Finn ran back. ‘We’re stuck. Any ideas, Burglar?’
‘No, Boss, but young Snout reckons he knows a way through.’
‘Well, Snout?’
‘Are you Captain Finn?’ asked Snout, his eyes wide.
‘Yes, and if you’ve got any ideas, let’s hear them.’
‘Cor! Can I join the Dirty Squad?’
Finn smiled at the scruffy little mouse. ‘Get us out of here, and I’ll make you a Section Leader!’
Grinning from ear to ear, Snout drew himself up and saluted. ‘Right, Boss! Follow me!’ He led them back to the next street and halted beside an iron grating in the gutter. ‘Down there. That’s the sewers. It pongs a bit, but it’ll take us to the breach.’
Snout put his paws in his mouth and whistled. Several ragged little mice ran up to him. ‘Get that cover up!’ ordered Snout. ‘And be quick about it! We’re in the Dirty Squad now – and I’m a Section Leader!’
The shallow stream flowed towards a distant glimmer of light. To either side, gaping pipes added a constant dribble of black, sludgy water. Underfoot, the way was squashy, though forunately invisible. Snout was leading, followed by his gang, all gleefully kicking the mucky water over one another.
‘Will you stop that?’ yelled Finn. He was used to nasty smells, but preferred not to have his clothing soused in them.
At last, Snout reached the end of the tunnel. As he and his gang swarmed up the ladder and raised the grating, the sound of firing, muffled by the sewer, once more echoed in their ears.
Finn scrambled out. Behind him, through the falling snow, mice were pouring up the slope of rubble. At the top, Odo and McCrumb were waving and cheering them on. But the bullets were singing around them, for the defence of the city had shrunk to a tight semicircle in front of the breach. Only the Dirty Squad and a company of soldiers from the walls remained to keep the enemy at bay. The smell of burning and the stink of powder assaulted Finn’s whiskers as the rats began to advance across a desolation of burnt-out houses.
Several mice were out of ammunition. With drawn swords, they awaited the final assault.
Silence came up, grinning and wrinkling his snout. ‘Yes, I know,’ said Finn. ‘I stink. We all do, so you may as well get used to it. Now, back in the line! Dead-Eye, go with him. Burglar, get these priests and kids away and tell the cardinal to go too. And don’t argue! I’m giving you an order!’
‘Can’t we stay and fight?’ asked Snout. This was just what Burglar wanted to do, but he could see that the little mouse and his gang were terrified, in spite of Snout’s brave words. All the youngsters were clustering round Burglar, too proud to ask, but begging him with their eyes to lead them away from the doomed city.
‘See you later, then, Boss,’ muttered Burglar, convinced that he would never see Finn or his comrades again. He turned away and helped old Bishop Sigmond up the slippery slope, the children slithering and stumbling after him. ‘Finn says it’s time to go, sir,’ he called to the Cardinal.
‘Very well,’ said Odo. ‘Finn! Come back now!’
‘Och, he’ll no’ hear ye,’ grumbled McCrumb. ‘I’ll go and tell him.’ As he tottered down the slope, McCrumb drew his pistols.
‘McCrumb!’ yelled the cardinal. ‘Come back!’
But McCrumb pretended not to hear. Proudly, he took his place in the line, and the Dirty Squad welcomed him.
The rats stopped firing. They drew their swords, and greedily licked their lips.
Finn smiled at his mice. ‘The last fight, lads. Let’s make it a good one. CHARGE!’
With a blood-curdling yell, they hurled themselves upon the rats. The last Burglar saw of them, they were fighting valiantly in the midst of their enemies. Then, sick at heart, he followed Snout and the cardinal down the slope and out on to the snowy plains. Far ahead, like a dark smear, but already vanishing into the white mist, the mice of Aramon trudged wearily away.
In the Great Hall of the Mouse-Kind, King Saraband sat alone. Through the tall windows came raucous shouts, and flames flickered against the darkening sky as the warriors looted and burnt. Saraband’s face was a mask of fury. His conquest of the city, even the great shout of acclamation as his warriors hailed him as their King, had given him no pleasure. For the Crown had vanished, and he was no true King of Carminel without it.
Out of the shadows, a stooping figure was limping towards him. It was Morvan, the High Priest, his black robe embroidered with silver crescent moons, the tails of long-dead rats dangling from his staff.
‘Well?’ snapped Saraband. ‘Where is the little beast?’
‘You mean Rufus?’ Morvan’s voice was like a creaking hinge.
Saraband snarled. ‘Of course I do. The Crown was in my tent and if that accursed slave hasn’t stolen it, I don’t know who has.’ Saraband sank his voice to a whisper. ‘You have the Sight. Tell me where to find Rufus.’
Gradually, the priest’s eyes lost focus, as if he were searching far beyond the Fortress. ‘I see mountains . . . and two mice. I see the Crown . . . and a jeweled Sword – ’
‘What? You mean that damned slave has the Sword as well? Rubbish! The poem was clear as daylight. It’s here, under our feet. I’ve had teams of rats digging since we got here. I tell you, Rufus is hiding in the city, you old fool, and I want to know where!’
The priest’s eyes glittered angrily. ‘Do you dare to insult me, Saraband? I am telling you the truth. Ignore me at your peril.’
Saraband scowled. ‘Wherever Rufus is, I shall find him. But now I want to know the future. Will I live, and rule this land?’
‘You may not like what you hear.’
‘I’ll risk that. Just tell me!’
Again, Morvan’s eyes gazed into the distance. When he spoke, his voice seemed to be coming from far, far away.
‘You will rule in the Mouse-Lord’s Hall,
Until by daylight stars shall fall;
And darkness hide the morning skies,
And from the west the sun shall rise.’
Saraband sprang to his feet, quivering with excitement. ‘Now, that’s more like it! Stars falling by day, darkness at noon, the sun rising in the west? Why, none of that can possibly happen!’
‘It might.’
‘Oh, nonsense! Go and have a rest. You look exhausted. Tiring business, foretelling the future.’
Morvan shrugged. ‘Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
As the High Priest limped away, Saraband sent for Gobtooth. ‘Well, have you found the Sword?’ he asked cheerfully.
Gobtooth brushed the dirt from his clothes. ‘No. And we can’t dig any more. It’s too dark down there, and the lads want their share of the plunder.’
‘You’ll dig till I tell you to stop!’ shouted Saraband. ‘The Sword is here, you brainless fool, and you’re going to find it!’
Wearily, Gobtooth turned away. He was just passing through the shadowed doorway, when Saraband called. ‘Wait! Morvan reckons Rufus and the Sword are up in the mountains. I think he’s wrong but we might as well make certain. Send a couple of Red Kites out at dawn. And keep digging!’
Part Four: Eagles Over Carminel
23. Ghosts
‘We’re lost,’ sighed Rufus.
The mice were exhausted. All day, they had tramped across fields and moors, searching for Gideon’s old tower. Now, as they halted at the edge of a wood, Elana sank to the ground. The snow felt soft to her aching limbs and she longed for sleep.
‘Can’t we rest for a while?’
‘No! If we fall asleep, we’re done for. Come on. We must keep going . . . Elana! Look! There, above the wood! Can’t you see it?’
Elana could see nothing: only the swirling snow and the gaunt, dark trees. But Rufus had caught a glimpse of a huge bird, its wings beating slowly. Small figures were clinging to its back.
‘Come on. Let’s follow it.’ Gripping Elana’s paw, he hauled her up and she staggered after him into the wood.
Rufus was running, tripping ove
r fallen branches, stumbling over tree-stumps half-submerged by snow, but never losing sight of the great eagle. At last, bruised, battered and bleeding, the mice panted out of the wood. On top of a low hill stood a tall round tower. Rufus watched as the eagle landed in a flurry of snow, and he saw mice scrambling from its back. One of them flung open the door and waited while the others stumbled inside. Finally, the eagle lowered its head and followed them in, and the door slammed shut.
‘Come on, Elana!’ he cried.
Dumb with cold and misery, Elana followed him up the slope. She had no idea what Rufus was talking about.
Pushing open the door, Rufus strode in. He was expecting a roaring fire, bright candles, food and drink and the company of mice. But the room was dark, cold and empty. Through the unglazed windows, flurries of snow blew in and settled on the icy stone floor. ‘Where are they? Perhaps they’ve gone upstairs!’
‘Oh, Rufus!’ Elana had sunk to the floor. ‘You’re overtired. You’re seeing things that don’t exist! Please … just light a fire before we freeze to death!’
Rufus crossed to the huge fireplace, where a pile of logs lay ready, and fumbled in his pack for his tinderbox. Was he going mad?
Soon, a bright fire was roaring up the chimney. Elana dragged herself over to the comforting blaze. ‘Food,’ she murmured. ‘Finn said there was – what was that?’
A faint scrabbling noise . . . from an upstairs room. Rufus drew his pistol. ‘Stay here!’
The stairs spiralled upwards into utter darkness. Rufus climbed until he sensed he was in another large room. Over by the wall, he could hear someone breathing. ‘Come here!’ he commanded.
‘Rufus? Is that you?’
‘Wiglaff!’
Rufus had found the entrance to the cellar. Huge wooden crates held plenty of winter vegetables, sweet-smelling herbs hung in bunches, and in a corner stood several racks of elderflower and blackberry wine.
While Elana cooked a vegetable stew, Rufus and Wiglaff emptied two bottles of wine into a saucepan, added cinnamon and cloves, and hung it on a hook over the fire. Delicious smells filled the room, and the mice settled down to their first hot meal for days. Wiglaff had brought his own supply of worms, but he accepted a goblet of warm, spiced wine.
After the meal, the three friends gathered round the fire. Rufus showed Wiglaff the Crown, and told him how Burglar had stolen it from Saraband’s tent. The little mole gazed in awe at the softly gleaming ruby. ‘It’s wonderful. . . and now you’re off to find the eagles.’
‘Yes, but I’ve seen one already,’ said Rufus, with a defiant look at Elana. ‘It was carrying mice. Elana thinks it was an illusion. Do you?’
‘No,’ said Wiglaff, ‘because I have seen it too.’
‘What?’ squeaked Elana.
‘I’ve seen it. Lots of times. But not in the way Rufus saw it. Come with me and bring some candles.’
Wiglaff led the way upstairs. As they stepped into the upper room, the mice gasped in wonder.
Glowing colours leapt from the walls. As the candle-flames steadied, Rufus and Elana realized that they were looking at a series of pictures, painted directly on to the plaster. So lifelike were the figures that Rufus felt he had only to call out and they would step into the room.
Wiglaff pointed to the first picture. ‘There’s your eagle! Her name was Galliard and she always carried Lord Gideon. And in the next picture, she’s landing outside this tower and the mice are climbing down. You can almost see them shivering. Now they’re inside, by the fire, just as you imagined they were.’
‘Who painted these?’ asked Rufus.
‘My great-great-grandmother,’ said Wiglaff proudly. ‘I told you Gideon was a friend of the Mould-Warp, and she knew him well. See that tall mouse, opening the door? That’s Gideon!’
Rufus stared at the legendary Eagle Warrior. Although he had only seen Gideon for a split second on that terrifying day in the moles’ city, he recognized him at once. Rufus smiled, and the kindly eyes in the painting seemed to smile back.
‘Look! That’s Finn!’ Elana was pointing to a thin, wiry mouse, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. ‘But it can’t be!’
‘That’s Conal,’ explained Wiglaff. ‘Gideon’s second-in-command and a mighty fighter. You told me he was Finn’s ancestor.’
‘Who’s that?’ Elana had spotted a small, rather shy-looking mouse.
‘That’s Dabo. He once saved Gideon’s life, but was so sorely wounded that Gideon flew him to the Island of Peace, where he was healed by the Lord of Light.’
Rufus shook his head in wonder. Then he spotted another figure, standing a little apart from the others. ‘And that?’
‘Ah, that’s Armand, Prince of Carminel. Gideon and his friends had just rescued him from his enemies. They brought him here for safety. Later, he became King, but in his son’s reign, the rats invaded. The King’s only son was slain at the Battle of Collada River.’
As Rufus stared at the young Prince Armand, the colours seemed to glow more vibrantly. Suddenly, Rufus saw the Crown, gleaming brightly above the little mouse’s head. Behind the painted figure appeared another: a beautiful young mouse, in a long dress, and round her neck hung a silver locket.
‘Rufus!’ Elana’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘Are you all right?’
The Crown and the beautiful mouse faded and vanished. But Rufus still stared at the painting of Prince Armand, wondering why he looked so familiar. He shivered suddenly and turned abruptly from the pictures. ‘I’m all right. Let’s go down. It’s cold up here.’
They returned to the fireside. ‘I often come to look at the pictures,’ said Wiglaff. ‘I know all the stories about Gideon. His memory is kept alive in our city. What you saw earlier, Rufus, really happened. But it was a long time ago.’
‘You mean – they were ghosts?’ whispered Elana.
‘Yes. But friendly ones. They wouldn’t have harmed you.’
Wiglaff and Rufus slept. But Elana lay awake, staring into the embers, thinking about the pictures: about one picture in particular. At last she took a candle, and tiptoed upstairs. Once more, the pictures glowed in the flickering light. The eagle seemed to be moving, Elana could almost hear the beating of ghostly wings. The eyes of the painted mice were watching her.
She looked at the picture of young Prince Armand. The great dark eyes were wistful, almost as if he were seeing into the future. She looked more closely at the strong, rather stocky figure, the handsome head and the black fur with its curious reddish tinge.
It might have been a picture of Rufus.
24. Terror on the Mountain
Wiglaff had wanted to come with them. But Rufus pointed out that worms would be hard to find in the mountains, so Wiglaff reluctantly agreed to stay behind.
Elana and Rufus set off at dawn. Wiglaff waved until they were out of sight. Then, with a sigh, he trotted off into the woods, heading for one of the many secret entrances to the moles’ city. Looking back, he could just make out a pale blur – the High Collada Mountains, floating ghost-like above the dawn mist. He wondered whether he would ever see his friends again.
The path was steep, and for a long time the mice climbed in silence. Elana’s thoughts were full of the picture of Prince Armand. She was wondering how to tell Rufus what was in her mind, when the track levelled out, and there before them were the mountains. Rocky crags, their snow-clad slopes gleaming blue in the sunlight; glittering ice-pinnacles, stabbing the sky and, at the end of the mist-shrouded valley that lay below them, towering peaks that rose and fell in waves like a silver ocean.
The path had dwindled to a narrow ledge, the mountain on one side, an endless drop on the other. The mice were struggling to stay upright, for a bitter wind was buffeting against them, numbing their faces with its icy breath. But just ahead, the track passed beneath a rocky overhang, which Rufus thought might provide some shelter. Hugging the mountainside, they crept along until they reached the canopy of rock. Beneath it, the track widened into a smal
l cave. ‘Food!’ declared Rufus.
Huddled in the cave, they munched apples and sipped cider. Elana’s thoughts returned to the picture. ‘Rufus . . . That line in the poem: The King shall arise and the rats be destroyed. Who do you suppose the King might be?’
‘I don’t know. Could be anybody. A noble-mouse, in a fine mansion in Aramon, or a poor one. After all, the Lord of Light was born the son of a village baker.’
‘Maybe it’s Finn. Or Burglar.’
Rufus laughed. ‘Not Burglar! Remember what happened when he tried to touch the Crown?’
‘Perhaps it’s Cardinal Odo.’
‘Oh, no! No Cardinal can become King.’
Elana was surprised. ‘Why not?’
Rufus looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know why I said that. I just know it’s true.’
Elana was watching him closely. ‘Rufus, what are you thinking about?’
‘Oh . . . nothing.’
‘Rufus! You really are infuriating. You go wandering off into your mind, and when I ask you what you are thinking about, you say, “oh, nothing”!’
‘Sorry. If you must know, I was thinking about that picture of Prince Armand.’ Abruptly, Rufus stood up and walked to the lip of the precipice. Staring down through the thinning mist, he saw a distant silver thread meandering across the valley floor. Moodily, he kicked a stone over the edge and watched it fall until it was out of sight.
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ said Elana.
‘It’s not that! I do want to tell you . . . I can’t remember much about my father, but Mother often told me about him. His name was Kylin. Under his command, the slaves rose up against the rats. They captured part of the castle. But when Zagora led a counter-attack and overpowered them, most surrendered. Zagora spared their lives because the rats needed slaves. My father and the other leaders fought on, but in the end, they were captured. Zagora had them put to death. He kept my father till last . . . ’
Rufus gazed unseeing across the valley. ‘He was a slave. But he was also a warrior, who inspired the other slaves to fight for freedom. My mother taught me all about him, and to love what he believed in. He had reddish-black fur. Like me. No other mouse I’ve ever seen has it except that mouse in the picture. Armand.’
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