The Ruby of Carminel

by Roger Mortimer

  ‘Here they come again!’ shouted Roamer. ‘Don’t fire till I give the word!’

  The giant birds flew closer and closer. Sunlight gleamed on yellow talons and cruel beaks, and the mounted stoats were shouting war-cries and brandishing their swords.

  Suddenly, out of the sun came the eagles, diving on the vultures’ right flank, and at that moment Roamer yelled: ‘Fire!’

  Caught between the buccaneers’ volley and the eagles’ swift and sudden attack, the vultures broke and fled, the eagles streaking after them. The cheering mice waved and Marengo’s riders waved back as the great eagles chased after their beaten foe.

  But one mouse was not cheering. ‘What is it, Rio?’ asked Roamer.

  ‘I think you knows as well as I do, Capitano. Them vultures outnumbered the eagles by around two to one. Why they no stay an’ fight, huh?’

  ‘Because they’re cowards,’ said Tamina scornfully.

  ‘In that case,’ said Roamer, ‘why did they fly west, down the valley, instead of north, towards their castle?’

  ‘Oh! You mean they wanted the eagles to chase them? To draw them away? But why?’

  ‘Maybe that’s why!’ Rio was pointing to the crest of the opposite slope. A lone vulture was perched on a branch. Beneath it, a stoat was raising his arms to the sky.

  ‘He’s holding a staff,’ said Tamina. ‘Gweir!’

  Behind the magician, dark clouds were building. As they rolled across the valley, Roamer knew what was going to happen. ‘Rio! Get down to the bridge! Tell Caladon not to cross!’

  But even as Rio hastened away, lightning stabbed the ravine, thunder roared and a dense curtain of rain blotted out the valley. The mice on the ridge ran for cover, but the rain slashed through the bushes, soaking the soldiers to the skin.

  Rio was slipping and slithering down the slope, praying he would be in time. But when he reached the ravine’s edge, he saw that Caladon was already halfway across the bridge. The beavers were watching anxiously, for the ropes were swaying in the rising wind.

  ‘Hold on, sir!’ yelled Casey. ‘Hold on – oh, Lord of Light, no!’

  With a loud crack, the end of the rope bridge nearest to them snapped from its mooring post. The sudden release of tension made Caladon lose his hold on the ropes. He felt himself falling, made a frantic grab for one of the dangling, swaying ropes, caught it and clung on, suspended over the raging torrent. But his grip was weakening on the slippery rope.

  Caladon looked down. White water tumbled and foamed, throwing up a drenching spray which seemed to pluck at his heels. He was soaked by the rain, dazzled by lightning, deafened by thunder. Suddenly, through his sopping clothes, he felt a warm glow. It was the ruby and he had completely forgotten about it.

  He took one paw off the rope and dug frantically into his soaking pocket. At last, he grasped the ruby and pulled it free.

  The beavers watching from the bank, and the mice up on the ridge, never forgot what happened next. An angry shaft of blood-red light shot from the ruby. Soaring above the ravine, it sprayed a dazzling fountain of light, multiplying its colours until a broad rainbow arched across the chasm. As the raindrops struck it, they rolled off, cascading onto the bank, while daggers of light pierced the clouds.

  Gweir screamed in fury. He called upon the Snake-god and thunderbolts flew from his staff. But the Snake-god’s power could not defeat the ruby. Gweir howled in agony as a rope of light twisted about his staff and wrenched it from his grip, sending it turning and tumbling into the ravine until the river swept it away.

  The clouds rolled by, the rain stopped and warm sunshine flooded the valley. Slowly, the rainbow faded. Scarcely able to believe what had happened, Caladon slipped the ruby back in his pocket and clambered up the rope until he stood safely on the bank.

  By the time Roamer had led the army down the slippery path, the water level had dropped. After its brief, destructive moments of freedom, the river was once more imprisoned between its high walls and the mice could hear its sullen roar as it rushed and tumbled far below.

  Gweir shook his fists at the sky and cursed the Lord of Light. Then, he squelched to the tree where the vulture was perching. ‘Get down from there! Take me back to the castle!’

  But as Gweir scrambled aboard, some instinct made him glance up and he cried out in terror. The eagles had returned.

  They were circling the valley, anxiously searching for any sign of the stoats advancing through the forest. As Gweir’s vulture flapped out of the trees, Marengo caught sight of it. ‘Hyperion! Catch that vulture!’

  The great eagle swooped to treetop height. The vulture uttered a frenzied squawk and flew faster, but no vulture can out-fly an eagle and Hyperion was the swiftest of them all.

  Gweir delved into his robes for his pistol. Twisting round, he waited until Hyperion was almost upon him, waited until he could see Marengo clearly. Then he squeezed the trigger. But the storm he had summoned had soaked his gunpowder and the pistol gave a harmless click. With a bitter curse, Gweir threw it away; then, he screamed as a shadow loomed over him and Hyperion’s talons fastened around him. The great eagle plucked Gweir from the vulture’s back and soared into the sky until the valley below had dwindled into a ribbon.

  Still gripping the helpless stoat, Hyperion streaked above the forest until the trees ended in a vast plain. From its centre, a high hill reared above the surrounding grasslands. Spread out along the broad summit, its broken, jagged towers piercing the sky, stood the Castle in the Clouds.

  Marengo could see tiny figures running to the walls, and he imagined the sudden panic Hyperion had caused. The eagle flew across the wall. High above the wide courtyard, he opened his talons. With a piercing shriek of mortal terror, Gweir, who had sought Caladon’s life and cursed the Lord of Light, fell to his death.

  Captain Blacktail hurried up the steps to the gatehouse roof where Malatesta was staring after the eagle. ‘My lord! That was Gweir!’

  ‘Serves him right,’ muttered Malatesta. ‘I ordered him to drown those mice at the ravine. Judging by those red lights in the sky which put an end to his feeble little storm, he obviously failed. Well, he’s paid for it.’

  ‘What shall we do, my lord?’

  ‘Double the guard and send out some vultures. I want to know as soon as the first mouse pokes his snout out of that forest.’

  ‘I meant about Gweir, my lord. Should we bury him? There’s an old graveyard just inside the north rampart. It’s overgrown with brambles, but – ’

  ‘Fool! Why waste time on that good-for-nothing magician? Throw him over the wall!’ Blacktail was shocked but he knew better than to argue with Malatesta.

  As darkness fell, the vultures skimmed across the plain, their riders searching the forest. Stoats crowded the southern rampart, eager for their first glimpse of the mice. None felt scared. No army in the world could dislodge them from this castle. But there was no sign of Caladon’s army.

  Long after the vultures had returned and only the sentries watched the darkening plain, Malatesta stared from the gatehouse roof, brooding on the one mouse he truly hated. ‘You’ve escaped me twice, Roamer,’ he muttered. ‘There won’t be a third time, I swear it!’

  25. The Graveyard

  It had been a simple matter for the mice to cross the ravine. Mounted on eagles, Casey’s beavers had crossed to the opposite bank, where they gnawed at the trees until they crashed down to form a bridge.

  Later that day, mounted on Hyperion, Marengo and Roamer flew off to study the castle. Stoats were brandishing their swords, but though they tried to shoot Hyperion down, the eagle scorned their feeble efforts, swooping repeatedly over the castle before soaring high above it. From such a height, the two mice could see the whole castle spread below them, like a model.

  Outside the northern wall, a deep ravine cut like a wound into the steep hillside. Above the southern wall reared the great gatehouse. Within the encircling ramparts, the ruined keep’s jagged towers looked like broken teeth. Beyond the keep, w
ide fields lay beneath a matted tangle of weeds with here and there a ruined barn or outbuilding. But there was no sign of the rose garden where lay King Vygan’s tomb.

  ‘No fires,’ ordered Caladon that evening, ‘lest the rising smoke betray our position to the stoats.’

  The mice gnawed uncooked food, by now grown hard and stale. ‘This bread’s like rock,’ groaned Spital, ‘and my cheese has gone all mouldy.’

  ‘Real soldiers’ food!’ grinned Cranberry. ‘Donal of the Mouse Guards Blue says that once this has run out, we’ll get no more until we win it with our swords.’

  ‘I hope he’ll win some for me,’ whispered Chowdmouse. ‘Cos I ain’t a real soldier.’

  ‘Listen, you two,’ said Spital quietly. ‘I’ve had an idea. Marengo and Roamer can’t find this ‘ere magic sword, ‘cos they can’t find the rose garden. But we can!’

  ‘How?’ asked Cranberry eagerly.

  ‘Simple. We cross the plain, then head for the other side of the castle, right? There’s thick cloud tonight, so the stoats won’t see us. Then we climb the hill, nip up them trees, over the wall, and find the graveyard.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Cranberry’s eyes were shining. ‘You up for it, Chowdmouse?’

  Chowdmouse was horrified. They could never hope to climb that hill! But he could not bear to be left behind. ‘We’d best wear our cloaks,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll help to hide us.’

  As darkness fell, the three adventurers walked boldly out of the camp. The sentries, thinking that they were acting on Caladon’s orders, did not stop them. They were glad of their cloaks, for halfway across the plain, a cold drizzle began to fall. By the time they had crept round to the far side of the hill, the mice were soaked and shivering.

  ‘The climb’ll warm us up,’ said Spital, through chattering teeth.

  ‘We’ll never climb that!’ Cranberry was staring in dismay at the almost sheer cliff, so high that the castle was invisible.

  ‘We can’t turn back now,’ sighed Chowdmouse. ‘Let’s have a go…’

  They set off, groping for paw-holds and hauling themselves up the slippery rock, helped by occasional tufts of grass. By the time they were halfway up, the rain was falling heavily, driven by a cold wind that whistled across the hillside. But with many a backward slip, they clambered on. Spital led the way, taking his time, directing and encouraging the others. Cranberry, whose bulk made climbing difficult, was panting hard. Chowdmouse, who hated heights, was trying not to look down. But when he looked up, he saw the stoats patrolling the walls, so he stared at the grass and rock in front of him, wishing he was home in Aramon.

  At last, wet through and trembling with exhaustion, Spital grasped the twisted tree roots that marked the summit. Hauling himself to a narrow ledge, he reached down and helped the others until at last they all collapsed in the shadow of the wall. The rain had stopped but it still felt bitterly cold. Trying to calm their panting breath, they listened, for they could no longer see the sentries. But no sound broke the silence save the sighing of the wind.

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Spital. ‘We can’t stop here all night. Got to climb this tree. I’ll go first.’

  Though the branches gave plenty of footholds, Spital felt horribly exposed, for the bare twigs gave no cover. When he was level with the top of the wall, he crouched along a branch and peered left and right. Only one stoat was in sight, marching slowly away towards the distant keep. Spital hissed: ‘All clear!’

  Once over the battlements, the mice hurried along the slippery stone ledge. The way was so narrow and the ground so far below, that Chowdmouse felt his stomach churning. He kept his eyes on his feet and followed closely behind the others until at last they came to a flight of steps and were able to leave the wall.

  ‘Which way?’ whispered Cranberry. Far off to their right, loomed the tall ruined keep. Several smaller buildings crouched in its shadow. But in the other direction, the fields of weeds offered cover as far as the north rampart, where a large area of waste ground lay like a dark smudge. ‘That way,’ whispered Spital.

  The wind was sweeping across the hilltop, and the dark clouds, low in the sky, were scudding before it. ‘The stars’ll be out soon,’ hissed Cranberry. ‘But the wind’s keeping these weeds moving, so the stoats won’t see us... I hope!’

  At last, the field ended and a long, low barrier barred their way. So overgrown was it with moss and trailing weeds that it was a while before the mice realised it was a stone wall. Keeping low to the ground, they followed it until they reached a tall arch. Beyond, lay a dark, tangled wilderness of long, twisting stems, so thick they were more like branches, covered in long, wicked spikes.

  ‘Brambles,’ hissed Spital.

  ‘Roses,’ whispered Chowdmouse.

  The clouds parted and moonlight bathed the ancient wall in silver. Cranberry gasped and pointed to the top of the arch. Carved in the stone was the Star of the Lord of Light. ‘You’re right, Chowdy,’ whispered Spital. ‘I think we’ve found it. Come on!’

  As the three mice were creeping beneath the arch, Scratchfur, Piebald and a platoon of Ermine Guards were following Captain Blacktail out of the ruined keep. Blacktail was feeling extremely nervous; he had disobeyed Malatesta’s orders.

  Although he had never liked Gweir, Blacktail could not bring himself to throw the wizard’s body over the wall. No stoat deserved that. Telling his soldiers that Malatesta had ordered him to bury Gweir during his off-duty hours, Blacktail told them to gather up the body and to follow him to the ancient graveyard.

  Armed with pickaxes and spades, they tramped across the fields to the stone arch and were about to enter the graveyard, when Blacktail suddenly caught an alien smell... ‘Mice!’

  ‘It can’t be, sir,’ said Scratchfur. ‘They couldn’t have climbed the hill. Besides, what would mice be doing in this ’ere boneyard?’

  ‘Spying, probably! Stay here. If they come out, grab them. I’m going in.’

  Deep inside the graveyard, the mice were creeping beneath the arching tangle of roses. No buds grew along those twisted stems; only the cruel thorns gleamed in the moonlight. Suddenly, above the pounding of his heart, Chowdmouse heard a rustling in the grass behind him.

  ‘Wait!’ he hissed. ‘Listen!’

  They stopped. Silence. Even the wind had died. ‘You’re imagining things,’ said Cranberry. ‘Lead on, Spits!’

  But Chowdmouse hesitated, certain he had heard something. He strained his eyes, searching back the way they had come. When at last he turned to follow the others, they had vanished.

  Chowdmouse was close to panic. Desperate to find his friends, he went deeper and deeper into the graveyard. Suddenly, he stopped, his heart racing. Looming above him through the tangle of rose stems, was a giant bird, its wings outspread, its dark eyes staring straight at him. Stifling a cry of terror, Chowdmouse was about to turn and run, when he realised that the bird was made of stone.

  Greatly wondering, Chowdmouse crept towards it. A stone mouse, wearing a cloak and brandishing a sword, sat astride the great bird and it dawned on Chowdmouse that the bird was an eagle. And the mouse must be Gideon, he thought. I’ve heard of him. But I never thought I’d see his tomb! He ducked beneath the great wings and found himself on a grassy pathway. It was lined with tall trees that pierced the tangle of rose stems. At the far end a stone tomb glimmered in the moonlight.

  As Chowdmouse crept along the path, he saw other statues: mice with upraised swords, as if turned to stone in the act of leading a charge for freedom. This is the place, he thought; this is where the heroes of Carminel are buried. When he reached the tomb at the far end, Chowdmouse saw lines of writing, carved into the flat surface. As he stared at them, a silver beam lanced down from the sky, turning the writing to flickering lines of fire. The great Star of the Lord of Light was shining directly above him and a voice spoke in his head: ‘Read!’

  But the burning lines of light meant nothing to Chowdmouse. Humbly, he bowed his head. ‘I can’t read.’

&nb
sp; ‘Then listen carefully,’ said the kindly voice, ‘and remember...

  Beneath this stone the bones of Vygan lie,

  A king, mighty in war, who also gave

  His realm good laws and many a year of peace.

  At last, he fell, most piteously slain.

  But when the land lies bleeding unto death,

  And Carminel seems lost, mark well these words:

  This stone is sealed, none may raise the lid;

  But One shall find the sword that here lies hid.

  Chowdmouse gazed in wonder at the star. ‘I’ll remember,’ he whispered. As the light faded, he looked again at the tomb. Beneath the writing, darker than the darkness, was the carved image of a great sword.

  26. The Fugitive of Aramon

  Chowdmouse ran his paws over the carved sword. Where the blade met the hilt, there was a round hole. I reckon that’s for the ruby, thought Chowdmouse.

  Quivering with excitement, he hurried down the path. As he slipped beneath the carved eagle, the roses raised their stems to let him pass, guiding him back towards the arch. At last, he reached it and saw shadowy figures waiting for him. But as he ran towards them, he stopped abruptly. His friends were prisoners of the stoats.

  ‘Run for it, Chowdy!’ cried Spital. But Piebald and Scratchfur were moving to cut him off. He darted back towards the arch, hoping to lose his pursuers among the tangled roses. But even as the archway loomed above him, he stopped and slumped in defeat. Another stoat had emerged from the graveyard, his pistol pointing at Chowdmouse’s heart.

  ‘Got you!’ said Captain Blacktail. ‘I heard you crashing about in there. All I had to do was wait. How you three got into the castle I can’t imagine. But your little spying expedition’s over. Malatesta will be very interested to see you.’