by Robin Jarvis
Upon the stone, the high priest shrieked with fury. A sea of flame raged about the altar and in his boiling anger he threw down his own lantern which exploded amid the fires.
“Now, My Lady!” Godfrey cried, pulling Ysabelle after him. Together they braved the scorching flames and quickly scrabbled onto the stones.
The bloody-bones figure glared down at them—they were responsible for this. Most of Hobb’s children were engulfed in the fiery tumult and his magnificent celebration had been defiled.
A long knife flashed in the high priest’s claw as Godfrey clambered up to him.
“Prepare to meet thine end!” his evil voice rang out. “No agony is too great for thee!” He lunged forward and Godfrey scurried to one side, before leaping onto the top of the stone.
The high priest whirled round and stabbed at the air between them.
“First you,” the tall, masked creature growled, “then the fair one below.”
Standing on the smallest stone, Ysabelle clasped her paws and stared up at them intently. “Be careful, Godfrey!” she breathed.
“A tasty brace of skins you shall make,” the high priest taunted the tutor, “thy blood I shall sup and on her flesh shall I dine.”
With a swift movement, he sprang at the squirrel and the knife shone cold and deadly. But Godfrey leapt aside and, as the blade came slicing down, caught hold of the high priest’s arm.
The bloody-bones snarled and struggled to wrench himself free.
“No you don’t!” Godfrey wailed, trying to shake the weapon from his opponent’s claw.
Frantically, the two figures wrangled, yet the high priest was stronger, for Godfrey was old and too long had he been absorbed in the study of books. His experience of combat was limited and at last the claw that held the knife was free.
“Now die!” laughed the bloody-bones and he plunged the knife into the squirrel’s chest.
Godfrey gasped and his face turned towards his beloved sovereign. “My Lady!” he choked.
“Godfrey!” Ysabelle screamed.
The high priest crowed in triumph as his enemy sank to his knees—but it was not over yet.
With the darkness welling up around him, Godfrey clutched at the scarlet material of the bloody-bones costume. A surprised cry issued from the high priest as the squirrel tore at him.
The world was slipping from beneath the counsellor and he toppled from the standing stone.
Yet his paws were still gripped about the garish disguise and the high priest lost his balance. With a startled yell he followed Godfrey through the air, tumbling and somersaulting towards the ground below.
It was the bloody-bones who landed first and—with a thud, Godfrey fell on top of him.
Ysabelle gaped at them in despair—for neither moved. The high priest was stunned and behind the crimson mask his eyes were shut. Godfrey lay across the prostrate body, his own blood staining the goulish costume.
Slowly, the old squirrel lifted his head and, in a rasping whisper, called to Ysabelle.
“My... My Lady...” he muttered.
Ysabelle rushed forward and knelt beside him. Around them the fire still raged but neither was aware of the fierce, baking heat. “Do not worry,” she sobbed, cradling her old tutor’s head in her paws. “You will recover, ’tis but a scratch, no more. You will get well, Master Godfrey, you must.”
A great sigh wheezed from Godfrey’s lips and he feebly shook his head. “No,” he said, “my time is done.” He raised a shaking paw and clasped his fingers about the neck of the high priest. “Take it,” he gasped, pulling the acorn free and passing it to the maiden, “bear the silver unto Greenreach. Make me proud, my little student. May the Green... may the...” And with that, Master Godfrey Gelenos breathed his last and his eyelids closed forever.
“Godfrey!” she called. “Don’t leave me! Godfrey!”
But only the crackle of the flames answered her and she bowed her head to kiss his brow.
Suddenly a savage claw flashed out and seized the maiden’s wrist.
Ysabelle screamed—behind the mask, the high priest’s eyes glared up at her.
“Give it back!” he demanded. “The amulet is mine!”
The maiden leapt away and the claw lost its grip. Clasping the silver acorn to her breast, Ysabelle span around and ran as fast as she could.
“Garr!” bellowed the high priest. Contemptuously, he flung Godfrey’s body to one side and jumped to his feet. Through the narrow eye slits of the bloody-bones costume, the loathsome creature watched Ysabelle hare up the bank of the dell.
Still tied to the tree root, Vesper wriggled and squirmed—but the ropes were firmly tied. From this vantage point, he had seen everything and when the pitch caught fire he had feared that the escaping Hobbers would slay him in their anger. But though many smouldering and singed worshippers raced past, none had paid him any heed.
In silence, the young bat witnessed the final struggle between Godfrey and the high priest, and through the billowing curtains of smoke and flame, he had seen the old squirrel die.
Now Ysabelle clambered over the edge of the burning basin and Vesper cried in amazement as she hurried over and hastily untied his bonds.
“You’re coming with me!” she told him in a rush of words.
“What..?” he began, but the squirrel maiden roughly shoved him forward.
“Hurry!” she commanded.
Vesper turned on her angrily—this tree rat wasn’t going to order him around any more. His mouth opened to tell Ysabelle exactly what he thought of her, but then his eyes saw that the altar stone, where the high priest had stood, was now empty.
“Come on!” the bat shouted, hopping quickly through the undergrowth. “Run!”
Ysabelle hurtled after him, and the pair of them raced beneath the yew trees and vanished into the darkness of the wild, midnight forest beyond.
6 - Out of the Misty Hawthorn
Ysabelle had never run so desperately in all her life. She and the young bat were level now. Vesper scooted through the long grass, not once daring to glance behind. Twice he stumbled, tripping over hidden roots, then he trod on his own wing and tumbled head over heels into a heap of rotting leaves. Quickly he recovered, grumbling fretfully about his broken wing then set off once more.
Ysabelle almost stopped to help him—for the bat was her only chance now. She wavered a moment as Vesper picked himself up then bounded forward again.
Suddenly, she ran headlong into a thick cobweb that spanned two trees. The sticky nets clung to her face in a suffocating mist and, spluttering in disgust, she wildly tore it away.
“Hurry!” cried Vesper as he raced by.
Ysabelle spat the last strands of spider’s web from her mouth and hastened after him.
The forest was a grim and frightening place. Hideously shaped trees loomed out of the darkness, and even they seemed intent on stopping the escaping prisoners. Spindly twigs reached down towards them, raking through their fur, scratching their faces and tangling in Ysabelle’s long, unbraided hair.
Further into the unlit wildness they ran, until their hearts hammered against their ribs and the air they breathed wheezed into their lungs in great gulps. A desperate weariness overtook the unlikely pair and, increasingly, their steps faltered.
Ysabelle knew she could run no more. The muscles in her legs burned with fatigue and all she wanted to do was throw herself into the long grass to rest. Gradually, the squirrel maiden slowed her pace and the distance between Vesper and herself quickly widened.
“Wait!” she called, trying to catch her breath. “I must... must sit for a moment.”
The bat continued running. “No time!” he shouted back. “If you want the Hobbers to catch you—it doesn’t worry me. Tarry here all you wish.”
Bent double and panting hard, Ysabelle fumed to hear him. She would show that miserable, small-eyed villain! Straightening, she watched as Vesper disappeared from sight—then she tore after.
With enormous strid
es, she swiftly caught up with him. The bat had stopped and was staring at the ground. Ysabelle reached out and seized him by the scruff of his neck.
“How dare you not wait!” she cried. “How dare you run away! I’ll...” Then she realised why the bat had stopped—but it was too late for her.
Vesper had been standing on the edge of a ditch, where the ground fell sharply away. Even as Ysabelle grabbed the bat’s furry neck she felt the loose soil crumble beneath her feet. Emitting a cry of surprise, the squirrel maiden slipped, let go of Vesper and slithered down the sheer bank.
“Heeeeelp!” came her startled wail as she tumbled down.
But Vesper was also in difficulties. Ysabelle had thrown him off balance and the young bat frantically flapped his wings to save himself. But it was no good and down he went.
With a squelch and a splash. Ysabelle landed in the soft mud below and rolled into a trickling stream.
For a second, she sat in a most undignified position amid the swirling, freezing water—drenched and dazed. Then Vesper came crashing beside her, but the bat fell headfirst into the ditch and when he raised his head, his face was covered in sticky black mud.
“You stupid, brainless, idiotic, clumsy blunderer!” he stormed, spluttering mud and ditchwater. “For the Moon’s sake! What made you charge into me like that and pull me down? Did you not see why I had halted?”
Ysabelle assumed some of her shattered dignity and glared at the bat angrily. “Hold your tongue!” she scolded. “Choose your words more carefully when you address Ysabelle—daughter of the Lady Ninnia and the Lord Cyllinus!”
Vesper floundered in the mud; the pain of his wing was almost unbearable. “Oh, go eat a wormy apple!” he snapped. “You’re nothing but an uppity tree worshipper.”
The squirrel picked herself up and stared down at him icily. “Foolish of me,” she snorted.
“You’re not wrong there!”
“I meant,” she hurriedly put in, “that it was foolish of me to expect anything more from a baseborn creature like yourself.”
Vesper made a rude gesture to her then wiped the mud from his face.
“Peasant,” Ysabelle muttered, “your kind are no better than those disgusting Hobbers back there. Vermin with wings—that’s what you are!”
“Keep your poxy insults to yourself!” Vesper protested. “It’s you who are called tree rats—we Moonriders aren’t related to them villains. Why, it’s a sore pity you weren’t peeled back there!”
“Listen to how hotly you deny it!” she said with a scornful laugh. “Verily I must have touched upon the truth—vermin.”
Vesper splashed to his feet. “Tree rat! Tree rat!” he yelled.
The squirrel put her paws on her hips. “You’re no Moonrider,” she sneered, “you’re not old enough.”
Her words stung the bat and, with his good wing, he scooped up a great quantity of the cold water and hurled it at her.
“Aaggghhh!” Ysabelle shrieked, dripping from head to toe. “How dare you! I am of the royal house!” She could do nothing but gape and stare as the bat pointed at her and hooted with derisive laughter.
“I can see this is going to be extremely difficult for me,” she managed to utter at last. “It would be better if we said nothing more to one another until the journey is completed. There would be no benefit to either—much wiser to assume a distinct and agreeable silence.”
Vesper stared at her perplexed. “What are you chattering on about now?” he asked.
“Greenreach,” Ysabelle told him. “I still have to get there. Why else do you think I saved you? I would gladly have left you for the Hobbers, but alas I am ignorant of the way to the holy land. I should have been more attentive to poor Godfrey when he was showing me the maps. You, however, have already been there, so now you shall be my guide.”
The bat threw back his head and roared. “Oho!” he scoffed. “Never have I encountered such a wooden head before! What fancy has made thee think that I would be willing to lead you to that place? Oh no, my fine, bushy-tailed madam—if you want to go there you shall have to find it on your own. Vespertilio has had enough of thy company to last him well into old age, so...”
Suddenly, his voice failed as, high above them, they both heard soft, sinister laughter.
Standing upon the edge of the ditch, the tall figure of the bloody-bones was glaring down at them.
Fearfully, Vesper sprang back and Ysabelle stared up in dread.
“So,” the high priest spat, “finally, the two lost lambs are found. What a frightful noise they did make, yet it was their very bleating which led me to them.”
In his claw he held the knife which had killed Master Godfrey and he lifted it high above his head so that the dull night shone over the steel. The blade was still covered in blood and Ysabelle murmured in horror, stumbling backwards where she splashed into the stream once more.
The grim blade flashed a cold light over the hideous bloody-bones mask. “Now,” the figure said in a murderous voice, “it is time for you to return to the fold.”
Tensing his muscles, the high priest slashed at the air and prepared to spring. Ysabelle covered her face, knowing that this was the end—this time she was too tired to escape. Beside her. Vesper’s eyes snapped shut as the terrifying bloody-bones leaped from the bank.
Down the evil creature dived, his infernal gloating filling the ditch with fear and despair. But even as his malevolent form rushed to kill Vesper and Ysabelle—something strange occurred.
The trickle of water that wound between the muddy shores abruptly began to glow. Veins of emerald light streaked through the stream, welling up until the entire forest seemed to blaze with its eerie brilliance.
The high priest’s laughter died in his throat as powerful forces gripped his body, catching him in mid-air, leaving him dangling like an abandoned puppet.
Ysabelle took her paws from her face and gasped in wonder around her. The water was dazzling, it shone like a ribbon of pure sunlight. All shadows were driven far away and, above her, the high priest flailed his arms and legs—unable to move in any direction.
“It’s a miracle!” Vesper whispered in disbelief.
The squirrel maiden dipped her paw in the shining stream. “Praise to the Green!” she cried as the liquid dripped from her fingers like sparkling jewels. “Do you not see? By some happy chance, we have stumbled upon one of the sacred streams that traverse the forest and connect His holy shrines!”
A furious shout made her glance back up to where the bloody-bones figure helplessly writhed.
The water around her increased in brilliance and above, with a shriek of rage and fright, the high priest was hurled upwards—back to the edge of the ditch. As he went flying through the air, the knife was torn from his grasp and fell, spinning harmlessly down into the mud below.
At once the figure scrambled to his feet and attempted to lunge down the bank once more. But each time he tried, the forces that were channelled through the stream drove him back.
“I... I don’t understand!” Vesper stammered, gaping up at the infuriated high priest. “What is happening?”
“The villain is powerless!” Ysabelle laughed. “There is naught he can do to us now. While we remain in this hallowed water we are under the protection of the Green.”
At last the bloody-bones ceased his struggles and stood upon the ditch’s brink, trembling with anger and shaking his fists. His fury burned hotter than any fire and he stretched out a quivering claw that pointed at his unreachable victims.
“Rue this you shall!” he snarled in a voice taut with rage. “If a contest of strength is what thou desirest—then so be it! Soon you shall both wish I had despatched your lives swiftly this night—for now the sport is ended.” He lifted up his arms and called upon his infernal master. “Hobb!” he yelled. “Lord of the Underworld and greatest of the Raith Sidhe—hear now the words of thy servant! Give strength to the curses which I utter in thy unholy names—imbue them with thy might. Let all e
nemies of thy children perish and let me be the instrument of their destruction.” As he spoke, the figure seemed to grow, becoming a terrible towering shape that was wreathed in awful magic.
Below, Ysabelle and Vesper held their breath; the high priest was calling a terrible doom upon them and, though the power of the Green still coursed through the stream, they both felt afraid. A curse had strength to maim or kill and nothing could save them once the pronouncement had been made. Ysabelle shivered as the bloody-bones glared down and delivered the dreadful words.
“Both shall die!” he roared. “Yet even as they look Death full in the face they shall beg mercy of me—but all to no avail. This now is the doom my Lord shall visit upon them.” Reaching his claw towards Vesper the high priest snorted with loathing. “For his part in allowing the royal maiden Ysabelle to flee,” he declared, “the winged one has chosen his own time of death and is henceforth cursed by that name.”
Behind the mask, the creature’s eyes narrowed as he continued, “Beware the sound of bells, oh Moonrider!” he warned in a hollow voice. “For when thou art surrounded by their clamour—thy death will surely come.”
Vesper swallowed nervously and wrapped his wings about him as this dreadful doom was proclaimed. Then the high priest turned to Ysabelle.
“As for thee,” he hissed, “last of the Hazel line—thy weird shall seek thee out and the terror of it will haunt thy dreams. The amulet which you now wear has thrice been steeped in the blood of thy subjects. On the very stones sacred to Hobb was the sacrifice made and thrice did I call His terrible name.”
The high priest crouched down and put his claw to the raw ears of his costume. “Listen,” he said in a cracked whisper, “already my Lord stirs—ages past was he banished from the waking world—now he is free. The silver acorn has released him and even as I speak he stretches and begins the journey upwards. From the unfathomable reaches of the Pit, the Lord of the Raith Sidhe comes and when he does—Ysabelle, daughter of Ninnia and Cyllinus, shall serve him for eternity in Hell’s dungeons!”
