Eagles' Revenge

by Roger Mortimer

  ‘And you look exactly like him!’ Elana was squeaking with excitement. ‘Oh, Rufus, don’t you see? You must be descended from Armand! From the Kings of Carminel!’

  Rufus felt as if a great wave were rolling towards him. ‘How could I be? You told me that the last Prince of Carminel was killed at the Battle of Collada River.’

  ‘Suppose he wasn’t! Suppose he was captured! The rats would have kept quiet about it in case our side had tried to rescue him. And why does the Crown glow so warmly when you’re near it? Why are you the only one who can touch it?’

  ‘If I am King,’ said Rufus slowly, ‘why didn’t my mother tell me?’

  ‘Perhaps she wanted you to find out for yourself. Perhaps you had to prove yourself. And you have! It’s your destiny! You can’t escape it!’

  The wind died. The valley was still. It was as if Carminel were waiting for his decision. In his heart, he knew that Elana was right. But still he fought against it. As he stared out across the valley, a sudden movement caught his eye. A Red Kite was streaking towards them.

  ‘Look out!’ With drawn Sword, Rufus leapt to protect Elana. The Red Kite was almost upon him. But Rufus forced himself to hold his ground until the bird was hovering directly above. He swung the Sword and felt it strike against the creature’s talons. The Red Kite screeched in pain. It wheeled away, circled the valley, gathering its strength, then darted for the ledge. It never saw the arrow that took it in the throat, just folded up in mid-air, and plummeted to the valley. Elana was trembling. She dropped her bow, and was turning back to the cave, when a second Red Kite swooped down, plucked her from the ledge and hovered, just out of reach.

  Rufus knew it was taunting him. When it felt like dropping Elana, it would. Then it would come for him.

  With Elana in mortal peril, all Rufus’s doubts vanished. Taking out the Crown, he held it high, feeling its power surging through him as he cried: ‘Eagles! Eagles! I, Rufus, King of Carminel, command you!’

  Scarlet light shot from the ruby, struck the opposite peaks, and splintered into a thousand glittering shards. Rufus raised the Crown higher – and the ruby’s light turned to gold and soared into the sky.

  Time hung suspended. But the Red Kite was slowly relaxing its grip on Elana.

  Far below, shadows flitted across the valley. The Red Kite jerked up its head and screeched. Just above it hovered a great eagle.

  The Red Kite fled. But three more eagles were streaking down the valley. The Red Kite was surrounded but, if it dropped Elana, it might still be able to out-fly its enemies. It opened its talons. Elana made a wild grab as she fell past the eagle flying directly below, but she was falling too quickly. She could see the silver stream below getting wider and wider. Then it grew narrower again and she found herself soaring into the sky, as great wings bore her safely away.

  25. Caval

  Holding tightly to Rufus’s waist, Elana scarcely noticed the biting wind as the great eagle flew into the sunset. Her whole body was glowing with the thought that Rufus had accepted his destiny so that he might save her life. She peeped down, and saw, far below, the broad shadows of the four eagles rippling across the flanks of the mountains. At last, the eagle slowed, turned, and began his descent in a series of lazy spirals. Rufus looked down – and gasped.

  In a deep cleft in the mountains, a green valley stretched into the distance. Above it rose a magnificent castle, perched on the edge of a rocky crag. Tall towers of an airy lightness soared from the keep, each one tipped by a curious conical roof. In the valley, strange horned creatures were grazing. As the eagle spiralled lower, tiny figures looked up and waved. Rufus saw that they were mice.

  As the eagle swooped to a graceful landing in the castle courtyard, more mice appeared; strange-looking, with long, thick fur under woollen caps, coats and leggings. A stout, motherly figure in cap and apron bustled up. ‘Art all reet then, lad? And thee, lass – happen th’art chilled t’marrow. Come along o’me; there’s a warm fire and hot vittles for thee both.’

  Her accent was just recognizable as the language of Carminel, and though Rufus only understood about one word in three, there was no mistaking the old mouse’s welcome. But before he followed her into the castle, he turned to the eagles. ‘Thank you. I shall never forget what you have done for us.’

  Slowly, the eagles lowered their heads; one by one, they gently touched their beaks to his outstretched paw. A sudden silence fell over the courtyard. ‘Nay,’ whispered the old mouse. ‘They’ve ne’er done that; no, not to Lord Caval himself.’

  ‘Who is Lord Caval?’ asked Elana.

  ‘He’s lord of this castle. He’s down in’t fields, but he’ll be up directly, and anxious to see thee, I daresay.’

  In the Great Hall, a fire was blazing. Its leaping flames glowed on the long, polished table that stretched almost the full length of the Hall, and brought out the colours of the tapestries lining the walls between the tall windows. Rufus and Elana basked in the warmth, munching hot rolls dipped in scalding soup.

  At the sound of heavy boots ringing on the flagstones, the mice glanced up. A tall mouse, in a magnificent scarlet cloak, was striding down the Hall, followed by a crowd of mice.

  ‘I am Lord Caval,’ he said abruptly. ‘Who are you?’

  From his long, hooked snout and proud, dark eyes, it was clear that Caval was descended from Gideon himself. This was the climax of Rufus’s quest. He had to persuade Caval to bring his eagles to the defence of Aramon. But Caval sounded so unfriendly that Rufus began to doubt. If he said he was King, would Caval believe him? Rufus looked down at his clothes; Dead-Eye’s spare camouflage uniform, shabby and travel-stained, made him look more like a bandit than a king. He decided not to reveal his true self.

  ‘This is Elana, daughter of Amren the priest. I am Rufus, son of Kylin. I was a slave in the Rats’ Castle, but I escaped and, with Elana’s help, I have found the Treasures of Carminel. Your eagles rescued us from Red Kites, sent by Saraband. We’re very grateful.’

  ‘My own eagle, Tarquin, slew the Red Kite. But as for the Treasures,’ Caval said scornfully, ‘what nonsense is this? Who is Saraband? And what were you doing in our mountains?’

  Elana felt angry, but Rufus continued quietly: ‘We were looking for you. Saraband is the rats’ warlord, who at this moment is besieging Aramon. The city, and all Carminel, are in peril. We need you and your eagles. Will you come?’

  Caval scowled. ‘We live in peace here. I will not lead the eagles and my followers to war on the word of a slave!’

  Rufus had no choice. He took a deep breath. ‘Will you lead them to war on the word of a king?’ Before the astonished Caval could reply, Rufus took out the Crown. It was tarnished no longer. Silver beams struck fire from its diamonds, and the ruby’s beating heart poured out wave after wave of golden light.

  ‘No mouse may hold the Crown except one!’ cried Rufus. His eyes blazed and the mice flinched from the strength that radiated from him. ‘I am the rightful King of Carminel! Your eagles obeyed my summons and I command you, Lord Caval, on your allegiance, to lead them to the defence of Aramon!’

  Elana uncovered the glowing Chalice. Rufus drew the Sword, brandishing it so that its jewels glittered. Caval and his mice knelt, gazing in awe at Rufus and the Treasures.

  ‘Only mice of the Royal House have reddish-black fur,’ said Caval. ‘The Crown is clearly yours. Long ago, my ancestor, Gideon, fought with that Sword in the defence of Carminel. I will not shame his memory by refusing your command. We will fight! And I rejoice that Carminel has a king again.’

  ‘And I rejoice that you will help us to save Carminel!’ Rufus offered the Sword to Caval. ‘Take it! Use it to destroy the tyranny of Saraband!’

  Caval rose and accepted the Sword. Again he knelt, and placed both his paws between Rufus’s. ‘I, Caval, Prince of Eagles, swear by all I hold dear to serve and follow you and yours for the rest of my life.’

  High above the castle, a great star was shining. Its light streamed thr
ough the windows, mingling with the golden light from the ruby. But only Rufus heard the familiar voice:

  ‘By the strength of your will and your courage undaunted,

  By steadfastly holding to that which is right,

  You have the Treasures, now fight for your

  Kingdom! Save it from darkness and bring it to light!’

  That night, Rufus and Elana feasted in the Great Hall of Caval’s castle. After the meal, a young mouse rose to his feet. He wore a cloak of white eagle feathers, a gleaming gold torque encircled his neck, and he carried a harp. As his paws struck the strings, the mice fell silent, and the bard began to sing of the famous adventures of Gideon, Conal, and the Eagle Warriors of old. His voice was strong and true, and the mice listened, enchanted.

  As the song ended to wild applause, Caval beckoned to the singer. ‘This is Bradwen, my brother: a fine bard – and a daring eagle rider!’

  Bradwen was very different from his fierce elder brother. In a sparkling torrent of words, he told Rufus and Elana how excited the mice were feeling at the prospect of flying to Aramon, to pit their strength and that of their eagles against the rats.

  Later that night, Rufus stood by the window of his bed-chamber, gazing out over the moonlit mountains. Caval and his warriors had hailed him as their King; even the eagles had bowed to him. But could he really conquer Saraband? Despite Bradwen’s confidence, Rufus suddenly felt terribly afraid.

  After a long, cold flight, the Eagle Squadron landed by night on the desolate plain of Barrowdown, to the west of Aramon. Bradwen offered to go with Rufus to Aramon. Mounted on Juno, Bradwen’s eagle, the two mice took off for the city.

  Aramon was in darkness, but the Great Fortress was ablaze with light. Gently, Rufus touched Bradwen’s shoulder and the mouse spoke softly to Juno, who began a slow, spiralling descent. Suddenly Rufus tensed. Dark shapes that he recognized only too clearly were hanging motionless from the battlements. ‘Go back!’ hissed Rufus. ‘Red Kites!’

  ‘Back, Juno!’ said Bradwen, and the great eagle banked sharply and returned to Barrowdown.

  Caval was waiting for them. ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘You and Bradwen come with me tomorrow,’ said Rufus. ‘We’ll take a closer look.’

  By dawn next morning, the three mice were lying on top of a low hill, with a clear view of the West Gate. Across the plain, country-mice were trudging towards Aramon, pulling carts laden with vegetables. The rats guarding the West Gate were letting them in. Other rats lined the walls. Red Kites were circling lazily overhead.

  ‘We could make a night attack?’ suggested Bradwen.

  ‘We’d be outnumbered,’ replied Caval, ‘but it might work if we could surprise them. What do you think, Rufus?’

  Rufus was thinking about Finn and the rest of the Dirty Squad. Had they fled the city? Rufus doubted it. Were they dead, or prisoners? What had happened to all the other mice defending Aramon? Where was the cardinal? ‘We need information before we do anything,’ he said. ‘I must get into the city.’

  ‘Too dangerous!’ declared Caval.

  ‘No,’ said Rufus, an idea taking shape in his mind. ‘The rats are letting those other mice in. Did you bring your harp, Bradwen?’

  ‘Of course. We’ll want some music for our victory feast.’

  ‘How would you like to play it . . . for Saraband himself?’

  26. Spies

  That afternoon, Rufus and Bradwen joined a party of country-mice plodding towards the West Gate. The farmers were tugging carts laden with cabbages and early potatoes to sell at the market.

  ‘Them rats despises us,’ a farmer told them, ‘and gives us poor prices – when they pays us at all. But we have to live somehow, and they’ve got to eat, so they lets us in.’

  Rufus was heavily cloaked and hooded in case Saraband or one his warriors recognized him. But Bradwen, his cap decorated with eagle feathers, looked the very picture of a wandering minstrel.

  ‘I am Lorenzo the Incomparable!’ he announced as they arrived at the Gate. Waving a paw towards Rufus he added: ‘And this scruffy specimen is my assistant, Malodorus. We have journeyed far to bring music and song to the taverns of this famous city!’

  Nym and Skillet, still out of favour with Saraband, were on guard duty. They had never met a minstrel before, and Bradwen’s breezy personality suggested that his music would be much more entertaining than that of their own bards. ‘Come on in,’ said Nym. ‘Now, the best taverns are down by the docks, and when you’ve finished there, come up to the Fortress. We could do with some fresh songs.’

  Bradwen swept off his cap in a low bow. ‘It will be a pleasure! I have a new song about the conquering rats and their glorious leader, Saraband!’

  ‘I should like to hear that, wouldn’t you, Skills? I like a nice ballad. Specially when it’s about us!’

  The country-mice were scowling, but they were far too scared of the rats to say anything. Bradwen ignored them and strutted boldly through the Gate.

  ‘Have you really got a song about Saraband?’ murmured Rufus, as they threaded their way through the streets towards the harbour.

  ‘Two, actually,’ replied Bradwen. ‘But only one of them’s fit for his ears. If he heard the other, we’d both finish up in the dungeons.’

  Many houses still lay in ruins but already the mice who had remained in the city were rebuilding. In the Cathedral Square, bright with market-stalls, swaggering rats jostled the city-mice out of the way, poking and prodding at the fruit and vegetables, scooping up the pick of the crops. Some threw tiny coins in exchange; most simply helped themselves, cuffing any mouse brave enough to ask for payment. The smell of rat was everywhere. Bradwen sauntered along, his nose in the air, with ‘Malodorus’ shuffling humbly behind.

  That evening, Bradwen sang at “The King Saraband”. This was an old dockside tavern in Vittles Lane. Rufus noticed that beneath the fresh paint, the old name was still visible: “The Cardinal’s Head”. Clearly, the fat landlord, Pozzo, thought it best to keep in favour with the new ruler of Aramon.

  In the crowded bar, the air was thick with tobacco smoke, and smelt foully of sweating rats. Bradwen found a space by the fire, called loudly for silence, then ran his paws over his harp-strings. The rats gave a sarcastic cheer but, as the first notes rippled to the rafters, they fell silent and listened.

  Bradwen improvised a song about a lonely rat, far from his loved ones and beset by enemies. Quietly at first, he sang of the warrior’s longing for home; then, judging the moment perfectly, he shattered the mood with a harsh discord – now, his warrior was battling with savage foes and, of course, overcoming them all. With a flourish, Bradwen ended his ballad by revealing the name of his hero: Saraband!

  The applause was deafening, and when Rufus went round with the hat, he was showered with gold. The rats gathered round Bradwen, clapping him on the back and thrusting mugs of ale into his paws. But Pozzo, and the few mice drinking at the bar, scowled in disgust. If only we could tell them who we really are, thought Rufus sadly.

  ‘You! Minstrel!’ The rats fell silent. From a corner table, Gobtooth had spoken. ‘Come to the Fortress tomorrow night. King Saraband is holding a great feast to celebrate our victory. He would like to hear your song; so would the rest of our comrades.’

  With a wink at Rufus, Bradwen bowed low. ‘My Lord – it will be an honour!’

  The rats had gone, the candles were burning low. Pozzo was stumping round, collecting empty beer mugs. He scowled at the two mice seated by the fire. ‘You two – out!’

  ‘We’d like to stay the night,’ said Rufus.

  Pozzo snorted. ‘I don’t let rooms to friends of the Rat-Kind!’

  ‘What about their enemies?’ asked Bradwen.

  ‘That’s different. But you ain’t their enemies, you spent all evening smarming up to them. Made me sick. On your way!’

  ‘Pozzo!’ Rufus stood up and threw back his hood. As the firelight fell on his reddish-black fur, the landlord stared in aston
ishment. The scruffy, downtrodden Malodorus had vanished. In his place stood a mouse who looked like a king.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

  ‘Not what we seem. I am Rufus, the rightful King of Carminel, and this is Bradwen, brother to Caval, Eagle Warrior.’

  Pozzo could not doubt that Rufus spoke the truth. ‘Lord of Light be praised! Welcome home, my Lord, and you too, sir! But – does this mean that the eagles have returned?’

  ‘Yes, though we cannot drive the rats from the city. But if we can lure them outside the walls, we’ll stand a chance of beating them. Tell me, what happened when the city fell? And what happened to Finn?’

  ‘. . . so I don’t know if Finn’s alive,’ said Pozzo, as he finished the story of the city’s fall. ‘All the prisoners are held in the dungeons beneath the Great Fortress. There’s sickness there already, but the rats don’t care; word is, Saraband’s starving them to death.’

  ‘We must get them out,’ declared Bradwen. ‘Any ideas, Rufus?’

  For a long time, Rufus stared into the dying embers. At last, he smiled. ‘Pozzo! This victory feast tomorrow night: who’s supplying the wine?’

  ‘Not me! They did ask but I said I didn’t have enough.’

  ‘Was that true?’

  ‘Course not. I’ve barrels a-plenty, but not for those vermin!’

  ‘Then tomorrow, you will go to the Great Fortress and say you miscounted. Tell them they can have as many barrels as they want. And you, Bradwen, are going to be the star turn at Saraband’s feast, so start writing some songs. You’ve got to sing as you’ve never sung before!’

  27. Midnight Rescue

  The following evening, a party of warriors arrived. ‘We’ve come for the wine,’ said Gobtooth.