by Robin Jarvis
Nine bright stars from out the void
shining up on high
It was the first part of an ancient rhyme which he knew only too well and in a low, murmuring, fearful whisper he chanted it to himself.
Nine bright stars from out the void
shining up on high
whose banished soul do they call back
and augur in the sky?
Despoiler of the ancient lands,
who baked the deserts dry
Scarophion, Scarophion—the demon is close by.
Mulligan staggered away from the monstrous row of decapitated heads, carefully avoiding the oozing lake of blood and muttering oaths under his breath to call upon the protection of the Green Mouse to save him from the momentous evil his eyes were witnessing.
Within that repulsive heap of the butchered dead. Mulligan recognised the shapely arms of maidens and knew that, somewhere along that snaking line, their once lovely faces were now hewn and chopped.
“This is madness,” he wept, “the madness of that foul, worming devil. The Scales have been here—those bloody-clawed, heathen murderers!”
Unable to look on that dreadful spectacle any more, he wheeled about and stared instead at the inferno which raged where the grove had once stood.
The oaks that had grown there for so many years, watching the stones crumble before them with the slow passing of the ages, were wreathed with ravaging, destroying flames and under the intense heats the mighty trees withered and blackened. Into the sky the dark pall of smoke rose, glittering with orange cinders that soared up on the violent, baking airs and floated in smouldering clouds out over the dark woodlands.
“There’s nothing left here now,” Mulligan murmured desolately. “The power of the Green has fled this place and won’t never return. Is this how it shall be? Is the enemy to win at every turn? It’s fearsome strong they’ve become if they can assail His very birthplace. What chance have I now? What chance have any of...”
Mulligan’s voice drifted into silence and he looked up sharply. Above the spitting crackle of the devouring flames his ears had caught the unmistakable sound of someone weeping.
Hurriedly, he lumbered from the fume-flooded temple and climbed the three steps to stand upon the grass again.
“Hoy there!” he called. “Who is it?”
Upon one of the toppled stones that had been cast down the hillside, crouched a hunched, sobbing figure. To Mulligan’s surprise he saw that it was a mouse maiden and she was dressed in a robe of pure white but under the glare of the burning oaks she seemed to be arrayed in a single brilliant flame.
At the sound of his call, the maiden lifted her head and gazed fearfully across at him—perhaps not all of the foul brutes had departed upon the hideous ship, maybe one had been left behind to ensure that the temple folk were indeed completely slain.
She was a young, frightened-looking mouse, with light brown fur and a face that was wet with wretched tears. Her long black hair was twined high upon her head and on her brow she wore a plain circlet of fine silver.
Quivering with emotion, she peered through the drifting smoke at the sturdy outline of the one-legged mouse and her nervous apprehensions vanished immediately. She knew that unmistakable silhouette well enough, and a surge of relief and elation rushed through her being. To see a familiar face in the midst of all the chaos and despair was beyond anything she had hoped for and gladly she ran over the trampled lawn to meet him.
“Mulligan!” she cried, her voice hoarse with weeping. “In the hour of my utmost sorrow you have come—the Green Himself must have sent you to me.
Mulligan limped forward and into his outstretched arms the maiden cast herself, clinging to his solid bulk like a child to its father and into his barrel of a chest she let loose the full tide of her grief.
For several minutes, the Irish mouse comforted her as best he was able, waiting until the shuddering sobs which possessed her finally subsided.
“Now then,” he began gently, “are you up to telling me what happened here this night?”
Wiping her eyes, she pulled away from him and stared over his shoulder to where the broken temple was choked with smoke, then beyond to where the fires still blazened greedily.
“Not here,” she uttered. “Not so close to... to what lies in there.”
“Come then,” he said hobbling down the hillside, “let us be free of this reek at any rate and sit where the air is sweeter.”
Yet the maiden lingered where she stood, as if the sight of the wanton destruction and the awful knowledge of those concealed within the cloaking fumes mesmerised her.
“Did you... did you look on them?” she asked in a flat, dead tone. “I was too afeared to. I cannot compel my feet to bear me inside that place, tell me are they... are they all...?”
“Every one of them,” Mulligan answered, “unless others escaped like you, but there’s nowt we can do for those poor folk in there now, save inter them.”
Tearing her eyes from the horrible scene, the maiden turned back to him but all expression had left her face, no trace of the desolation that had wrung her could be seen now, it was as if her spirit had perished and Mulligan’s heart bled to see it.
“No,” she said softly. “I was the only one outside the temple when the... the attack happened. Neltemi is my name. I do not think you would recall me for I was only a child when you last visited our shores. I was but a pilgrim’s daughter at the time and entered the service of the temple seven years ago.”
Mulligan gave her paws an encouraging squeeze and asked, “How is it you survived this carnage?”
Neltemi stared over to where the dark, shadowy woods bordered the sloping hillside. “When the outriding gales of the tempest fell upon us,” she began, “I was abroad in the forest, searching for blooms to weave in a garland to place upon the altar.”
Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper and she sat upon the gouged lawn before continuing.
“Never had I seen such a fury of nature,” she murmured, “yet it was not a natural storm. All around me the trees were swaying and creaking down to their roots, then it seemed to me that evil voices were carried upon that blasting gale. I became afraid and sought for shelter. Even as the rains began to batter from the thundering clouds I gained the higher ground to the west of here, and there in a shallow cave I waited for it to pass.”
“What happened then?” Mulligan asked.
“It did not pass,” she told him bleakly. “The tempest grew worse and from my vantage point I saw a vast shadow come sailing over the sea. Like a black cloud it was, but travelling low over the water until it drove far onto the shore and then the guise lifted and I saw it, the glittering ship with its fearsome prow.”
The maiden gripped Mulligan’s arm desperately. “It was the vessel of Scarophion,” she hissed, “and onto the sands leaped none other than the High Priest himself.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“It could only have been he,” she answered vehemently. “Who else could radiate such evil and torment the elements so? Then, behind his loathsome form, the army of the Scale came. Beneath the lightning the steel of their swords flashed and into the trees they rampaged, their savage cries riding upon the winds.”
Neltemi glanced back at the ravaged temple and bowed her head. “My folk were unarmed and unprepared,” she said simply. “No battle ensued, no ringing of sword against sword. All I heard were their screams as they were cruelly put to death and the rumble of the stones when the pillars were hurled down.
“Then the grove was invaded and despoiled and the trees were kindled. But none of those heinous deeds, not even the murder of so many innocents, those whom I loved as my own kin, none of that compares with the dreadful knowledge of what they have stolen.”
The maiden fixed her gaze upon the stricken face of the old seafarer at her side and in a frail whimper added, “They have taken it. The seventh fragment which we have kept secret and guarded these many ages has been reclaimed
by the infernal legions of the Dark Despoiler. His power is waxing, Mulligan, and there is nothing we can do to check it. This hallowed place has proven to be no match for their barbaric might. Why did the Council not warn us of their strength? We were told the Scales would not dare to assail us.”
Mulligan laughed grimly. “Aye,” he said. “I too was told the self-same thing and yet I was pursued, followed all the way from Greenwich and who knows, maybe even before that. Seems that the wisdom of some ain’t as keen as it used to be. Either that or there’s a traitor at work.”
Neltemi shivered, then looked at him curiously. “And what of your errand?” she asked cautiously. “Did you bring it from the Starwife’s realm?”
“That I did,” he answered, patting his bag. “The old battleaxe gave it up to me, though whilst I was kept waiting outside her chamber I thought she’d decided the nine years weren’t enough and she’d hold onto it a bit longer.”
“Steeped in wisdom is the Handmaiden of Orion,” Neltemi murmured. “Or so it is said. She would not keep the fragment any longer than she ought. Even though she was never a custodian of the other pieces, surely she is aware of the peril they bring? It is hazard enough to guard our own charges, for you know the ruin the works of Scarophion bring.
“Where each of the nine fragments have been hidden, their malignance has cultivated decay and nourished weariness until the very stones despair and crumble to dust. Deserts and wastelands have those once fair regions become, or else confined to the dim memory of history as were we. Yet the burden you bear is the mightiest of them all. Too imbued with the evil of the coiled one is that fragment and thus have your family been accursed.”
“Accursed?” he repeated. “Aye that’s the very word for it. Bearing this thing in secrecy once every nine years from place to place is no great labour, but home and hearth have been denied me. No heir have I to continue the errand and maybe I should give thanks for that. No child of mine would I wish to pass this vileness on to. No, the toils of me and my ancestors shall finish when I do.”
“But it cannot remain in any one place for all time,” Neltemi answered. “Even the Starwife would not permit it to remain in her own land longer than was necessary. This evil must never be entombed in one region forever. Think of the damage its very presence would cause.”
Mulligan stared at his pack thoughtfully. “I know it,” he muttered. “But I also know that other forces are at work now. The Council bid me to carry this treacherous object here and await instruction. Why so? That is something they have never done before. What reason did they have? Who was I to see?”
“I know not,” she answered. “If Cisseus, the head of our order knew of it then she told no other, and now it is too late. Cisseus lies dead within the temple and I cannot aid you. Little do I know of the Council’s intent; I was but a gatherer of flowers and chanter of hymns, nothing more.”
Mulligan chewed the problem over carefully. “Well,” he decided at last. “It is plain that this loathsome device cannot remain here, the shrine is destroyed. As you cannot advise me, then only one course can I see now.”
“The city of Hara!” Neltemi breathed. “Yes, within its sculpted walls the final hope resides. Should that sanctuary fail then the light will indeed be doomed to darkness everlasting. If the Holy One cannot guide you then all are lost.”
“Aye, but now the time runs short,” Mulligan added. “The Scales will return far over the seas with their hellish prize. How long is it till they come marauding again or one of their agents is successful? Is this not the year when His stars are to be ranged in the heavens? I guess as much from what I read back there in that place of death.”
“When the moon has waned and waxed again, the nine shall glimmer above,” she answered gravely, “and not once in another hundred winters shall they converge again. But my heart fears that never again will they need to wait, for this is the age of His renewal. Perhaps all our efforts have been in vain. Nearly all our glories have faded; the cities are dwindled into the dust or jungles have devoured them.”
“Well I’ll not give up hope of it yet,” Mulligan cried, “but it’s off at once I must be going. There’s passage I have to find; a long trek to India so it is.”
Neltemi rose and laid a paw upon his cheek. “Then the last handmaiden of the temple bids you farewell,” she said.
“I’ll not go till I’ve helped you sort this out,” he told her. “You’ve no wish to see the horrors piled in yonder wreckage. I’ll do what needs to be done.”
The maiden shook her head. “No,” she said, “you shall not. It is true, I have no desire to look upon what the temple now holds and my nerves rebel at the very thought, but there are no others to assist. You, Master Mulligan—son of Padraic, cannot afford to waste even a moment more. Go now, tarry not for my sensibilities. I will command my courage and see to the dead to ensure they are honoured in our fashion. Your task is greater and will prove the most difficult. When you see the Holy One, tell him of us, tell him the Shrine of Virbius is ended and that in the city of Hara the fate of the world now lies.”
“I’ll see that he knows,” Mulligan promised, “and who can tell? If the Scales are vanquished a second time, perhaps the Temple of the Twelve Maidens will rise again and new groves shall grow.”
Neltemi managed a weak smile, then her forehead creased into a frown and she stared fixedly at the shadowy woods nearby.
“In there!” she hissed. “A movement!”
With his paw on his bag. Mulligan whirled around and from the shade of the trees a thin, dark figure emerged.
“Who is it?” Neltemi asked. “Can it be one of the heathen disciples?”
To her astonishment, the one-legged mouse laughed. “Nay,” he answered, “that’s nothing to be scared of.”
On to the despoiled lawn the newcomer blundered, his ungainly feet traipsing a crooked path over the trampled grasses. Like a drunken owl, his head bobbed and swivelled from side to side upon his long neck, while at his sides his arms flapped in a ridiculous, flustered manner.
Neltemi stared at the peculiar stranger, and started when from his mouth she heard his high squeaking voice shout, “Mister Mulligan! Wetandrenchedsandcloggeddrippynoseawfulfrighted I am! I doesn’t like it. Oh, I wish I was back with Aunty!”
Mulligan raised a paw in greeting. “Ahoy there, Dimmy!” he called. “It’s pleased I am to see you.”
“On the beach back there!” the youngster whined, hurrying over the lawn. “Bashedbrokebitsan’deadunsallabout they was all drownded—all them mice an’ voles and such. All of ’em gone and I don’t know what became of Woody an’ Tom. Like as not they’re swillin’ about somewhere too, oh it’s so fritful!”
Neltemi’s eyebrows arched to a point as the pale grey mouse lumbered closer, his face screwed up in misery and his satchel swinging at his waist.
“You know this one?” she whispered to Mulligan.
“Aye,” he replied. “Name’s Dimmy—and I’ve never known a title more suited to no one.”
“Yet he managed to find you simple enough,” she said, “though all the isle of Crete stretched about him.”
Hearing her words as he came puffing up in front of them, Dimlon threw his arms about Mulligan’s shoulders and in a wailing, gabbling voice wept, “I seed the marks your wooden leg made in the sand and how they were headed for the smoke. Was that clever? Would Aunty be proud? It was lonely on the beach, only dunkedmoleys and coldsoppingshrews and mices, so many faces I knew. Is the harm and hurt over now—is the risk finishedan’done? Are we safe Mister Mulligan, can we stay here and be safe as castleswithdrawbridgesbigtowerslotsofbubblyoiltothrowdownonbadnastyheads? No more boatybobbers for Dimmy, not never—oh, but then I won’t see Aunty again.”
“Don’t you go bawling your eyes out,” the Irish mouse chided him. “I’ve more to do than dry them.”
Dimlon sniffed then glanced at the maiden before turning to stare at the fierce burning which still raged further up the hill.
Twitching his nose he quested the parched, ash-snowing air and smacked his lips hungrily. “Is there sausages?” he asked patting his stomach. “Dimmy’s tum’s a-wagging.”
Neltemi glared at the idiotic creature in dismay, then turned hastily to Mulligan. “Stay no more,” she said. “Go now, begin the long journey to the city of Hara.”
“I will,” he answered, giving Dimlon a sharp prod with his finger. “And you’re coming with me if you’ll keep that prattling mouth of yours buttoned.”
“But Dimmy doesn’t want to go no place, not no more. He wants to eat and have a comfyheadonpilloweightywinker.” Mulligan ignored him and took the maiden’s paw in his as he bowed before her.
“May your fortitude not desert you,” he said gently. “I would that my urgency was not so great. Farewell.”
Neltemi nodded. “Green be with you,” she answered, “and may the Scales be blind to your voyage.”
Neglected for the moment, Dimlon gazed at the broken, smoke choked temple and the burning oaks behind it.
“Is there no one else?” he asked suddenly. “Why is there such a big bonfire with none to see it? Can Dimmy have their jackety spuddies if they don’t turn up?”
That was too much for Mulligan. Incensed by the mouse’s absurd stupidity, he whisked around and shouted at him.
“Are you such a witless dolt?” he snapped. “Can you not see what has happened here? Brainless should have been your name—or Gowk of the solid plank! The enemy has been here, Dimmy! The servants of a terror so old and so cruel it would bite away your soul if you were to hear so much as a whisper of it! No, there aren’t any others here—because they have all been barbarically murdered. Butchered and gored by that scurvy, pagan crew. We three are the only ones alive for miles around. We are totally alone and cut off from any help whatsoever! So pipe down your incessant squawking before I cuff your ears and crack you one good an’ proper!”
