may bear them.”
“But Mother!” he begged desperately. “In this, the war to end all wars, I merely want to observe. I want to see those squirrels perish for what they and their Starwife have done to us. They are filthy creatures—would you deny me that?”
“We all despise them Vesper,” Indith replied—her voice trembling with emotion. “Those loathsome savages have inflicted much sorrow upon our kind. How many times have I desired to don the armour of your father and slay some of those tree rats myself?”
She took a deep breath and tried to control the anger that was bubbling inside her. Vesper waited and chewed his wispy beard while his mother calmed herself. Eventually Indith shook her wings then put them about her son’s shoulders.
“Oh my dear child,” she said with a faint smile, “fear not, there will be other times to prove your mettle.”
“Will there?” he asked doubtfully.
Indith hugged him tightly. “Tomorrow you shall know it. Once our warriors have destroyed the Starwife and all her hateful subjects, the enchantment she wrought will be broken forever and then you will know.”
“What will it be like? To have our birthright once more—what manner of things shall we see?”
Vesper’s mother closed her eyes and chanted dreamily—her voice blending with the hymns floating up from below. “Prophecy and insight,” she cooed, “bestowed upon us by the Heavenly Lady. By Her leave our race may look into the hearts of others, view distant lands and glimpse what may come to pass. That is our gift my child and by the dawn we shall possess it once more.”
Vesper unwrapped himself from Indith’s wings. “Why did the squirrels take it from us?” he asked.
“Jealousy and fear,” she replied, hopping back to the bowl of scarlet pigment. “Ever have the tree rats hated us and dreaded our birthright—lest one day we use it against them and their squalid lands.”
“But we would never have done such a thing!” he protested. “Are all squirrels so mistrustful and full of malice?”
“Every one!” she affirmed. “Never trust the subjects of the Starwife, my son, nor any of the other branches of their unholy house. The only squirrel you can be sure of—is the one dangling on the end of a gauntlet.”
“Yet they must be very powerful, to cast the enchantment and to have made it last all these many years.”
Indith gave the paint a severe stirring; it slopped over the edge of the bowl and drenched her toes. “Oh yes!” she spat, “They have power—of a sort, but its origin is totally evil! That is how they have managed to keep their realm protected all these years, by weaving a wall of dark magic around it to keep us out. But soon they’ll learn; soon our agent will complete her work and the defences will be no more. The land of Greenreach shall fall!”
Abruptly, the distant hymn came to an end and they knew the pouch bombers were taking to the air. Indith uttered a small gasp of annoyance, gathered up as many bowls as she could carry and hurried out of the chamber to deliver them to the other Moonriders who would still be waiting.
Alone, Vesper looked back at the screechmask and sniffed unhappily—the greatest night in all their history and he was too young to take part. It really wasn’t fair—if only there was some way.
1 - Blood on the Oak
It was a dark time, a time of magic and menace. Great forests covered the land and the world was still wild and dangerous. In the ancient woods, spirits of stone and stream lingered and fearsome beasts prowled through the gloomy leaf shade.
The folk who dwelt in the tiny hamlets at the forest’s fringe feared what lurked in the frightening realm of root and branch.
The serfs and villeins who waited upon the knights and tilled the fields, trembled when the sun set behind the surrounding forests. In their fancy, the powers of the dark were abroad. Only a fool would venture from hearth and home after dusk, when demons stalked through the unlit land and in midnight woods all manner of terrors shrieked and hunted for prey. Everyone believed that dragons crept stealthily between the trees, blowing poison from their immense jaws, and the humble folk feared these imaginary creatures far more than the real dangers they had to endure.
Yet, if only they knew what was truly awakening, deep within the medieval forests. If they had but the slightest notion of the real evil which was taking shape and growing more powerful with each passing moonrise.
For all things it was a deadly time, yet in some isolated places, the light of reason and understanding continued to shine. Age after age, back to the dawn of dawns, when the first oak sprang from the soil and the hawthorn bloomed, the Starwives had ruled.
According to their legends, the black squirrels were the first to awaken, born among the branches of the new trees upon the green hill which reached down to the great river. There, in the Greenreach, they were divided into five royal houses and they took for themselves lands to govern. Yet over all the Starwife reigned.
While the proud princes departed to seek new realms, the Handmaiden of Orion remained in Greenreach, for there was the source of her power and there the spirits of growth and life wandered.
But as the years passed and the generations slid by, the royal houses were separated; their lands dwindled as the forests grew dark and their borders shrank until they were like islands struggling to repel a black tide and the woods that surrounded them became filled with horror.
Yet, in the land of Greenreach, the flowers continued to bud. No frost nor breath of winter touched the sacred hill and there at least the spirit of the Green still walked, blessing the groves and trees with his presence.
At the summit of the holy place, a mighty oak stood, its branches spread far and high and within its vast trunk the Starwife dwelt, watching the darkening world and grieving for it.
For six hundred years the Hallowed Oak had towered over the blessed land and its roots reached deep into the earth, delving down into the caverns and dark grottoes that twist beneath the world. And there, moving silently through a dank, dripping tunnel, a cloaked figure moved with stealth.
It was a tall, black squirrel who, with furtive steps, crept along the slimy path. A long staff was clenched tightly in her grasp, at the top of which a candle dimly burned.
The frail yellow light guttered in the stale airs which moved through the underground passageways and the squirrel’s shadow swelled vast behind her.
Her face was gaunt and her hair was scraped back over her bony head. The large eyes which glared at the treacherous ground were set deep behind a wedge-shaped nose and heavy lids drooped over them. Upon her brow she wore a circlet of silver and the brooch which fastened her black cloak was fashioned into the shape of an oak leaf.
It was an unpleasant face and the candlelight fled before it, as though it, too, shivered at such a grim visage.
The Lady Morwenna cursed the mud which oozed over the path. It was undignified to have to venture down here—but soon all humiliations would be over.
“Where is that wretched door?” she hissed to herself. Only she had ever dared to descend beneath the Hallowed Oak. No other squirrel, red or black had ever had the courage to explore these ghastly caverns. A sinister smile split Morwenna’s face. “Well, if they have,” she muttered in a voice as sharp as her features, “none have ever returned.”
The tunnel began to wind and she breathed a sigh of relief, for a moment she thought she had taken a wrong turn—even she was not completely sure of the way.
Holding the candle before her, she strode confidently forward and there, appearing out of the darkness, was a small wooden door.
Leaning the staff against the rough wall, Morwen
na fumbled for the keys which jangled at her waist. They were attached to a large iron ring and were of many different sizes and designs. Squinting in the flickering light, she selected a small, rusted specimen and slid it into the lock.
The door opened a chink, it was very heavy and she had to push with all her strength before entry was possible.
The chamber beyond was loftier than the passageway and she could straighten her back at last, but the place stank. The foul reek of stagnant water and rank mould invaded her nostrils and the squirrel spluttered for a second, mirroring the action of the candle.
Then she mastered herself and looked about her, holding the flame above her head.
She was standing upon a muddy shore which fell away into turgid water, the surface of which was covered by green scum. It was impossible to tell just how great the chamber was, for the light did not penetrate far into the blackness, yet judging by the resounding echoes it must have been immense.
Morwenna pulled the folds of her thick cloak about her, keeping out the pervading chill, and cast her glance upon the shore.
The mud was churned with many, frenzied footprints. Here and there a splayed claw could clearly be discerned and Morwenna noted with satisfaction that there were no signs of the last meal to be found.
She raised her sharp face once more and stared blindly into the dark. “Dear ones,” she crooned, “come see what dainty I have for you. Come to me my lovelies—where are you?”
From the invisible distance there came a sudden “PLOOP!” as a bubble erupted on the surface of the water. Morwenna grinned and took from a pocket in her cloak some shreds of raw meat.
Another bubble burst from the foul water and a vile belching croak echoed around the cavern.
The squirrel threw the scraps upon the shore and waited, her paw resting upon the hilt of a dagger at her side.
Now the chamber was filled with horrible gurglings, the water seethed and bestial grunts roared towards her.
Into the candlelight, floating on the surface and cutting through the scum, sailed a pair of round, golden eyes. They blinked when they came close to the shore, wincing at the harsh flame. Then the eyes rose from the water.
The head on which they sat was one of the ugliest nature had ever created. Clusters of warts peppered the snout and blistered down the ridged spine. The creature’s mouth was misshapen, being repulsively wide and the glistening lips dripped with slime. A gnarled and webbed claw thrust forward, squelching through the mud as a vast toad hauled itself from the mire.
It was an odious, bloated abomination. Two narrow nostrils snorted the bad air, questing for the scent of fresh meat. Onto the slippery shore it lumbered, heaving its pale, sagging belly over the mud to where the squirrel was waiting.
“There,” Morwenna purred, “see what I bring you.”
The globular eyes roved in their bulging sockets, looking from the squirrel to the scraps that had been thrown on the floor.
Morwenna raised her paw and her hideous pet waited for the signal. From the murky water beyond, other sounds were bubbling nearer, but the toad’s brothers would have to go hungry this time.
Quickly, she made a sign and the creature dived at the morsels upon the ground. Black mud flew everywhere as the vile beast slobbered and swallowed its way through the meal.
“There’s my beauty,” Morwenna lovingly murmured, “there’s my fine jewel.” As she said this, and while the toad’s attention was fixed solely upon the raw meat, the squirrel deftly drew her dagger from its sheath. Carefully, she stole behind the guzzling horror and slowly raised the blade.
Without warning, she leapt forward, bringing her foot violently down upon the back of the toad’s head. The beast let out an outraged squeal as its face was forced into the mud and, squirm though it may, it could not escape.
“Fret you not my darling,” Morwenna assured it, “there’s naught to fear—’twill not take long.”
The dagger flashed in the candlelight as she brought it close to the monster’s putrid skin. After a moment’s consideration she found the largest of the pustules that clustered over the slimy back and pricked it with the blade. At once, a watery, dark green liquid squirted from the wound but Morwenna was ready and collected all that she could in a tiny phial of blue glass.
The toad wriggled beneath her and gargled huge mud bubbles in protest, but Morwenna had got what she came for.
“’Tis over now, my emerald,” she said soothingly. “What a fuss, pretty one.” She tucked the dagger back in the sheath and placed the precious phial in her cloak pocket. As she rose and stood back from her pet, the creature thrashed its stumpy arms and the head reared angrily out of the ooze.
The squirrel jumped backwards as the wide mouth lunged for her, snapping its bloodless lips.
“How dare you!” she screamed, reaching for the candle staff. “Get you back into the water—I’ll teach you to snarl at me!” Furious at this unspeakable rebellion, Morwenna struck the toad with the end of the staff, clouting it round the offending jaws until the golden eyes squeezed shut and the beast shambled a hasty retreat to the water’s edge where it plunged silently into the blackness and sank from view.
The Lady Morwenna waited until she was sure the thing had gone before returning to the doorway. From the dark pool, several new pairs of eyes gazed morosely across at her and she gave a cruel little laugh.
“Have patience, my other loves,” she called. “Shortly your rancid bellies will be full of the sweetest meat you have ever tasted.” And with that she closed the door behind her.
With grim determination, she made her way back through the winding tunnels. Up she strode, passing under curtains of fibrous roots and narrow caves of cold stone. Her work this night was not yet over, there were still some matters she had to attend to—and now she was prepared.
“One final measure and the deed will be done,” she told herself, “then will all those years of fawning and wearing a servile mask be at an end.”
Up she climbed, up out of the dank grottoes, up to where the mud no longer flowed over the path, but where the earth was dry and the soil fragrant and wholesome.
Wiping the sticky grime from her feet, Morwenna paused before a plain wooden door and unlocked it swiftly. This led into the Hallowed Oak and she hesitated before entering. Was there anything that would betray her evil intentions? Taking a moment to groom herself and adjust the circlet upon her brow, she opened the door and walked inside.
Within the ancient tree, all was quiet. Silver lamps were suspended from the carved ceiling and they cast deep shadows over Morwenna’s hooded eyes. A flight of stairs cut into the living timber rose before her and she quickly blew out the candle she was carrying before ascending.
Over the centuries, the craftworkers of Greenreach had wrought many intricate and beautiful designs into the stairway and about its walls. There were images of the thirteen important trees which formed the squirrel calendar and the emblems of all the royal houses were repeated in an endlessly twisting border. On the ceiling, arranged about the lamps, were the patterns of stars and these were inlaid with burnished gold that threw back the silver light until it glittered and danced over the steps.
Morwenna paid the elaborate decoration no heed. She had been climbing these stairs for most of her life and she never noticed nor appreciated the labour that had gone into creating them. Now her mind was focused on one goal only and nothing could have distracted her from it.
The stairway was long and winding, spiralling as it did within the trunk of the great oak tree. The doors that she passed led only to store rooms and the chambers where the serfs slept. These were mostly red squirrels, for their wisdom was not as great as their black cousins and they indulged in too much laughter to be considered useful for anything else.
As she passed one of the dormitories, Morwenna allowed herself a sneering smile—yes, only one of the older race, such as she could contemplate the ultimate, treacherous act.
“M’Lady.”
; The voice startled her and wrenched Morwenna from her reverie. A guard was standing before her, a spear in his grasp.
She eyed him for a second. He was a black squirrel like herself. A tunic of green, edged with gold, showed that his duties were confined to the Hallowed Oak and the protection of the Starwife.
Morwenna gave him a syrupy smile and spoke the passwords. The guard bowed and stood aside.
She had reached the grand hall and here too, the artistry of those long dead proudly showed itself. Intertwining leaves in perfect detail rippled over the curving walls, seeming to grow up to the vaulted ceiling where blossoms of every kind were suspended by golden wires.
The hall was filled with sentries and guards. Red squirrels laughed together as they hurried about their duties and Morwenna gazed at them dispassionately. The merry voices failed to touch the black heart in her breast. Not a soul would be spared, she had decided this long ago.
From the crowd, a squirrel maiden came running towards her. “My Lady Morwenna!” she cried. “Stay a moment. Would you not tarry a while? We are all anxious for word of Her.”
Morwenna turned. It was Fearn—one of the royal princesses, those maidens who dwelt in the sacred groves. She also wore a circlet about her brow and in its centre sparkled a finely cut stone. About her shoulders she wore a mantle of purest white and a belt of silver was fastened about her waist.
“Have you marked any change?” the princess asked. “My sisters have sent me to discover what news I could.”
The sharp-featured squirrel managed a frosty smile and the wedge-shaped face took on the aspect of one burdened with care and concern. “As yet there is none,” she replied in a hushed voice. “Alas my mistress still lies abed and grows weaker, I fear.”
“Then she is failing,” Fearn uttered sorrowfully. “What unhappy tidings I have to tell my sisters. Tell Her that we have prayed and may the hours that remain be peaceful.”
