by Robin Jarvis
Worried murmurs now hissed from everyone’s lips and the Lady Ninnia called to her subjects in a voice filled with urgency and dread. “Beware!” she cried. “Run for cover! Save yourselves! That is no cloud—it is a host of bats! The forces of Hrethel are upon us!”
At that her people screamed and panic seized them. In their haste to escape, families were separated, stalls were blundered into and pies trampled underfoot. With frightened howls, the voles scurried to bolt-holes and the beribboned hedgehog dived under the flimsy shelter of a torn canopy.
Only the black squirrels remained upon the lawns—their eyes fixed upon the bats high above.
“Never have so many Knights of the Moon crossed our borders,” the Lord Cyllinus muttered under his breath, “yet why do they not attack? Why remain up there? Are they waiting—toying with us to increase our fear?”
His wife touched the bronze amulet about her neck, as if searching for an answer. “I cannot tell,” she answered shaking her head, “but does it not appear to you that as yet the enemy is unaware of us? I doubt if they even know we are here. Remember that the sun confounds them, no bat goes to war in the daylight.”
Cyllinus dragged his eyes from the great cloud and cast about the confusion that rampaged over the lawns. “Where is Gelenos with our Belle?” he asked. “I pray they are safe within the oak.”
“Behold!” Ninnia cried. “See, my husband—the winged beasts are already engaged in battle.”
Cyllinus glanced upwards once more and, sure enough, it seemed that the bats were mobbing some other creature of the air. Now the sounds of hideous voices were heard over the Hazel Realm and tiny points of dazzling light flashed within that dark mass as countless steel talons executed their deadly work.
Alone, amid the rushing clamour of terrified squirrels and mice, Ysabelle stood. Her large brown eyes gazed intently at the horror above and her ears caught the furious beating of many wings. She had heard hundreds of tales about bats, how wicked and cruel they were, but she never dreamed that she would see one. Now thousands of the unclean nightmares were directly above her. A wintry cold seeped into her muscles as she faced this terrible spectacle and the unnatural twilight grew deeper all around.
The immense host was gripped in a frenzy of hate and anger. They thrashed their wings and struck out wildly with their gauntlets—nothing was going to cheat them of their birthright and though the sun bewildered and blinded them, they had pursued the quarry far and wide and now he was theirs.
A feather drifted from the seething cloud and the high voices of the Moonriders exulted in triumph—they had conquered and it was beaten.
Upon the ground, Ysabelle saw a flurry of bloody feathers fall from the shadowy mass and she shook her head in dismay. What vicious savages those creatures were.
At that moment the boundary wardens came racing from the borders. Into the clearing they ran, with longbows in their grasp.
“Green guide our arrows!” they called, stringing their bows and taking aim.
With a sharp hiss, fifty darts went singing through the sky, plunging deep into the bat swarm.
Ysabelle watched as a dozen Moonriders tumbled from the darkness and were dashed against the trees below.
Another torrent of arrows whistled upwards, yet—even as the shafts shot into the vast cloud, something glinted and fell through the air like a glittering stone.
The squirrel maiden stepped forward in wonder as the shining missile came hurtling down and before she knew what she was doing, Ysabelle had caught it in her paws.
Trembling, she opened her fist and gazed at the wondrous thing in her palm. There, gleaming in the sunlight, was a silver acorn.
Ysabelle gasped, but there was no time to think. For, as she raised her eyes from the symbol of the Starwives, the squirrel maiden screamed.
Ysabelle threw up her arms; a stream of crimson rained down and spatters of hot blood showered upon her.
Shrieking, she leapt away—just as a great shredded mass of feathers came crashing to the ground.
Ysabelle was too horrified to speak; in ghastly tatters, the body of the peregrine lay still upon the blood-dewed grass. The talons of the bats had been cruelly efficient and the once proud lord of the air was dead.
Numb with terror, the squirrel maiden stared at it for a moment—then her ears heard...
The bat host was bellowing with rage. Out of the sky the Knights of the Moon came, the jaws of their screechmasks open wide. Down they dived, their wings folded—plummeting after the body of the falcon, down to where a solitary squirrel stood with the amulet in her fingers.
Ysabelle saw them, she saw the dreadful face of the leader’s barbaric helmet draw closer and watched as the blood dripped from the gauntlets which already reached for her.
“Guide our arrows!” cried the sentries as they fired into the rushing enemy.
“Get down!” a voice shouted to Ysabelle. “Get down!”
The squirrel wailed and threw herself upon the ground. Two pairs of talons sliced the empty space where she had stood and she could feel the draught of the bat’s wings as it raced past.
“Stay there!” the voice shouted.
Ysabelle heard something clattering towards her, but she dared not look up.
Wendel Maculatum, travelling stoat and general ninny, pelted towards the maiden. With the handles of his cart in his paws he sped to save her. The captains of the infernal swarm were almost upon them. Ysabelle covered her ears and the jester let out a painful howl as a bitter blade raked through his shoulder.
Hurling his cart forward, Wendel launched himself after.
Ysabelle stared as two rickety wheels skidded to a halt either side of her. Then, panting for breath and clutching his wounds, the stoat dived under the cart.
“Hold on,” he yelled. “’Tis our only chance. They have us!”
The full fury of the bats fell on the jester’s cart.
Ysabelle closed her eyes and clutched the underside of the little wagon for dear life. The noise was deafening as the ferocious might of the Moonriders ripped and tore at the painted wood above.
“Why doesn’t someone do something?” Ysabelle wept. “Save us please!”
“Don’t you be afeared,” Wendel bawled, trying to sound brave, “your archers are doing their best.”
“Look out!” Ysabelle screamed.
One of the bats was crawling beneath the cart towards them. His screechmask removed, cruel black eyes glared at the pair of them and he bared his fangs at the squirrel who held the silver acorn.
“Aaiiee!” Wendel whined. “Keep away villain!” He kicked out with his feet, struck the bat’s jaw and sent him sprawling against a wheel where his head cracked on a spoke. The creature slumped in a heap—but others were coming after.
The cart bucked and jolted, tearing the skin from Ysabelle’s palms as she vainly tried to hold on.
“It’s no use!” she sobbed. “We are lost!”
The stoat winced at the pain in his shoulder but his eyes were on the bats who steadily crept nearer. “’Tis a sorry end for a jester!” he babbled. “No laughter to see me out!”
Roaring like a thunderstorm, the legions of Moonriders hurled themselves against the cart until it was totally obliterated. It was this that held their full attention—so desperate were they to retrieve the amulet. None paid any heed to the wardens of the Hazel Realm as they let loose volleys of arrows. Even when their brethren fell dead to the ground they continued to vent their wrath upon the humble little wagon.
From a distance, the Lady Ninnia watched the terrible spectacle with her heart in her mouth. Tears were in both her and her husband’s eyes. Their daughter was the focus for that boiling anger and they were powerless to save her.
“Belle!” Cyllinus murmured.
Then the guards of Coll Regalis drew their swords and, with grim faces, charged at the frightful enemy.
So blade and talon clashed. In the deadly combat that ensued, squirrels were slain by screechmask and
gauntlet but many bats were impaled upon spear and sword. The bows of the wardens continued to sing and the toll of the dead mounted rapidly.
Faced with this unexpected challenge, the bats faltered. Already the sun dazzled and bewildered them and they were still weak from the chase. Now bright swords glared from all sides, mirroring the fierce sunlight in a mesh of blazing steel and they beheld how many of their number were already dead upon the grass of this strange land.
General Rohgar squinted about him, the talons of his gauntlets gouged deep into the cart and he snarled within Slaughtermaw. One of his captains shrieked beside him as an arrow plunged deep into his chest. Another Moonrider was struck from behind and tumbled lifeless to the ground. With a furious beating of his wings, Rohgar took to the air and called his brethren to follow.
“Come,” he bellowed, “this is not the time! The daystar confounds our senses—let us withdraw to the darkness of the forest. These morsels can wait till nightfall.”
He soared into the blue sky and, like a plume of black smoke, the rest of his army reared up and followed.
But the boundary wardens continued to shoot and a great number of retreating Moonriders failed to reach the safety of the dark woods.
The squirrels watched in silence as the host departed, flying in a straggly formation over the treetops until they were lost from sight.
“Ysabelle!” the Lady Ninnia shouted.
Running forward, she pushed through a sea of the wounded and dead—to where the jester’s cart stood splintered and broken.
Ninnia held her breath as she saw the damage that the Knights of the Moon had wrought—if their talons could do that to wood, she dared not think what horror awaited her.
“Mother?”
A meek voice spoke from beneath the wreckage. Ninnia’s heart leapt and she heaved at the cart to lift it.
A strong paw touched her own as Cyllinus joined her and together they hurled the battered shelter aside.
There, trembling and huddled against the stoat, was Ysabelle.
The young maiden wept and threw her arms about her parents. “It was awful,” she cried, “there were so many. Father—we couldn’t have held them off any longer. They almost... they almost...”
Several moments passed as the three black squirrels held one another. Behind them the guards lay down their weapons and offered prayers of thanks, while from the trees and countless bolt-holes, other folk nervously ventured.
“Ooh aah eeh!” Wendel muttered as he gingerly staggered to his feet. “Never have I faced so unappreciative an audience. ’Tis the first time they truly were after my blood.”
Ysabelle wiped her eyes and put out her paws to him. “Mother,” she said, “this stoat did save my life. Without him the bats would certainly have killed me.”
Both Ninnia and Cyllinus turned to the jester. He was a sorry sight, his wound was bleeding badly, yet even in this desperate hour he looked comical. The red and yellow head-dress was torn and hung sadly about his face like three drooping ears. He stared at the two squirrels and made a painful bow.
“Majesties,” he spluttered.
“Good sir,” Ninnia began, “you have saved our beloved daughter. For such a gallant deed no reward would be enough, yet name what you will and it shall be thine.”
“Whatever your heart desires we shall grant,” Cyllinus added, “for our Belle is precious to us.”
Wendel gaped at them for a second then gave Ysabelle an impudent wink. “Gracious lady and noble lord,” he said with a chuckle in his voice, “tell me—what would a fool do with such a reward? Nay, leave the jester be, let him continue his merry craft and spoil him not.”
“As you so wish,” Cyllinus replied, “yet your wounds need attention and our woodwrights can at least repair your cart. What say you..?” He turned to his wife but she was gazing at their daughter.
Ysabelle held up her paw and there, shining in her fingers, was the silver acorn.
Ninnia touched the bronze hazelnut about her own neck and the world grew chill once more.
Her husband frowned and the crowd that had gathered about them gasped in wonder. “What does this mean?” he asked in a whisper. “What omen of disaster is this?”
The lady Ninnia closed her eyes and when she answered her voice was filled with grief. “Greenreach has fallen,” she said.
3 - Farewell to the Hazel
Master Godfrey hurried along the corridor and tucked the scrolls he had been studying under his arm. Although the meeting was not due to start just yet he was anxious to be one of the first there. For many years he had served the Lady Ninnia but never had such a crisis occurred before—never again would Aldertide hold any joy for the folk of the Hazel Realm. The memory of the morning’s events would remain long after he had sped to the Green.
The council chamber was a great room adorned only by the banners of the five houses. Two thrones dominated one wall and before these a series of plain benches were formally arranged. Master Godfrey grunted at the guards outside the entrance and waved them aside as he strode within.
At once he drew himself up and stared about him. The chamber was full. The Lord and Lady were already seated and all manner of folk were crammed onto the benches. Sitting on a smaller throne, the young princess sat with her maid, having bathed three times to be rid of the falcon’s blood.
“Master Godfrey!” the Lady Ninnia called. “Come, we did delay the meeting for your arrival.”
The squirrel cleared his throat and strutted pompously to his place beside the thrones—vexed that he had not been the first to arrive.
His fellow counsellors nodded solemnly as he took his position—it was indeed a most grave and dreadful day.
“Did you discover what you sought?” Ninnia asked.
Godfrey patted the scrolls he carried and said that he had.
“Then we must make haste and begin,” she said before directing her gaze at the multitude of troubled faces that were trained on her. “A grievous and ill-fated day has this become,” she addressed them. “Who could have thought when the day of the alder dawned that its joy would be invaded and marred by our enemies?”
Everyone shook their heads and muttered angrily.
Ninnia held up her hand for silence. “Please,” she told them, “this is not a time for vengeful words, nor talk of war. Let us consider what strange circumstances brought this disaster upon us.” She signalled to the sentries who were standing at the back and they hurried from the room only to return a minute later, dragging something behind them.
The crowd caught their breath; some of the black squirrels growled fiercely, others leapt to their feet and drew what weapons they had. A red squirrel buried her face into her bushy tail while another let out an accusing shriek and tried to clamber over his neighbours.
“Peace!” the Lady commanded. “Bring him forward.”
Bound in chains and surrounded by guards, the prisoner was dragged. He was a Knight of the Moon—one of Rohgar’s many captains. His screechmask and gauntlets had been confiscated but his pride was not so easily taken. A livid wound scarred the bat’s chest and a great rip had rendered his wings useless—yet his sharp eyes which roved about the room were filled with arrogance and hatred.
Into the centre of the chamber the prisoner was thrust, right into the very heart of his enemies. If only he was free—then would they know true terror.
“Stop there!” one of the guards ordered. The squirrel yanked on a chain and the bat fell awkwardly upon his face. The silence in the room seemed to press down as every eye fixed upon the bat and burned him with their loathing.
Ysabelle could not bear to look at the vile beast—what a spectre of ugliness. She shuddered at the sight of him and was grateful that nothing so accursedly repellent roamed abroad in the daylight. By her side Griselda did not disguise her own feelings and pulled an expression of pure disgust.
The clink of the chains was the only sound as the creature lumbered to its feet. He would not be subjugated by t
his filth—they would not see him grovel on his knees!
“What is thy name?”
The bat glowered at the squirrel queen and ached to kill her.
Ninnia asked him again, “I know that your kind understand our tongue. What is thy name?”
He spat on the floor and his beady eyes grew narrow, sliding from one of his captors to another.
“Of the fallen,” Ninnia continued, “thou art the only survivor—my archers are skilled in their art. The tally of thy dead has mounted to over seventy, but there are doubtless many more who were struck down outside our borders.”
The prisoner snarled and lurched forward, but the guards held him and, though he bared his fangs, Ninnia resumed the interrogation.
“Over seventy Knights of the Moon,” she repeated, “is that not a shameful waste of life? Even now their bodies are being burned on a great pyre. Will you not tell me what mission brought your forces hither?”
The bat made no answer.
“Ysabelle,” the lady said gently, “show to our guest that which you found this morning.”
Slowly, Ysabelle rose from her chair, her eyes staring at the repulsive bat. Then she raised her paw for all to see and uncurled her fingers. The silver acorn gleamed in her palm and everyone held their breath.
At once the prisoner squirmed and struggled, straining at his bonds to free himself. Griselda squealed, fearing that he would succeed and scampered round the back of the thrones. But the chains were strong and the guards were not about to release him.
“Tell me,” Ninnia commanded and now her voice was cold and frightening, “what terrible fate has befallen the land of Greenreach? Why did the Starwife surrender her symbol of office to so strange a messenger as the one your kind savagely murdered?”
A mocking sneer crept over the bat’s face. Why not tell them? Let them know the awesome might of Hrethel’s forces—let them spend their remaining hours quaking in mortal dread.
“Heglyr is my name!” he declared in their speech. “Captain of the ninth colony—and may my words give thee no comfort.”
