by Robin Jarvis
Leaping over the fallen corpses of both races, he swung the blood-soaked sword over his head to await another assault—yet none came. All across the battleground, Ysabelle’s forces were left swiping at empty air and firing arrows into blank emptiness. For some unaccountable reason, the bats had gone.
Amid the inferno of burning trees, the squirrels stared in bewilderment into the smoky heavens. Flying with great urgency from the field of combat, every Knight of the Moon was returning to the hilltop of Greenreach—as though summoned by a single command which none could ignore.
The army of Ysabelle looked up at that which drew their foes and shook their heads in wonder.
Rising from the lofty hill, a huge pinnacle of purple flame towered into the sky. The violet brilliance seared through the dense reek of the blazing woods, setting to flight all the midnight shadows.
The like of its glory had never been seen on mortal lands and would only be glimpsed again nearly a thousand years hence.
It was a dazzling beacon, shining like a fierce pillar of hope through fear and doubt, and in the heart of each bat it called to them. Irresistibly the winged legions swarmed towards it—too awestruck to utter a sound and even the fearsome General Rohgar let the livid magnet guide him without question. The purple flame seemed to speak to every single one of them, promising lost delights and offering forgotten dreams. It was a magnificent, worshipful spectacle and they sped over the hillside as fast as their wings could bear them.
Warden Mugwort lowered his sword in disbelief, dumbfounded that the enemy had withdrawn so unexpectedly. Then a grim and determined expression stole over him and his knuckles shone white about the hilt.
“After them!” he yelled. “Follow those retreating craven vermin!”
Jeering challenges, the army of Ysabelle stormed up the hillside to where the needle of flame reared into the sky.
With his face buried in his wings, Vesper stood at the squirrel maiden’s side. The ferocity of the mysterious powders had taken them both by surprise. As soon as the young bat had sprinkled them into the camp fire they had sparked and spat, immediately changing the tongues of flame from yellow to brilliant purple. Then, with a burst of glimmering, amethyst stars, the fire had streaked upwards, shooting into the night until a radiance as harsh as day illuminated the Hallowed Oak and the scorched trees around it.
Covering her eyes, Ysabelle held onto Vesper and both wondered at the mighty force he had unleashed.
With the light of the beacon bleaching all colour from his furry face, Vesper felt the urge to fly upwards and spiral about the flame. But he gritted his teeth and, with Ysabelle at his side, mastered the insistent summons and stared into the sky.
Racing towards the splendour of the tapering flame came an enormous cloud. The bat swallowed timidly and gave Ysabelle’s paw an anxious squeeze.
“They are coming,” he whispered, “the legions of my folk have been called from the battle.”
The squirrel smiled encouragingly. “Now fulfil the destiny the Ancient envisaged for you,” she told him, “you have their attention—but the doom of all still hangs in the balance. It is a slender thread; do not fail Vespertilio, the fate of us all depends on you.”
“My thanks for that,” he answered ruefully, “now my nerves are more unsettled than ever.”
Ysabelle looked steadily into his eyes. “I have faith in you,” she said, “this is your hour. Seize the chance and put a final end to the evil war.”
Her confidence inspired him and he gazed upwards where the first of the Moonriders were congregating about the intense light—fluttering around it like giant moths.
When the entire host of bats had gathered above the hilltop, the draught from their thousands of beating wings blew down upon Vesper and Ysabelle’s upturned faces. As it streamed through their hair the young bat took his leave of her and slowly rose into the air.
Up he flew, and as he soared beside the blinding tower of light, his mind reeled trying to think what to say. How could he ever reconcile his race with Ysabelle’s?
Vesper climbed swiftly, close enough now to recognise the screechmask of Rohgar amongst the mighty host and he cleared his throat to greet him.
“Hail, Rohgar—heroic warrior of countless battles, I welcome thee!”
The huge noctule wheeled around and the enchantment which had lured him and so beguiled his wits, faded—leaving him confused and angry.
“What sorcery is this?” his voice thundered within Slaughtermaw. “Where are the paltry forces of the tree worshippers?”
His wrathful cries shattered the mesmeric spell which entranced those around him and they too glared sternly about them.
“Who art thou?” Rohgar demanded of Vesper. “What black art fetched us hither?”
“It was a gift of the Ancient,” came the proud reply, “and I am the one he chose to...”
Before he could finish, one of the other Moonriders chanced to look at the ground and there he spied Ysabelle standing alone and defenceless.
“General!” he shouted. “Behold, is that not the heathen savage our agent withheld from us and guided inside the oak?”
The noctule peered down and laughed within his screechmask. “Verily it is the same,” he said, “’t’would seem the treacherous lady hath done with her and thrust the maggot out to please us.”
He stretched out his legs and the steel talons looked like white flames before the light of the beacon. “Now she is ours!” he called. “Let us shred her vile being into a thousand ribbons!”
Shrieking with eager joy, the Knights of the Moon followed their general as he dived—plummeting for the kill.
Vesper was horrified. “You cannot!” he wailed, staring down at the vulnerable figure of Ysabelle.
Screaming with fear and rage, the young bat swept his wings behind him and hurtled towards the ground. With the wind tearing at his plunging body, he raced past Rohgar and reached the maiden before any of them.
Hastily he leaped in front of her and spread his wings wide. If they were going to kill Ysabelle it would have to be through him.
Rohgar came streaming through the night—straight for them, while behind, the multitude of bats poured after.
The talons sliced the air; Ysabelle clung desperately to Vesper and Rohgar bore down. The blades glinted before Vesper’s eyes but just as he closed them and braced himself for the onslaught, the noctule swung upwards in a wide circle.
“What deception is this?” Rohgar screamed. “Why dost thou defend that rat of the trees?”
The legions that swooped after settled upon the mutilated branches of blackened trees and their displeasure seethed.
“You have betrayed thine own kind!” they accused.
“I have not!” Vesper shouted defiantly. “The squirrels are not our enemies! We have all been betrayed!”
Rohgar charged at him and pressed Slaughtermaw into the young bat’s face. “Stand aside, thou most wanting of lackbrains! That stinking witch is mine for the killing!”
But Vesper was not daunted and bravely stood his ground. “Listen to me!” he cried. “All of you! Other powers are at work here. Evils that you are ignorant of.”
“If thou wish to be skewered along with that filth, then so be it!” Rohgar snarled, raising his talons to Vesper’s throat.
Suddenly a horn sounded and all eyes turned to the rim of the hill. Brandishing their weapons in challenge, the army of Ysabelle surged forward and for a moment all was confusion.
“Vesper!” Ysabelle cried. “The battle is to commence all over again!”
“No, it shall not!” he said firmly.
Using all his strength, he shoved Rohgar aside and pulled the squirrel after him. Out before the ranks of the Moonriders they ran, dashing headlong into the vanguard of the squirrel troops.
The royal guards at the forefront stared in amazement as they saw their sovereign rushing towards them, yet they gripped their spears ready to slay the evil bat which held her.
“
Now!” Vesper shouted, skidding to a standstill and whirling Ysabelle round.
The squirrel stared around them, to the left the hordes of Moonriders shrieked their war cries and to the right her own warriors were preparing to resume the battle.
“What shall we do?” she cried.
Vesper took hold of her shoulders and a mad gleam danced in his eyes. With the purple flame of the magical beacon shining lustrously over his face, he gave a toothy grin and said tenderly, “Kiss me.”
Before Ysabelle could resist, he had pulled her close and pressed his lips against hers.
Squirrels and bats stumbled over each other as they beheld the unbelievable sight and a ghastly, appalled hush descended.
Knights of the Moon sank to the ground, disgusted and horrified at what they were witnessing. Gallant wardens rubbed their eyes in disbelief, then threw down their weapons dismayed.
The stunned quiet deepened, with only the crackle of the enchanted fire to disturb it. Then, with a splutter, the burning logs crumbled and the beacon that had drawn the bats faltered. The purple flames perished, dwindling down and changing back to yellow until they too guttered and all was dark.
Vesper and Ysabelle turned and faced their separate armies.
“Now you will hear me,” the bat said, “for my words shall shape the future of the world.”
A bewildered murmur of revulsion rippled through the astounded legions, yet all waited on the young bat’s explanation for this unnatural union.
Choosing his words carefully, Vesper began—leaving out nothing. He told the gathered forces what had occurred since his capture by Ysabelle’s guards. At first his voice was small and unsure but as the tale grew it became filled with power and might until it resounded over the hilltop and all who heard the young bat marvelled.
Gravely his audience listened, hearing of the horrors which had pursued him and the squirrel maiden through the forest. Never had Vesper spoken with such force and his impassioned speech moved many and their hearts began to doubt the wisdom behind the holy wars. Ever his voice urged them to put aside mistrust and hatred—for they were only serving the ends of the true enemy.
Into his tale Vesper wove themes of hope in the midst of despair, and valour in the face of terror. The Knights of the Moon who hearkened to him removed their screechmasks and gazed guiltily across at the strength of the Hazel Realm. But there remained those who refused to believe and their black enmity smouldered still within their breasts.
The royal guards of Ysabelle stared at their queen in wonder as the fearful account of the past days unfolded. The red squirrels, always quick to mirth and swift to tears, sniffed and wiped their eyes at the perils that she had endured—yet their black kindred listened stiffly and with grim expressions. Warden Mugwort kept his paws clasped about his sword—watching for the first sign of treachery on the part of the bats. His loathing for them still untouched by Vesper’s beguiling and eloquent telling of events.
At the point where the mouse captain had taken them to meet the Ancient, an astonished gasp escaped from the Moonriders when the identity of that venerable being was revealed.
“The messenger of the Lady!” they breathed. “The weaning has conversed with the Herald of the Moon!”
Their bead-like eyes gleamed fiercely as the story rolled on, until Vesper told them the name of the one who had truly stolen their birthright.
“Hrethel!” repeated Rohgar, enraged at the young bat’s insolence. “How dare you accuse our great Lord—always has he been anxious to restore our gifts! Thy madness is finally proven!”
Infuriated, the noctule raked the ground with his talons but as he stared at his legions he could see that they were not so certain of Hrethel’s innocence.
“What is this?” he shrieked. “Can you doubt our good Lord on the rambling words of a crazed fool?”
The Moonriders eyed him uncomfortably. “Yet it would explain much,” answered one. “Have we not wondered why the Warden of the Great Book has locked himself away with his charge? Why does he no longer attend the councils, and why does he suffer none to enter his chamber?”
“His actions are not for us to question!” Rohgar snapped.
“I put my trust in the Ancient,” the other replied.
“The Ancient!” bawled Rohgar. “Only that fool’s word do we have that he exists. How are we to know he is not deceiving us? For myself I do not believe any of this fantastic deception. The tree rats are our enemies and always shall be!”
From his warriors, the general received some approval but the majority of the bats shouted them down. Rohgar glared around him. “Am I besieged by faithlessness?” he cried. “Where is the honour of we Moonriders?”
Vesper moved to approach him, but Ysabelle held him back and advanced in his stead.
“My Lady!” Warden Mugwort called behind her.
But the squirrel maiden ignored the warning and stepped up to the huge winged shape of the wrathful general. There she looked fearlessly into the eyeslits of Slaughtermaw and said firmly, “By the spirit of the Almighty Green, all that Vespertilio has told you is true.”
Within the screechmask, the noctule snarled; he could slay this miserable wretch so easily. Yet as his gauntlets twitched and the blades scored the cindered earth, a curious light blazed in the squirrel’s eyes and Rohgar—mightiest general and fiercest of all Knights of the Moon—felt his heart quail inside him and his anger was quenched. Silently, he removed the helmet from his head and gazed at the ground abashed.
At the forefront of the Hazel forces. Warden Mugwort loosened his grip on his sword and sought for the strength to forgive.
From the rear of the squirrel army, a high, frantic voice piped up as the royal guards were pushed aside.
“Move thy hulking bulk!” it cried, squirming to the front. “I must get by. Oh, M’lady, oh, my poor heart—it flutters so.”
Ysabelle turned and gazed into the centre of her troops. A delighted smile lit her face and she gave a grateful laugh.
“Griselda!”
From the ranks of the squirrels the small mouse came. The brim of her ill-fitting cap had been tucked underneath to keep out of her eyes and in her paws she still clutched the shield and tiny knife that one of the wardens had given to her.
“Oh, M’lady!” she blubbered, tears coursing down her face. “I knew you were safe, I knew it I did. I said it all along!” Scampering towards Ysabelle, she threw down her war gear and flung her arms about the maiden’s neck.
Vesper grinned as they greeted one another, but there was still much to be done and he saw that all eyes now looked to him and Ysabelle.
“What are we to do now?” asked Warden Mugwort.
Rohgar lifted his head and peered through the night, across the dark shape of the great river, out to the invisible walls of the city in the distance.
”We must fly to the Chamber of Hrethel,” he growled, “he must be forced to return our birthright—the Great Book must be wrenched from him and restored to the other members of the council.”
A murmur of agreement flowed from the other Moonriders but Vesper spread his wings and shook his head vigorously.
“Have you not heard me?” he cried. “Hrethel must wait—let him gloat over his precious pages a while longer. The children of the Raith Sidhe must be our first concern.”
From high above them a cold voice rang out and it laughed disdainfully at them all.
“Vain, empty words!” it shrieked. “What a shallow threat thy numbers are!”
Everyone stared upwards. There, in the topmost branches of the Hallowed Oak stood Morwenna and her gaunt features were twisted with her hatred for them all.
The royal guards gazed at her in disbelief. For around her neck the silver acorn gleamed dully.
Morwenna regarded them with scorn and derision. From her high position they seemed like insects and she chuckled at that, for she would certainly crush each and every one.
“Who is that?” asked Griselda fretfully. “Why doe
s she wear the symbol of the Starwives?”
A look of immeasurable contempt crossed Ysabelle’s face. “That is the traitor who brought about the destruction of this fair land,” she spat, “it was she who allowed the Moonriders through the defences.”
“That creature is in league with Hrethel!” declared Rohgar.
“Oh no,” Ysabelle told him, “she has a far more sinister ally.”
The noctule bared his fangs and seized his screechmask once more. “Gladly shall I slay that foul deceiver!” he exclaimed, donning Slaughtermaw and rising into the air.
Morwenna’s harsh voice mocked him as Rohgar bolted upwards. “Miserable worm!” she shrieked. “Too late art thou—much too late!”
The general shot straight for her, soaring through the stately branches of the oak—his talons glinting in readiness.
When he was barely a yard away, Morwenna hissed and opened her arms wide.
Suddenly, from the dark night, many black shapes darted. Surging from the shadows, they fell upon Rohgar and surrounded him in a frenzy of feathers and hellish squawks.
Upon the ground, everyone watched helplessly, as dozens of crows and ravens viciously mobbed the general, tearing with their claws and stabbing with their beaks.
Rohgar’s voice roared at them and his gauntlets flashed red in the sky—yet there were too many. With an agonised wail, Slaughtermaw was wrenched from his head and in a moment the bat’s lifeless body tumbled down after it.
“Now do you see your failure,” Morwenna called, “for the final battle is begun and darkness shall consume all!”
Her cloak swirled about her, flapping madly as a thousand carrion birds descended from the heavens and swooped upon the hilltop.
Harsh cries rent the air as the armies scattered before the brutal assault. Moonriders desperately tried to take flight but savage claws came ripping at their wings and they spiralled helplessly down. Squirrels panicked in the ferocious onslaught and many of them ran blindly and with no weapons to defend themselves.
“Stand and fight!” Vesper yelled snatching up the tiny knife Griselda had dropped. “Ysabelle call to your archers!”
