by Robin Jarvis
He twisted his vile head and stared at the entire assembly, relishing the fear he saw on their faces. “Greenreach has indeed fallen,” he hissed, “our legions destroyed the stinking lair of the Starwife this past night—and she too has been deservedly put to death!”
Anger and astonishment rippled through the chamber, the Lord Cyllinus gripped the arms of the throne until his knuckles turned white and Ysabelle gasped in disbelief. Only Ninnia seemed unmoved.
“Impossible,” her voice rang out. “The power of the Starwife is unassailable—nothing can break through her defences!”
Heglyr threw back his head and guffawed. “Is that so?” he crowed. “Is that really the truth? Then know this, a traitor have we nurtured in the bosom of that squalid land. ’Twas our creature who opened the way and the pouch bombers did wreathe the hill with a crown of fire. Nought remains there now, only ash blooms upon the charred branches and death fills the air.”
Ysabelle could bear it no more; she despised this stunted abomination and to hear him gloating was too much. “You massacred them!” she cried. “You cowards! They did nothing to you—what right had you to take their lives? May you and your wretched kind rot!”
“Return to your seat,” Ninnia said firmly. “Do as I ask.”
Her daughter obeyed and Griselda came and took her paw. “That’s telling the nasty devil, M’lady,” she whispered.
“Tell me the name of this traitor,” Ninnia demanded.
The bat merely sniggered. “I would fain cut out mine own tongue first!” he told her. “But this I shall willingly tell thee. None here is safe, for when the sun sets behind the world’s rim, our forces shall return. All will be rested and ready for battle. I have no doubt that others of our kind have been mustered; even as we bandy words the legions are swelling. Come nightfall they shall descend on thee and with them they shall bring the dreaded fire-eggs which nothing can withstand. Enjoy this day to the full, oh petty monarch, for verily it is thy last.” And with that, the bat chuckled, laughing at their scared and stupid faces.
There was a silence which slowly slipped into a frightened babble of voices until the chamber was in uproar.
“Silence!” the Lady called, but no one heard her. So terrible was the prospect of the coming evening that they could think of nothing else.
“We will have order in here!” Master Godfrey had stepped forward and was clapping his paws for attention. “The Lady Ninnia has called for silence, listen to what she has to say. You there, Mistress Toggle—shut up!”
“But if Greenreach has been destroyed,” the squirrels protested, “what chance has our little realm? No magic defends our borders. If the bats don’t get what they want we shall all be murdered!”
“That’s right!” laughed Heglyr. “Each and every one shall taste the steel. Surrender while you can, give up the pagan bauble. Let me take it to my kin.”
A few of the red squirrels listened to his advice and thought it was the only solution. “Yes!” they yelled. “Give it back, give the acorn to the bats!”
At this, Ninnia strode from her throne. “Give it back?” she repeated. “The amulet belongs to no Moonrider! Only a Starwife may possess the silver—what madness are you contemplating?”
“But the Starwife is dead!”
“Then a new one must be found!”
“But all the Greenreach maidens have perished!” they cried.
Ninnia paced before the thrones, fingering her own badge of office. Gradually the outbursts were quelled as all looked to her to find the answer. Surely her renowned wisdom would find a way to save them. Finally silence reigned once more, with only the footsteps of the Lady to disturb it.
At length, she returned to the throne and breathed deeply. When she finally spoke her voice was slow and deliberate, as if trying to control some deep and powerful emotion. “There is but one course we can take!” she declared, blinking away the tears which had sprung to her eyes.
“Whatever befalls us, the acorn must be withheld from the forces of Hrethel. It is our duty now to restore a Starwife to Greenreach. To this purpose we must send an army to the holy land and rid it of the bat menace.”
The squirrels stared at her, too stunned to speak. It was the prime counsellor who eventually put their doubts into words. “But, forgive me,” Godfrey muttered, “surely our strength, skilled though it may be, is no match for the might of the Moonriders and their fire-eggs. It would take the combined forces of all the noble houses to vanquish and rout them from Greenreach.”
Ninnia managed a faint smile. “The messengers have already been despatched,” she said softly. “In five days the four armies shall meet on the borders of the holy land and the battle for it will commence.”
“Fools!” Heglyr yelled. “What pitiful schemes you plot! None of you will ever leave this place—my kind shall hunt you down. What chance have you against them? The armies of your cousins may meet in Greenreach but you shall not join them. Tonight the acorn will be given to Rohgar and all your designs shall be ended!”
Master Godfrey eyed the prisoner uncertainly; he did sound awfully confident. Leaning forward, he addressed his sovereign. “Madam,” he began, “I presume this is why you asked me to find what maps of the outlying country I could. But tell me, just who is to take up the silver? You know of course that as you already possess the bronze, you cannot accept another—unless of course you relinquish the Hazel?”
“Fear not, Master Godfrey,” she assured him, “I have worn the bronze for far too long to surrender it now and I know that my place is here.”
“Then you must choose,” he said solemnly. “An heir to the silver must be found.”
Ninnia glanced at her husband and the guilt in her eyes betrayed her thoughts to him. “No,” he breathed, “you cannot!”
But the Lady raised her paw. “The choice has already been made,” she said flatly. “The new Starwife, the next Handmaiden of Orion, shall be the one who caught the silver acorn—my own daughter.”
The assembly spluttered in surprise and everyone turned to look at the young princess.
“M’lady!” Griselda squeaked, clutching her mistress’s arm with one paw and her own heart with the other.
Ysabelle stared dumbly at Ninnia. She could not believe what was being said—she had no desire to be the Starwife and her spirit quailed at the thought of it.
Cyllinus sprang to his feet. “Look at the child!” he cried. “See how she trembles at your words. Is this your wisdom, My Lady? Would you send our beautiful daughter from this realm and into certain death?”
“It would be death for her to remain,” his wife snapped back.
“Then let her die with us!”
“If she journeys to Greenreach she may not perish—that way there is hope.”
The Lord slammed his fist on the arm of her throne. “What hope?” he roared. “You know full well what dangers lie without our borders! Have we not heard the rumours? In the deep forests the cult of Hobb is rising—growing stronger with every day. Would you send our Belle into their midst? Do you know what they do to those they catch—would you inflict such horror upon your own child?”
Ninnia glared at her husband and her gaze smouldered with such furious rage that for a moment it seemed she would strike him. Then the tension eased and she quickly composed herself, but when she spoke her tone was bitter and recriminating. “Is that the regard you hold for me?” she asked. “Do you truly believe I would spend my beloved’s life so wantonly? Not easy is this for me, Cyllinus! The course I have chosen is perilous, yet there is no other.”
Her eyes left him and she turned to face her daughter. “Would that there were a different path,” she said softly, “but often the most difficult is the only way. Gladly would I go in her stead—alas, that cannot be. If I could foresee no hope, then yes we should be together when the fire-eggs begin to fall.”
Ysabelle lowered her eyes and stared at the amulet in her fingers. She hated it and wished someone else had caught the
wretched thing. It was hard for her to understand all that was being said—why did her mother want to send her away?
The Lord Cyllinus gazed at her sadly. “Do you really think there is a chance?” he asked.
There was a pause as Ninnia hesitated. “Only the faintest glimmer,” came the frightening reply.
Griselda could not bear this any longer. “M’lady,” she blurted, “I know I’m only a fieldmouse and haven’t your great wisdom, but what’s all this talk of leaving? Why can’t we just hide from the bats when they come? There’s no need to go that long way to your holy land.”
“Hah!” scoffed Heglyr. “See how the vermin squirm and squabble. Run where you may—our flames shall find you!”
“There is your answer, Griselda,” Ninnia told the mouse. “And you, my husband, do you see now?”
Cyllinus stared at the repulsive bat and he pictured the brutal scenes that would unfold that night. He shivered and returned to his seat. “So be it,” he reluctantly agreed. “Into the forests the acorn must go—back to Greenreach, and may the Green watch over it.” Then he rested his chin on his fists and said no more.
“Then we can delay no longer,” the Lady said. “Ysabelle must leave as soon as possible. Before the afternoon comes she must already be on her way.”
At her side, Master Godfrey pressed his fingertips together and nibbled his bottom lip. “Who shall travel with the princess?” he asked. “The trackless woods are a peril, the entertainers who arrived this morning are the only ones who now dare to travel and most of them journey together in great numbers and already they have departed. We must send many guards and sentries with your daughter to protect her.”
“My thanks, Master Godfrey, I do know that.”
“Then how many shall accompany her?”
Ninnia glanced at the subjects who crowded the chamber—this was an evil day and she cursed her tongue for the terror that it was about to speak. “All of them!” she answered.
“But... but My Lady!” Godfrey stammered, and the room was filled with horrified murmurs. “That would leave our land defenceless—surely we should retain some of our archers at the very least?”
“They would be useless against the strength of our enemy!” she declared. “All hope now lies with my daughter. It is she who must be protected. Our guards shall escort her through the forests to the holy land.”
“What about those of us left behind?” cried a red squirrel. “Are we to hurl stones at the Moonriders or hit them with sticks while you and your family escape?”
“You there!” Godfrey protested. “Show respect to the Lady!”
Ninnia waved him into silence and smiled grimly at the insolent squirrel. “Each has a right to speak his mind,” she told him. “As to arms—there are more than enough for all who remain. I do not think we shall resort to throwing stones—a sword and spear shall be in every fist.” Then, taking hold of her husband’s paw she said, “And this night, I too shall bear weapons. For even though our warriors are gone we must make it a glorious battle. With our lives we shall buy time for my daughter and those that guard her. The acorn must escape the vigilance of Hrethel’s forces—that is the task set before us and I shall not ‘escape’ as you put it. This is my realm and if it falls then so do I.”
“Be sure of that!” Heglyr hooted gleefully. “What folly you speak and how easily you will fall victim to my brothers.”
The Lady stared at the prisoner. “A pity you shall not be here to witness it,” she told him, “for you also shall journey to Greenreach.”
“I?” Heglyr snorted. “For what purpose?”
“Along the way I’ve no doubt my guards will be able to extract much useful intelligence from you. They will need to know how your forces are deployed in the holy land—perhaps you will also be persuaded to divulge the identity of your traitor there?”
“Never!” the bat bawled. “Thou shalt learn nothing from me!”
“That remains to be seen!” Ninnia said and Heglyr recoiled from the menace in her voice. “I have every faith in the honour of my subjects. I trust none of them would sink to the baseness of your kind but who can tell? When they are far from here and if their need is great—what means shall they employ to loosen your arrogant and defiant tongue? In the deep shadows of the dark forests I fear for what may befall you, my fine, fallen warrior.”
Her words filled Heglyr with fear—so all the stories were true, these tree rats were indeed monstrous and cruel.
Without warning, his head whirled to the side and his fangs snapped at the guard holding his chains. The squirrel leaped back and in a trice Heglyr was free!
“Hold him!” the Lady commanded.
But the bat scurried from the guards and the crowded chamber rang with shrieks and screams as he charged up to the thrones.
Cyllinus ran forward to protect his wife as Heglyr lunged at her. “Damn you into the darkness!” the prisoner screeched as rough paws seized him. “I’ll not be made to betray my Lord Hrethel!”
Whirling round, he struck the guards with his damaged wing and, with a mad laugh bellowing in his throat, he rushed at one of the sentries.
Before the squirrel could move, the bat had thrown himself upon his spear and, with a hideous gurgle, the laughter ended.
At Ysabelle’s feet, Heglyr slid silently to the floor. His upturned face seemed to stare up at her, but she knew that the wide eyes were unseeing.
Griselda covered her mouth but a shrill scream still forced its way through. Her mistress however looked on the dead bat feeling nothing but contempt.
“Good!” said Ysabelle coldly. “I’m glad it’s dead. It was ugly and vile and I hate all their kind!”
The Lady Ninnia said nothing. It was not like her daughter to be so cruel and for the first time in her life she wondered if her wisdom had failed her.
The day that had begun so merrily and which had held so much promise, was now transformed into a desperate time of grievous dread. All the boundary wardens had gathered within the avenue of trees, along with every royal guard and sentry, but midday had come and gone before the preparations were complete.
The great company resembled a vast, spiky caterpillar. A bristling array of spears and swords formed its spines and the round shields of Coll Regalis were its hide. The host was ready, and though each of the squirrels, red and black, despised the fact that they had to leave their land defenceless, all knew their duty. On foot, Greenreach was far away and they had prepared for a tiring march which would last for many days.
From the central oak, Ysabelle came. None of this seemed real to her—so awful was the nightmare that she almost expected to wake up at any moment. Moving in a daze, she crossed the clearing and made for the mighty rows of her guard.
Over her shoulder she carried a bag which Griselda had packed for her. The mousemaid had fussed a great deal about having to leave—the thought of the forests terrified her and even as she collected Ysabelle’s belongings she uttered distressed whimpers.
“M’lady!” she called, scurrying over the lawn after her mistress. “Stay a while, wait for me. Oh what madness is this? Into the jaws of terror we’re rushing!”
The mouse was burdened by many baggages: a bulging knapsack was strapped to her back, a satchel was slung over her shoulder, two fat wallets were fastened to a belt about her waist and as she ran her mousebrass jiggled and swung madly about her neck.
“I’m sure to have forgot something,” she scolded herself, running through the lists in her head. “Oh well, it can’t be helped now.”
Catching up with her mistress, Griselda panted for breath and watched her curiously. Ysabelle looked awful, her face was drawn and her eyes were glazed. She appeared to be on the point of collapse. The mouse’s heart bled for the squirrel maiden. The poor mite—she was far too young to take on the terrible responsibility of the Starwifeship.
Griselda wondered if she ought to say something to cheer her, but her own feelings were so low that any attempt would fail dismal
ly.
They came to the head of the army. A large crowd had formed about the rows of guards and the sight was painful to witness. The entire population of the Hazel Realm was once more upon the lawns although this time the only sounds were wretched and the tears that flowed innumerable.
Wives clung to husbands, children wailed—confused and forlorn because their fathers were going away—and their plaintive cries tormented the doughtiest of soldiers that day. The grief of mothers was also to be heard; to see their sons arrayed for war and the certainty that they would never meet in this world again was too much to bear. Coll Regalis was already a land in mourning.
Standing at the forefront of the lamenting crowd, Ninnia and Cyllinus waited for their daughter to approach.
“Belle!” the Lord cried. “My precious darling.” He threw his arms about her and the two remained locked in a desperate embrace.
Ninnia stood apart. A bleakness overwhelmed her, she wanted to reach out and never let go of Ysabelle. Her soul screamed within her, but she must not falter—not now. The mask must stay in place a little while longer. It would be the undoing of everything if she succumbed to her feelings.
“Remember us, Belle,” Cyllinus wept, “when the dangers are past and you sit upon the throne in Greenreach. Think of us. Do not forget me, little one.”
“Oh Father!” Ysabelle sobbed. “I don’t want to leave. Please do not make me!”
Cyllinus glanced at his wife, but her face was like stone.
“You know you must,” the Lady said. “Come, Daughter—make haste to be gone. You shall have to put much distance between yourself and this land before night falls. The litter is prepared for you.”
Taking Ysabelle lightly by the paw, she led her to where a group of eight guards saluted and came to attention. A large, gilded couch stood at their side; upon this the princess and her maid would be carried to the holy land, protected on all sides by her mighty escort. A pale green canopy was draped over the litter, and soft cushions had been arranged to make the journey as comfortable as possible.
