Urchin and the Heartstone Read online

  “No!” cried Urchin.

  The king waved a paw. “They’ve probably done it by now,” he said with a shrug. “Take the freak away. Lock him up.”

  “They’ll never turn—” cried Urchin, and was dragged back to his cell. It had already been beautifully furnished again and he kicked the cushions, strode to the window, and clutched the bars tightly, defying the threat of snow. Help from Crispin might be on the way, and Cedar must be planning something. There was still hope. There had to be.

  Of course the Mistmantle hedgehogs wouldn’t turn on Crispin. Or would they? There must still be animals on the island who had supported Husk. Crispin could be dead or in terrible danger, and here he was, in a tiny turret room, surrounded by cushions.

  Granite returned to his bare chamber, where swords and daggers hung on the walls and empty bottles littered the table. Creeper slipped in beside him.

  “You wanted me, Lord Marshal?” he whispered.

  Granite took a small silver dagger from the wall. “Yours to keep,” he said, “and a bottle of our best spirits when it’s done. I want Bronze out of the way tonight. More trouble than he’s worth.”

  The night on Mistmantle was still with the hush of snow as King Crispin knocked at the door of Fir’s turret. There was no answer.

  “Fir?” He knocked again, fairly certain that Fir was in there, but there was still no response. Cautiously, he opened the door.

  The only light came from the bright fire in the grate, and there was a warm fragrance of spice and apple logs. The fire cast flickering, dancing lights on the bare walls, on the plain table with its cup and plate, on the low stools, on the neat little bed, and on the figure of the priest at the open window as he leaned out into the night sky, turning his head one way and the other. Crispin stepped in softly and shut the door without a sound.

  Fir closed the window and hobbled to the next without a sign as to whether he had noticed Crispin or not. He leaned out, looking at the stars, then pottered on to the next window, and the next. Finally he closed the last one, nodded at Crispin, and limped to the fire, where he put a pan of berry cordial on to heat, and bent to warm his paws. He picked up a second cup from the hearth.

  “I want to ask you about our prisoners,” said Crispin. “Gorsen, Lumberen, Sluggen, Crammen, the rest. What do you think is the best way to deal with them?”

  “Hm,” said Fir, who appeared to be thinking of something else. “Let them cool off.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ll see.” He scurried to the window again, looked up, smiled as if he had recognized a friend, and came back counting on his claws.

  “One, two, three…four…five?” he said as if he were thinking aloud. “Four or five nights, and we shall have riding stars.”

  A shiver of fear and hope ran through Crispin. However many of these nights he had seen, they still thrilled and fascinated him. But would the stars ride for good or for harm? It was no good asking Fir. Not even he knew that. But they always meant something, and now, there was so much for them to ride for.

  “Moonlight, firelight, and the secret,” muttered Fir, and knelt by the hearth, rocking slightly, his paws on his knees and his eyes shut.

  Crispin couldn’t be sure whether he was thinking about the words or repeating them in a mystical state, or was he just an old squirrel drooping into sleep by a fire on a winter night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  UARD DUTY ON THE BATTLEMENTS AGAIN. Everyone else, including Granite, was celebrating finding all that silver, and Bronze was supposed to guard the battlements. He’d rather guard the freak in case Cedar turned up. If she didn’t, he could at least march about outside the door talking loudly about snow and rusty knives, and make sure the freak didn’t sleep well. As he was here, he may as well look for any sign of snow.

  The hedgehog on relief guard should be here by now. He was late. When he did arrive, Bronze snarled at him.

  “You’re late, you useless idle scrubbing brush,” he said.

  “Not my fault,” grunted the guard. “Commander Cedar was giving orders about the freak.”

  “Cedar!” said Bronze. He took a step forward. His spines bristled.

  “Yeah,” said the hedgehog. “I had to cover for her while she went to his cell.”

  In wild triumph, Bronze pushed past him and hurtled down the stairs, not seeing the small, sleek shadow of Creeper. There was a sharp cold pain in his neck, then a hot rush of blood. It was the last thing he felt.

  On guard at the cell door, Trail paced impatiently about. Bronze was supposed to be on duty with her, and where had he gone? She was left with an elderly guard who’d drunk too much and couldn’t stay awake. When Commander Cedar came to see the prisoner, she didn’t feel like being pleasant.

  “The freak needs grooming before Smokewreath gets him,” said Cedar.

  Trail drew herself up. She was taller than the commander.

  “I’ve orders not to let anyone in,” she said. “And if you could take him, you wouldn’t be allowed to go alone with him. You should be escorted.”

  “You should be demoted,” said Cedar, nodding at the drowsy guard. “Trail, I’m doing you a favor. If Smokewreath comes up here—and believe me, he will, at the first trace of a snowflake—and finds that the freak isn’t washed and ready for him, you’ll be the next one for the knife. At the very least, you won’t be in the Inner Watch any longer.”

  Trail hesitated. “Can’t you bring everything up here and wash him in his cell?” she said. “I can send someone for a tub of hot water.”

  In the cell, Urchin stood with his ear pressed against the door, listening to the argument and biting his lip. There must be something he could do to make Trail unlock the door. The fire was still burning in the grate. If he could make enough smoke to convince her that the cell was on fire, she’d have to come in and rescue him—but she’d probably bring the whole Inner Watch running, too. Cedar might be quite capable of overpowering Trail if she wanted to, but she wouldn’t want to. It must be part of her plan to make it look as if she were meant to lead him from the cell, as she had done before, and nobody would question it.

  They were still arguing, and it sounded as if Trail was weakening. If Cedar was trying to persuade her that he should be washed, it might help if he looked as if he needed it. He glanced sharply around the cell.

  The ashes in the grate might still be hot. He hopped to the fire and used a stick from the log basket to scrape them out in a thin layer. Warily he touched them and found the ashes warm, but not too hot to touch. He dug his paws into them, rubbed his face, and in the most desperate, pleading, and urgent voice he could, yelled, “Help me!.” The lock clanked. Trail and Cedar rushed in. Urchin stood before them, black and gray ashes smeared on his fur, his face, his paws. He coughed harshly.

  “Fell in the grate,” he gasped.

  “You lying little freak, you’ve been trying to escape up the chimney!” snarled Cedar. “Come with me!” She grabbed the scruff of his neck and dragged him past Trail. “Trail, I’ll be as quick as I can, and get him back to you before they send for him. In the meantime, get this lot cleaned up; the filthy freak’s spread the soot everywhere. If the king sees this, he’ll have your hide for a hearth rug.” Before she had finished speaking, they were out the door.

  She had dragged him halfway along the corridor before she whispered, “Well done.” Then the sound they had both dreaded made them freeze. The doors of the High Chamber were opening. King Silverbirch laughed.

  “Run!” whispered Cedar. She dashed for a door, pushed Urchin through it, and sprang after him as paws and voices sounded on the stairs.

  In the Presence Chamber of King Silverbirch, heavy silver-gray curtains had shut out the night. Fire blazed in the hearth, crackling, leaping, casting an angry light into the shining floor and on the silvering of robes, furniture, goblets. Torches cast flame and shadow over King Silverbirch as he talked to himself and fidgeted.

  A few senior animals were still there
, growing drowsy among empty flagons and the remnants of a banquet. Lord Marshal Granite sprawled in a chair, called for more wine, and punched the hedgehog who brought it. Smokewreath hugged his knees as he sat by the fire, muttering. The servants stayed as quiet as they could. Late at night with the mad king, the evil sorcerer, and the bullying Lord Marshal, it was best not to be noticed.

  “Build with it,” the king was muttering. “So much silver! Trade with it, buy weapons with it. Yes. Swords, make swords, buy swords, daggers, chairs, manacles, helmets. No, too good for helmets and manacles. Do you want an armory, Lord Marshal?”

  “I am an armory,” grunted Granite.

  “I want to see my new silver mine,” said the king. “I don’t care if it’s too cold to work. I just want to see it. I want to touch it.” He wriggled with impatience. “I want it to be day!” Jumping from the throne, he strode to the window.

  “Curtain!” he snapped. A squirrel darted forward to open the curtains, and the king gave a gasp of joy.

  “It’s snowing!” he cried. With his ears pricked, Smokewreath leaped up. “Snowing! Granite! Come here!”

  Granite trudged unwillingly to the window. “Plague and fire, so it is,” he growled.

  “The sky is saluting me!” cried the king. “I am the Splendor of Silver, and the sky itself honors me!”

  Bones clattered as Smokewreath scuttled across the floor. He looked up at the king with a wild pleading in his face.

  “Splendid Majesty,” he said, in a voice that was almost a purr. “You promised me. You promised I could have him when the snow fell. I have waited so long.”

  “Good idea,” said Granite. “Your Majesty’s not safe as long as that freak’s around.”

  “Oh, but really…” began the king.

  “Your Majesty is the Splendor of Silver,” purred Smokewreath, “and with the magic I will work from his heart and blood, you will be the same forever. The Everlasting Splendor of Silver. Undying Splendor. King of Whitewings and of Mistmantle, forever.”

  “I can’t wait,” said the king. “Oh, but I’ll be so sorry to part with the little freak. I’d become fond of it. But I did promise.” He strode to the doors and barked with laughter as the servants flung them open. “Follow me!”

  Eager and fast, the procession made its way up the stairs. Smokewreath beat with his staff at every step, muttering “Kill the freak” with the rhythm of his footsteps. The other animals took it up, a quiet, menacing chant. They were Fortress animals. They had served the king well, and deserved a death. “Kill the freak! Kill the freak!”

  Trail appeared at the cell door. She was rubbing ashes from her paws.

  “Commander Cedar has just taken him for his wash, O High Splendor of Silver,” she said, bowing. “She won’t be long. She said Smokewreath wanted him washed before the sacrifice.”

  Smokewreath said nothing, but gave a low, rattling growl and shuddered. Trail dared not look at the king.

  “I did question it,” she said nervously, “but she’s a commander, and I had to obey orders. And he did badly need a wash.”

  “Smokewreath,” snarled the king, “did you order him washed?”

  Smokewreath found his voice, low and menacing as the hiss of a snake. “I did not. I said nothing to Commander Cedar. I smell treachery.”

  The king spun around with his cloak swishing and mad fury in his eyes. “Find him!” he screamed. “All of you! Find him! And find Cedar! Bring her to me! I will tear her apart with my own claws!”

  Cedar dragged Urchin through tunnels, around corners, squeezing underground. From above them came sounds of running paws and shouted orders.

  “The hunt is on,” she whispered breathlessly. “But our route to the coast is quicker than theirs. Keep going.” They emerged at last in the underground chamber where Urchin had met the Larchlings. Larch and Flame were there with pale, set faces, and Lugg and Juniper, cloaked and ready for a journey.

  Cedar threw a cloak around him. “Pale gray for camouflage,” she said. “We’ve made a small boat ready for you, next to the ship in the harbor.” She buckled a sword around his waist, and somebody hung a satchel over his shoulder. “It’s a fair wind, you’ll have a swift run to Mistmantle. We’ll get you to the shore.”

  “What about getting through the mists?” asked Urchin.

  “We did what you suggested,” said Cedar with a bright smile. “A group of the Larchlings went down and freed the swans. They can go with you as far as the mists, then carry you over.”

  “Cedar and I will go through the tunnels first,” said Larch. “We know the routes. Then Urchin and Juniper, and Flame and Lugg will follow.”

  “And defend you if need be,” said Lugg. “Very good, Your Majesty.”

  Following Larch and Cedar, they ran. Little was said, apart from Lugg’s exclamations about the size and structure of the tunnels, and the Whitewings squirrels explaining that these weren’t really tunnels, they were burrows.

  “Nice burrows, then,” said Lugg, then stopped.

  “Quickly, Lugg,” ordered Cedar.

  “Sh!” said Lugg, and flattened himself on the ground, his ear down and his face grim with concentration. He scrambled up and listened at the wall. Urchin and Juniper glanced over their shoulders and curled their claws in impatience.

  “Stand still!” said Lugg with a frown, then got to his paws and continued running. “There’s moles running along those tunnels like there’s Gripthroat behind them,” he muttered. “Wish I knew what was going on.”

  “Are they following us?” gasped Cedar.

  “No,” said Lugg. “Heading east. Toward Mistmantle.”

  Juniper was falling behind, his breathing coming in rasps and wheezes. Urchin reached for his paw and pulled him along as he ran.

  “King Silverbirch sent the moles,” gasped Urchin, still running. “He wants Mistmantle.”

  “Well, he ain’t getting it,” grunted Lugg. “We can warn the king. The moles are on their way, but the boat can get there before them.”

  The burrow widened into a network of tree roots, where the air tasted fresher. They must be near the surface.

  “Not far now, Juniper,” whispered Urchin.

  “Spread out,” said Larch. “It’s safer to come out different ways. We won’t be far from each other. Quickly!”

  Urchin dived under a tree root and scrabbled forward, hearing Juniper’s struggling breaths behind him. Paw by paw he scrambled up through the tree roots, turned to extend a paw to Juniper, and finally stood up. He was far beyond the Fortress, under the icy sky. A pale arc of moon rode high above them, and starlight sparkled on a land already bright with snow and silver.

  For the first time, the reality of the snow dawned on Urchin. Flakes tumbled softly, slowly to the earth. They melted on Cedar’s cloak as she slipped from the burrow, on Flame’s whiskers as he lifted his face to the sky. Watching from one side to the other, ears and nose twitching, Urchin and Juniper scurried forward. Lugg came after, and gradually they gathered together again, keeping their cloaks wrapped tightly about them for warmth and secrecy, pattering steadily up to the top of the dunes.

  Somebody was moving nearby. Urchin didn’t dare turn his head, didn’t want to make himself conspicuous. There was somebody ahead of him, too.

  “There are other animals about,” he whispered.

  “I know,” said Larch, hurrying on. “They’re all on our side. They’ll rally to us if we have to fight. Since you came, they’ve had hope. Partly it’s because Cedar told me what you said, about how your captain on Mistmantle encouraged you to talk to the other animals, and tell them what was really going on. We’ve been doing that, since you came. But more than that, it’s you yourself, Urchin. Just knowing there’s a Marked Squirrel on the island gives them courage, especially knowing that he might be Candle and Almond’s son. It’s not only the Larchlings. Most of the animals have only put up with Silverbirch and Smokewreath because they were terrified. You’ve given them hope.”

  “It
’s getting lighter,” said Cedar. “Faster!” Hushed and hurrying, helping each other up the stony and slippery paths, they finally struggled to the top of the dunes.

  By the pale rising light, Urchin looked down on the harbor and thought again that it was the loveliest place on the island. A stately ship still stood at anchor, tall and noble in the dawn. The small boat waited for them, very still on the water.

  Our boat! thought Urchin with a thrill of excitement.

  “Nearly there!” said Larch, and holding each other’s paws for balance, they rushed down the dunes toward the bay. Then a tug on his paw flung Urchin to the ground.

  “They’ve found us!” gasped Juniper.

  All of them lay flat in the sand and sharp grass. Urchin raised his eyes to see armed figures running onto the beach, lifting the bows from their shoulders, bending them, setting the arrows—he pressed his head down.

  “Crawl backward!” hissed Cedar. “Burrow!”

  Keeping his head down, Urchin crept backward into the nearest burrow.

  Flights of arrows shrieked through the air. Juniper and Flame were on either side of him as they huddled as far back as they could in the shelter of a shallow, sandy burrow, where Cedar was already prodding at the walls, searching for a tunnel and not finding one.

  “The only way out is the only way in,” she said. “Stay still and hope. Where are Lugg and Larch?”

  Flame had flattened himself against the sandy earth. “Hiding in the undergrowth opposite us,” he said. “They’re safe.”

  Voices were calling out, drawing nearer, barking orders, asking questions. Urchin drew in his shoulders as if he could make himself small enough to be invisible. Silently, they drew their swords and pressed backward. His own heartbeat and Juniper’s breathing sounded to Urchin as loud as a drumbeat. Juniper stifled a cough.