The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Where once Tysle his faithful friend and guide had been, the end of the lead was now shredded and smeared in fresh, sticky blood.

  Giraldus threw back his head and his despairing howl shook the mound. The mole’s shrieks were like the approach of Hobb himself and all merriment came to a sudden and bewildered halt at the sound of that fearsome baying.

  Ysabelle was sitting beside Fenny and sprang to her feet at once.

  “What manner of beast is that?” the captain cried, drawing his sword. “’Tis like a soul in torment.”

  Ysabelle turned a pale and worried face to him. “It’s Giraldus!” she exclaimed, “What can have happened?”

  The frightful screech was sent up again and everyone rushed forward to see what was the matter.

  They gathered before the entrance of the sleeping chamber, yet though the leper shrieked and moaned, no one dared to approach for fear of his disease. The woodlanders could only gasp and stare at what they beheld.

  “Let me through!” Ysabelle demanded. “Let me through!”

  She pushed her way to the front and there she found him. The mole was on his knees—the bloody string still in his paws and clasped to his bosom. He did not hear the squirrel call his name, for grief overcame everything and as he rocked to and fro, his screams drowned out all lesser sounds.

  “Giraldus!” she cried, staring at Tysle’s shredded lead. “Where is he? What has happened?”

  But the leper was too distraught to answer and his bellowing continued to resound throughout the caverns.

  Ysabelle stumbled backwards, and her eyes sought for Vesper amongst the crowd. For a moment she could not find him; there was Wendel, resting his cart against the wall—looking concerned and afraid, there was Fenny trying to push his folk back, and then she saw him. The young bat was at the rear of the woodlanders and he was staring at the floor. When he lifted his head, he gazed across at Ysabelle and beckoned her over.

  Squirming through the crowd, Ysabelle looked at what Vesper had found.

  A hideously sickening trail of dark crimson stained the ground. “Blood,” she whispered.

  “See where the string has been dragged across the hall,” he said, “from that dark tunnel it came. You stay here.”

  “Don’t go in there!” she begged. “You don’t know what might be lying in wait!”

  “Tysle could still be alive,” he told her, “I must find out.”

  At that moment Fenny was beside them and his sword was in his paw. “Then I shall accompany you,” he said grimly, “we will follow the trail together.”

  Ysabelle watched, afraid, as they crossed the hall to where the gory track passed into the unlit passageway. Silently, Wendel crept up beside her and, with a glitter in his eye, the stoat put his paw comfortingly upon her shoulder.

  “Oh Wendel,” she murmured, “what do you think has happened?”

  “I know not,” the evil creature said with practised innocence. “I pray the little fellow is not too badly harmed.”

  They stared with wide eyes as Fenny and Vesper pressed themselves against the sides of the tunnel entrance, pausing to see if they could hear anything.

  The bat shook his head at the mouse captain and Fenny kissed the hilt of his sword.

  Then they sprang. Into the darkness they charged, while in the hall the assembled and frightened woodlanders held each other nervously. Mousewives clung to their spouses, and terrified rabbits huddled in a quivering group.

  They waited for what seemed an age but no sound came from that grisly place and Ysabelle drew close to the jester.

  “What can be keeping them?” she asked. “There are no cries of battle—what are they doing? Do you think they have been wounded also? What manner of silent horror lurks in there?”

  “Who can say?” Wendel softly replied.

  The tension was too much for the squirrel maiden to bear. “I’m going to follow them,” she said, pulling away from the stoat and rushing across the hall.

  But before she reached the tunnel, Vesper came staggering out, his face a mask of horror and revulsion.

  “Don’t you go in there!” he uttered, catching hold of Ysabelle’s arms and dragging her away.

  “What is it?” she cried. “Did you find Tysle?”

  Vesper shuddered and leaned against the wall as a wave of nausea washed over him. “Oh yes,” he said hoarsely, “we found him.”

  Ysabelle stared, but that was all the bat would say. Then Fenny emerged from the passageway and never had the folk of the mound seen their captain in such a state of shock and despair.

  “The... the little shrew,” he stammered, “the... the little shrew has been... has been peeled!”

  It took several moments for his words to register, and in that time no one dared to breathe—then everybody began speaking at once.

  “Peeled!” shrieked a startled weasel. “But how can that be?”

  “Bloody-boned?” squeaked a group of mice.

  “It is impossible!” cried a hedgehog. “That would mean...”

  Ysabelle covered her face with her paws. “Oh Tysle,” she wept.

  “It means,” shouted Fenny, finishing the hedgehog’s sentence, “that we have a member of the Hobb cult among our number—perhaps more than one.”

  Wendel Maculatum let out a warbling wail. “Woe!” he yelled. “A murderer is here—we shall all be killed!”

  The woodlanders were on the brink of uncontrollable panic. They began to shout in high-pitched voices and accusations started to fly all around.

  “It’s them strangers!” they shrieked, “we never had no trouble before they came!”

  “That’s right—they did it. They killed him!”

  “Silence!” Fenny roared. “It cannot be our guests—the ancient himself has spoken with two of them.”

  Suddenly the despairing squeals died down as, from his shallow cave, Giraldus came.

  The mole was terrible to see. His face was ashen and madness shone in his squinting eyes. With the bloody string still in one paw and his staff in the other, he shuffled through the frightened woodland folk, the warning bell tolling loudly.

  In the centre of the great hall, the leper came to a stop and raised the shredded lead for all to see.

  “Who has done this?” his croaking voice demanded. “Who is responsible?”

  No one could look at him, so awful a spectre of grief had the pilgrim become that they cast their eyes downwards.

  “What no one?” he thundered. “Did none of you see who it was? Whose foul claws are steeped in my Tysle’s blood? What monster has robbed the most faithful friend I ever had of his dear sweet life? Tell me! I must know—I must be avenged! When I discover who committed this heinous and filthy crime I shall tear out the villain’s throat with mine own teeth!”

  Ysabelle could not bear to see him so full of despair. Compassionately, she rushed forward and, ignoring the cries of horror around her, bravely took the leper’s blood-stained paws in hers. “Giraldus,” she cried, “please, come and sit with me—I will pray with you for Tysle.”

  “Pray!” the leper screeched. “What use is that? Where was the Green when Tysle’s skin was slit from his body? Why did the Green not strike the killer down? Why does He not reveal him unto me now that I might perform that task?”

  He thrust Ysabelle from him and tore his bag of holy relics from his belt. “I have worshipped a false deity!” he roared. “Now do I cast thee aside—no more shall I be the gull!”

  From the bag, he snatched the bottles of holy water that he had taken from the shrines he had visited and, with a ferocious scream, hurled them against the wall where they smashed into thousands of twinkling fragments. Then he tore into tatters the collections of leaves, and, with a tremendous snarl of rage, took out the special purse and emptied the grain of wheat into his palm.

  “From the crown of the Green art thou supposed to have fallen!” he bawled. “I spit on thee now—and all your works!”

  The mole spat, then closed his
fingers about the grain intending to crush it into dust—yet his paw was shaking and his face twisted with anguish.

  “TYSLE!” he cried, as the rage-born strength left him and he sank to the floor—tears streaming down his face.

  Once again Ysabelle cared nothing for the horrors of his disease and put her arm about the mole then held him tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she wept. “I’m so sorry.”

  Giraldus opened his fist and let the grain of wheat fall to the floor. “Oh Tysle,” he uttered choking on his tears, “did you really think I could not tell the ruined state of the shrines? Did you really believe I thought that orchard was fair to see? Most loyal and devoted of friends—goodbye.” And his voice was lost amid the racking grief.

  Vesper turned to Fenny. “What is to be done?” he asked. “The killer of Tysle is still with us.”

  The mouse scowled and glared at all his folk. “I cannot believe one of them is responsible,” he muttered, “yet who else is there?”

  Just then, an urgent hammering sounded upon the door of the main entrance. Everyone spun around as a scared-looking sentry came charging inside.

  “Captain!” he cried, racing towards Fenny. “The Hobbers—they are on the move.”

  “Hobbers!” the woodlanders repeated in fear.

  “Where are they?” Fenny asked.

  “Not far,” the sentry replied, “but so many—never have I seen such a hellish host. From every bolt-hole and loathsome grot they come.”

  “They are coming here?”

  “Directly—as if they know precisely where we hide!”

  Fenny stamped his feet in anger. “How can this be?” he shouted. “How can they know this?”

  “Who can say?” the sentry answered. “Yet upon the night air a vile stink hangs. That I deem is what draws them—like flies to a rotting carcass they are gathering.”

  The captain strode before his people and shook his fists in his fury. “We have been betrayed!” he stormed.

  “What can we do?” the woodlanders squeaked in dismay.

  “Take up your weapons!” Fenny declared. “The time of hiding is finally over—we must fight the enemy on our very threshold. To arms! To arms! Barricade the main entrance and seal the others, so we may have more time!”

  As the terrified folk rushed to arm themselves. Fenny spoke quickly to Ysabelle who was still trying to console Giraldus.

  “Now we must part,” he told her, “this is your only chance—go swiftly from this place before the battle commences. Your mission is too vital for you to remain here.”

  “But what of you?” she cried. “You and your folk must come with us.”

  “We cannot leave now!” he said, “the Hobbers would pursue us to our doom—yet if we can hold them back just a little, then you have a chance. Flee now while you may!”

  Suddenly the sound of many fists battered against the door and the muffled shrieks of the children of the Raith Sidhe screamed on the other side.

  “There must be hundreds of them out there,” Ysabelle breathed, “listen to their evil voices.”

  “Where is that barricade?” Fenny roared. “Hurry!”

  The woodlanders hurried to the entrance, bearing chairs and tables in their arms and stout beams were hauled out to brace against the heavy door.

  Horrendous sounds of splintering wood filled the hall as the might of the unholy mob pushed against it. Inside everyone waited, spears and swords poised in readiness, the foul shouts of the Hobb cult filling them with terror, for the whoops and shrieks called for death and promised murder.

  Fenny turned again to Ysabelle and pointed to one of the tunnels which led from the hall. “Go quickly!” he cried above the din. “That way will lead you to the far side of the mound.”

  Suddenly the earth trembled and soil rattled down from the vaulted ceiling. All eyes gazed upwards as a frenzied scrabbling noise rumbled above them.

  “They are digging their way in!” someone wailed.

  Fenny ran over to where Vesper stood with a knife in his grasp. “Moonrider!” he roared. “Take the maiden!”

  Vesper took hold of Ysabelle’s paw. “Fenny is right!” he yelled. “We must leave!”

  “But Giraldus!” she protested, pulling away. “Help me with him!”

  The bat glanced across to where the studded door was already buckling, while overhead the soil was raining down. “Come on!” he told the mole. “Hurry!”

  “Please, Giraldus!” Ysabelle insisted. “You must come!”

  The leper blinked and wearily shook his head. “I cannot,” he murmured, “what use am I now? I want no life without my guide—let me be, let me die here!”

  Vesper shook the mole harshly and shouted at him.

  “How dare you pity yourself!” he snapped. “Is that what Tysle would wish—would you see all his hopes vanish because of your selfishness? Stir yourself—he would not want you to perish here!”

  Giraldus stared at him dumbly, then he rose and a spark of his old fire burned in his blind eyes. “Lead me,” he said, holding out the string.

  As the mound quaked and clouds of earth burst from above, Vesper took it and gave a solemn grin. “Forward, forward,” he cried.

  Ysabelle looked about them. “Wendel!” she called. “Wendel! Where are you?”

  From out of the confusion, the jester came hurrying. A look of panic was on his face, and under his arm he carried a small black prop box.

  “Mistress!” he whined. “We are beset by enemies—outside and in! What shall become of us?”

  “Come with me,” she told him. “Fenny has shown us a way of escape.”

  “Has he indeed?” the stoat muttered with the faintest of smirks upon his face. “Then most certainly will I join thee.”

  The mouse captain saluted as they raced for the tunnel. “May the Green guide you!” he called. “Let the Starwife reign once more!” Then, as his folk waited to face the enemy, he whirled around and shouted his name at the top of his voice.

  Vesper pulled the mole down the passageway and, close on their heels, came Ysabelle and Wendel. But before he entered, the stoat clawed a curious sign beneath the archway and with one final look at the woodlanders, he followed the others.

  Behind him the hall shuddered as the soil gushed down. One of the pillars swayed and toppled, falling with horrible violence. Then, with a rending crash, the ceiling collapsed.

  Into the ruined mound, the children of the Raith Sidhe surged. Huge badgers scooped aside the earth they had gouged and came lurching among the woodlanders with their jaws snapping and claws outstretched.

  “In the Ancient’s name!” the woodland folk cried as the battle commenced. “Death to the Hobbers!”

  Spears flew, plunging into the tough hides of the ferocious badgers, but the wounds only maddened the creatures and many brave defenders fell before them.

  Into the broken hill, more of the infernal black tide leapt and their weapons came slicing through the choking air, ripping and tearing through fur and flesh.

  Then finally, the door burst asunder and the woodlanders were faced with foes on all sides.

  At the front of his folk, the mouse captain wielded his sword, meeting all comers with a deadly sweep of steel. A long-fanged rat staggered back as Fenny thrust his blade into the creature’s side; then a leering hedgehog sprang forward, holding a mace above its ugly head. Fenny jumped nimbly aside as the iron-spiked cudgel came crunching down and with a swipe of his blade, lopped off the attacker’s claws. Shrieking madly, the hedgehog fled, but in its agony the creature strayed into the path of the badgers and was instantly slain.

  The folk of the mound fought valiantly; though the Hobbers raged and volleys of poisoned darts slaughtered many, they struggled courageously on. With their fearless captain at their head, they were prepared to do battle to the last and his name was a rallying cry for them all.

  “FENNY!” they roared. “FENNY!”

  With the night airs flooding the open hall and the stars glittering high
in the heavens, the battle thundered on and the bloody heaps of dead swiftly mounted.

  Running for their lives, the escaping travellers heard the roof cave in and the tunnel in which they ran shook alarmingly.

  “The Hobbers have broken through!” Ysabelle cried. “We must hurry.”

  Through dimly-lit passageways they hurtled. Vesper directed Giraldus as best he could and the mole lumbered along paying no heed to the scrapes and cuts which grazed his stumbling steps.

  With blood pounding in their veins, they heard the clashes of steel against steel as the uproar of the fighting and the yells of the invading hordes echoed throughout the underground.

  Ysabelle tore after Vesper and Giraldus; to flee was her only instinct—to get out of this gloomy place and leave the savage Hobbers far behind.

  The tunnel snaked in irregular twists deep into the earth and gradually, the sounds of the terrible battle grew fainter, till they were only indistinct noises and muted vibrations on the still air.

  Yet the group dared not slow down and they continued to speed through the shadows, until Ysabelle’s heart missed a beat. The shrieks of the enemy were growing louder again.

  “The Hobbers are pursuing!” she shouted to Vesper. “Can we not go faster?”

  “I told you to leave me behind!” Giraldus boomed. “’Tis I who impede your escape. Leave me now—go on. I shall follow as best I can.”

  “We shall leave no one!” Ysabelle told him. “Is that not so Wendel?”

  But no answer came from the stoat and when Ysabelle glanced over her shoulder, she found that the tunnel was deserted.

  “Wendel!” she cried. “Vesper—the jester is missing!”

  The bat brought Giraldus to a halt and they turned to see what had happened.

  “He must have stumbled and fallen,” Vesper said. “Did you hear nothing? How far back can he be?”

  Giraldus cocked his head to one side. “The children of Hobb are drawing near,” he proclaimed, “we must find our companion quickly.”

  “Remain here,” Vesper told them, scampering off-back the way they had come.