A big mole came lumbering out of the trees. ‘Rothgar!’ yelled Rufus. But it was Oslaf. Unable to move, Rufus stared in horror at the blood on Oslaf’s axe as the big mole strode towards him.
Part Two: Aramon in Peril
10. The Cardinal
And so Rufus and Elana became prisoners of those Moles who followed Oslaf and the wicked Princess Rhiannon. The two mice were kept in a damp, underground prison, and forced to work as slaves. We must leave them there for a while. Saraband’s army is fast approaching the fair city of Aramon, the capital of Carminel. And it is to Aramon that we must now go…
At the heart of the Great Fortress of Aramon was a pleasant garden, where a big grey mouse was sitting at a wooden table, tucking in to an enormous breakfast. His bowlful of cream-drenched nuts, raisins and barleycorn had already vanished into his cavernous stomach. He was just reaching for a steaming dish of eggs, mushrooms and golden-fried bread, when a black-clothed, elderly mouse, with ink-stained paws, tottered into the garden. He looked at the big grey mouse coldly through thick spectacles.
‘Still shovelling that fatty food into your poor, long-suffering innards, I see.’ The clipped accent of the north-west of Carminel was frosty with disapproval, but the grey mouse smiled, and forked another mushroom.
‘Won’t you join me, McCrumb? There’s plenty for two.’
McCrumb reeled in horror. ‘I’d no’ insult my guts with that greasy garbage! When I’ve time for a bit of breakfast, it’ll be a wholesome crust and a wee bowl of porridge sprinkled with salt.’
The big mouse pulled a face. ‘Sounds disgusting. Still, you’ll be in good training for when the rats arrive.’
McCrumb chuckled and rubbed his inky paws. ‘Aye! All food will be strictly rationed. No more greasy breakfasts for you.’
‘That’s true.’ The grey mouse sighed at the thought, then attacked another piece of fried bread. As he munched contentedly, a little swallow circled the garden, then landed on the table. A scroll of paper was tied to her leg.
The swallow made a graceful bow, for the big grey mouse was Cardinal Odo, ruler of Carminel. McCrumb, who was the Cardinal’s secretary, untied the scroll, glanced at its contents, and gave a low whistle of surprise. ‘Ye’d better read this yourself.’
‘Ah! Another letter from my dear friend Amren at the Castle in the Marshes. Thanks to his timely warning, we are prepared for the rats.’ Odo turned to the swallow. ‘You have flown far, little one. Come, some eggy bread and a dish of cream to be going on with!’
McCrumb tutted in disapproval. Odo ignored him. ‘Then you can forage in the garden for earwigs and worms.’
Cardinal Odo buttered a doorstep of toast, but as he read his letter he forgot his breakfast. ‘What amazing news! An escaped slave and Amren’s daughter are on a quest for the Treasures. The slave, Rufus, had the clues in his mother’s locket. Hmmm – there’s more to this than meets the eye. But if they find the Treasures, and the eagles, you realize what this could mean?’
McCrumb nodded thoughtfully. He was learned in the history and legends of Carminel, and knew the ancient prophecy. ‘Aye – it could mean the return of the long-lost King. Would you want that?’
‘I most certainly would!’ exclaimed the cardinal. ‘Carminel needs a King. And I should like to retire to a little cottage in the country. But how much time do our Treasure-seekers have? What news of Saraband?’
McCrumb smiled sourly. ‘The very worst. His advance continues unchecked. Every day, more country-mice flock to the city with terrible tales of burning and slaughter. Saraband and his army of vermin cannot be far.’
‘Well, we must just hope that Rufus and Elana find the Treasures and manage to reach the eagles in time to save us all from Saraband. But I doubt they’ll manage it. . . What news of Captain Finn?’
McCrumb scowled. ‘None at all! Though no doubt he and his gang of cut-throats are out there somewhere. If any mouse can hold up Saraband’s advance, it’ll be Finn. A rogue and a rascal – but a grand fighter. Will ye write a reply to Amren yourself? Then, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ve work to do.’
The Cardinal smiled, thinking of what Finn was probably up to, out there in the hills, behind the enemy’s line of advance. Then his thoughts returned to Rufus. I wonder what he looks like? Poor Amren could not tell me, of course, though he has faith in him. But Rufus and Elana will have to hurry - time is running out!
11. The Valley of Death
‘Oh, we’ve scoffed all their grub an’ we’ve swilled their beer,
We’ve looted and plundered from far and near,
We’ll soon be in Aramon, never fear!
We’re Saraband’s army in glo-ry!’
Plundering, burning, the great army swept across Carminel, the terrified country-mice fleeing before it. The rats seized as much food as they could carry before leaving farmhouses and fields in flames.
At last, only one obstacle lay between the rats and Aramon: a range of thickly-wooded hills. Leaving the open country behind them, the warriors entered a maze of narrow, twisting valleys with steep sides vanishing into shrouds of mist. The army sang no longer, but marched in watchful silence. It was obvious, even to the most confident rat, that this was the perfect place for an ambush. And Nym and Skillet were feeling far from confident.
Furious over their dismal failure to kill Rufus, Saraband had banished them from the Flying Cavalry and put them with the vanguard of the infantry – the very front of the army – the place of greatest danger. Their new commander, the savage Captain Gobtooth, made the two rats’ lives a misery with his constant jeers and sarcastic remarks.
‘Scarpered from a bunch of flea-ridden muck-shovellers, did you? Well, now you can join the foot-sloggers and see some real soldiering, and if you ain’t up to it, I’ll soon whip you into shape!’
And he had.
‘Oh, my back!’ groaned Nym as they trudged along the valley.
‘Shut up moaning,’ muttered Skillet. ‘If old Gobtooth hears you, he’ll give you another flogging.’
‘It ain’t fair!’ hissed Nym. ‘Everyone nods off for a few minutes on sentry duty. He’s just got it in for me.’
‘A few minutes, yes, not the whole flipping night.’
‘Vanguard – halt!’ Gobtooth’s harsh voice echoed down the track.
‘Phew, that’s a relief,’ said Nym as they flopped to the ground. ‘My feet are killing me.’
‘You two!’ Gobtooth was striding towards them. ‘On your feet, you horrible little rats! I’ve got a job for you!’
With sinking hearts, Nym and Skillet trailed after him, trying to ignore the other rats’ sneers.
‘Now then,’ said Gobtooth. ‘See where the valley curves away out of sight? I want to know what’s round that corner. And you’re going to find out. The rest of the army’s not far behind us, so you’ve got about ten minutes. Get going!’
Nym and Skillet shuffled forward. ‘Move!’ hissed Gobtooth, and the two rats broke unwillingly into a trot. But as they reached the bend in the track, they slowed down. Cautiously, they crept round the corner. At this point, a bridge carried the path over a fast-flowing stream that tumbled down the hillside and plunged into a narrow gorge leading away from the main valley. The rats crept across the bridge. Beyond, the track was deserted. No sound broke the silence.
‘Phew! Let’s get back,’ said Nym.
‘No, wait,’ said Skillet. ‘What’s that – down the end of the track?’
‘That? I dunno. A fallen tree?’
‘Might be a barricade. Could be the enemy.’
‘What enemy? We ain’t seen a sign of the enemy!’
‘Well, this might be it, you nerk! Come on, we’ll tell old Gobguts and let him work it out.’
‘It might be a barricade,’ said the captain thoughtfully when they had made their report. ‘Nym, go back to Lord Saraband. Ask him to send a couple of ravens up here.’
By the time Kei and his partner returned from their flight down the valley, Saraband had
joined Gobtooth at the head of the column.
‘A fallen tree,’ said Kei scornfully, ‘and not a mouse in sight. Honestly, if you’re going to bother us for every little –’
‘Oh, shut up!’ snapped Saraband. ‘Gobtooth, march on, but keep your eyes peeled. Once the army’s clear of this valley, we’ll find somewhere to camp for the night. I’m going back to the main force.’
In the gathering dusk, the army advanced along the track. The valley was deathly silent. By the time the vanguard was approaching the fallen tree, the rest of the army had reached the bend in the track and was just crossing the bridge, when three things happened at once.
Gobtooth and the rats following him yelled in panic as the ground opened beneath them. They fell into a deep pit, landing painfully on a bed of brambles. At the same moment, the bridge collapsed with a deafening explosion, tipping the rats who were crossing it into the stream. Behind them, the rearguard was cut off. They flung themselves flat as volleys of rifle fire crashed from the woods above.
Nym and Skillet had narrowly avoided the trap, and were bolting in terror down the path. Suddenly, from the crest of the ridge, came a strange whooshing sound. The rats looked up. Trails of light were arching into the sky. As they plummeted to earth, a series of explosions roared down the track.
‘Retreat!’ yelled Saraband. As the bullets zinged about them, the rats pelted back, slithering down the slopes of the gorge beneath the wrecked bridge, many yelling in terror as the fast-flowing torrent swept them away.
‘Red Kites!’ screamed Saraband. But as another flight of rockets soared into the air, the birds panicked and flew off to the shelter of the trees, where they perched, quivering with fright. Saraband was grinding his teeth and lashing his tail in fury. In a matter of minutes, his army was in headlong retreat. The warriors were firing at the hillside, but they could not see their enemy whose bullets, flying thick and fast, were shredding their ranks. By the time they were out of that hellish valley, the rats had suffered serious losses, several Red Kites had vanished and the army’s confidence was badly shaken.
Captain Gobtooth had clambered painfully out of the pit, furious with Nym and Skillet for deserting him. ‘The mice must have an army after all,’ he said grimly to Saraband, as the warriors assembled on open ground once more.
‘But where are they?’ squeaked Karabas furiously. He had narrowly escaped a ducking in the stream, and was trying to scrape the mud from his fine cloak. ‘I blame you, Lord Saraband! You’ll have to improve your tactics.’
Saraband glared at him. His paws were itching to close round that conceited fool’s throat. But for once, thought Saraband, the stupid Prince was right: they were up against a cunning and invisible enemy. But if Saraband could have seen the mice who had ambushed him as they slipped away to their cave in the hills, he would have been astonished. The attack had been planned and carried out by just twenty-one mice: Captain Finn’s elite Special Operations Unit, otherwise known as the Dirty Squad.
The rat-warriors were grimly silent. At Saraband’s insistence they had marched all the previous night to make up for lost time. Karabas had protested but Saraband had yelled that he commanded the army, not Karabas, and Karabas had been too scared to argue. The Red Kites flew continuous patrols, but Kei and his ravens had been grounded for failing to spot the hidden mice. Sulky and footsore, the birds waddled along at the rear of the army, muttering about how unfair life was.
The rats were advancing across open moorland. Not daring to risk another ambush, Saraband had decided to make a long detour, so they were marching well to the south of the hills, so that the rats would be able to see their enemy.
Or so they thought …
12. The Dirty Squad
Brains cautiously raised his head. The rats were a long way off but he could still smell their lingering stench. He glanced round at his section. ‘Come on!’
His four mice, invisible in their green-and-brown camouflage, followed him to the next patch of cover, a shallow dip in the ground some distance ahead.
Behind them, Dead-Eye’s section saw them move, and the mice followed their one-eyed leader to the spreading gorse patch just vacated by Brains’s section.
Over to their right, Burglar’s section was wading up a shallow stream, hidden by high banks. Far ahead, a mouse called Silence, dumb from birth but gifted with wonderful sight and hearing, directed his mice through long tall heather, so cunningly that their movement was like the rippling of the wind. The rats, who were almost within touching distance, failed to spot them.
Captain Finn’s Dirty Squad travelled light, except for Brains’s section, whose packs were stuffed with their leader’s invention: the deadly exploding rockets that had so panicked the rats the day before. The Squad was armed with rapid-firing rifles, better than anything the rats had, and long, curved daggers. They were fierce gutter-fighters, recruited from the back alleys of Aramon by a leader who was every bit as tough and resourceful as the mice he commanded.
That night, the rats were so exhausted that Saraband had to call a halt. The warriors collapsed and slept. Most of the sentries fell asleep at their posts and those who stayed awake failed to spot the Dirty Squad, who crept as close to the enemy as they dared. Finding a saucer-shaped dip in the ground, the mice rested, while the section leaders lay along the low ridge, watching the sleeping rats.
‘Where’s the Boss?’ murmured Dead-Eye.
‘Said he were going to listen in on the rats’ plans,’ replied Brains. ‘But he should’ve been back by now.’
‘Can you hear anyfink, Silence?’ asked Burglar.
Silence shook his head. He felt worried. The Boss had been gone a long time.
‘Why’d Saraband make them march so long without a break?’ whispered Burglar. ‘What’s the hurry? They ain’t that far from Aramon now.’
‘Dunno,’ said Brains. ‘Maybe the Boss’ll find out.’
‘I did!’
‘Blimey, Boss!’ hissed Dead-Eye. ‘I never heard you coming.’
‘He come up-wind,’ murmured Brains. ‘Nice one, Boss!’
The Boss, whose name was Finn, smiled and stretched his long limbs, which felt cramped after his crawl through the heather. His father had been a soldier, and his father before him, right back to Conal, who had been second-in-command to the legendary Gideon, Eagle Warrior. Finn lived for the day when those eagles would fly again and drive the rats from Carminel for ever.
‘Any luck, Boss?’ asked Burglar.
‘Yes. I know why Saraband’s been rushing along like there’s no tomorrow. Tell me, did it ever occur to you to wonder how he’s going to attack Aramon without siege guns?’
The mice shook their heads. Even Brains had not thought of that.
‘I managed to crawl to within a few yards of Saraband and that popinjay, Karabas. They were discussing Abbot’s Cove.’
‘The fishing village?’ asked Dead-Eye.
‘Yes. Below the headland where the old Monastery of the Grey Mice lies in ruins. Just down the coast from Aramon. Seems they have to be there by dawn tomorrow, because that’s when the ships carrying the siege guns will be arriving. Saraband couldn’t drag them across country, so he’s had them brought round by sea.’
‘Crafty devil,’ murmured Burglar. ‘So what do we do? Wait till the guns come ashore, then nick them?’
‘Nah,’ said Dead-Eye. ‘Not even you could nick a load of siege guns! I say we blow them up.’
‘We ain’t got enough explosive for that,’ said Brains. ‘And my rockets ain’t accurate enough, even if I could get close enough to fire them.’
Silence rhythmically waggled his paws, and blew on them to indicate ships at sea; then he pointed east, to where Aramon lay beyond the horizon.
Finn smiled. ‘You’ve got it, Silence. There are three war galleons in the harbour at Aramon. They’ll have to intercept Saraband’s ships and destroy them.’
‘How many ships has he got?’ asked Brains.
‘I don’t know. But
it’s our only chance. Dead-Eye, take your section now and get to Aramon fast. See the cardinal and tell him what’s happening. He’ll do the rest – I hope!’
As Dead-Eye’s section melted into the darkness, Finn said, ‘Get some kip. I’ll keep watch. Saraband will be on the move well before dawn, and we’ll follow him to Abbot’s Cove, or rather, to the ruined monastery on top of the headland. It overlooks the harbour. Who knows, Brains, there may be a chance to use your rockets after all!’
13. Disaster
‘There they are!’
A mouse from the Dirty Squad was pointing excitedly. Far out to sea, just visible in the pale dawn light, two ships were approaching. A moment later, a roar burst from the rats below in the village as they, too, spotted their ships.
From his hiding place among the ruins up on the headland, Finn was staring anxiously along the coast. Although the city was hidden by a low hill, the Great Fortress of Aramon was clearly outlined against the rising sun; but there was no sign of the cardinal’s ships.
‘Don’t worry, Boss,’ said Brains. ‘The tide’s going out, and there’s a stiff off-shore wind. The rats’ ships’ll take most of the day to reach the harbour.’
The hours crawled by. Finn ordered Brains to prepare his rockets. The rest of the Squad lay concealed among the ruins, their rifles trained on the rats below. The sun climbed to its zenith, but still no sign of the war galleons from Aramon. By mid-afternoon, the enemy ships were still a good way out, tacking against wind and tide to reach the harbour. They were drawing nearer and nearer.
Eagles' Revenge Page 4
