The Island of Whispers (10 page)

‘
All right,’ he said eventually, ‘we are scavengers, that’s
true. The Master gives us your dead to eat. In return, we give him
our strongest warriors. It is a great honour for the warriors. They
are needed for the ranks of the Master’s underlings. That is what
he says, anyway. You may be mad, I don’t know. We haven’t spoken to
your kind before. I must think about these ... these stories you
tell.’ He paused, slowly bearing his teeth. ‘But if you’re lying,’
he growled, ‘I’ll make sure both of you regret it!’

A sudden spark
of hope fired Twisted Foot. He sensed that Long Ears was also
roused. They shrank back from the threat nevertheless.

Slayer rose
up.

‘
Come,’ he said to Slasher. ‘We have work to do.’

‘
Keep our visitors safe,’ he ordered Belcher.

Twisted Foot
knew that he had to be quick. He searched desperately for the right
words.

‘
There’s something else you should know,’ he blurted. ‘Your –
your numbers here in the lair. They far exceed my own society. You
– you don’t have to stay here, you know. You don’t have to remain
as ... slaves.’

The small
King-rat stayed quite still. His fur bristled. He glared coldly at
the wide-eyed Watchers.

‘We have work
to do,’ he said brusquely. Then he leapt from the nest to join the
melee down below.

–
o –

Part
Three:

The Revolt

–
Chapter Twenty-One –

Like a great
army, the storm clouds had assembled by stealth under the cover of
darkness. When dawn came, they hung low and menacing in the sky, a
vast grey pall above the landscape. The wind rose in angry,
impatient gusts, signalling the start of the day-long barrage.
Unleashed by their lofty grey marshals, eager battalions of
stinging rain pellets darted in slants through the sky. The assault
was fierce and relentless. The rain hordes swept down on the towns
and countryside, rushing in torrents from roofs and along gutters,
and gathering in muddy pools in the furrows and depressions of the
land. Urged on by the wrathful wind, they drove into the heaving
grey sea, creating myriad tiny eddies on its surface. Wounded and
enraged by this incursion, the sea boiled and frothed round the
forlorn little island in the middle of the estuary. Alone, exposed,
the ancient rock seemed to hunch down, to prepare itself for
another long siege.

It was Saturday, the eve of the finale. All through the
morning and into the early afternoon, the storm battle in the Forth
valley raged on unabated, unrelenting. The organisers were nervous.
They had been promised fine weather for the big event: a bright,
fresh day, followed by a crisp, clear night lit by a full moon.
That was what they prayed for. Right now, though, the torrential
rain was spoiling their preparations. On the outskirts of the
towns, the fields which they had zoned for car and bus parking had
rapidly become waterlogged. Even if much of the surface water
drained away by the following morning, the prospect of a
squelching, muddy trek into the towns was bound to deter many
potential spectators. Of more immediate concern, however, was the
fireworks display. There was no telling what damage the wind and
rain were inflicting on the sophisticated display platform. The
whole project could be ruined. The display was the highlight,
the
pièce de résistance
, probably the biggest and most expensive ever staged in
Europe. There was no choice: despite the treacherous conditions, a
boat would have to go to Inchgarvie.

Deep below
Inchgarvie, in the quiet of the Inner Circle’s lair, the sounds of
the storm came like distant whispers. Rainwater trickled more
freely down the wall to seep silently into the lair’s pool, but the
rising level of the pool went unobserved by Long Snout. Irate,
fretful, the old Chamberlain paced the ground, his thoughts taken
up with more weighty matters. Throughout his many Cycles, he had
encountered nothing like it: this sense of doom, of imminent
disaster. The escaping slaves; the glowing giant; the Two-Legs
creature on the world above: the events had accumulated with
frightening rapidity. Now, intensifying the foreboding, there was
this act of treachery by the brainless Watchers. Their plot had
been foiled, of course, but the stench of their disloyalty lingered
on in the underworld. Every trace of it had to be eradicated,
swiftly and forcefully. A new, harder discipline had to be
enforced; a new sense of loyalty forged.

Long Snout
halted close to the spot where the blood had gushed from Narrow
Back’s wounds. The blood was dark and viscous now. He looked
towards the rows of nests. White Muzzle slept soundly. In adjoining
nests, Red Coat and Fire Eyes were also curled up with their mates.
Unconcerned, as usual, he muttered to himself. The King-rat and his
princes seem so ignorant of the lurking danger, as if they are no
longer capable of using their instincts. Perhaps they are too well
protected. They – and the rest of the Inner Circle – must be shaken
from their complacency. They must learn to fear again, to be
watchful and cautious.

This coming
Assembly will be an important one, he decided. It must have two
purposes. First, there must be stern words to rouse the Inner
Circle; to spell out the mounting threat to their favoured
existence. Then, for the Outer Circle, there must be action – firm
action – to banish any further thoughts of disloyalty or
insurrection. The public execution of the wretched Watchers will be
slow and agonising; I will make sure of that. The whole of the
Outer Circle, she-rats and young included, must be there to witness
the torment, to comprehend and remember the penalty for treachery.
Yes, he nodded, it must be a very special Assembly: stern words to
rouse and unite the Inner Circle; harsh action to intimidate the
Outer Circle; and then a great feast of slave-flesh to fill our
bellies.

Long Snout
grunted loudly. The moment was long overdue. It was time to summon
the Chief Protector.

Narrow Back
uttered a last, dying gasp. His torn, racked body became still, his
eyes blank and staring. A mournful whine broke from Timid One, his
mate. The others who had remained close to the nest began to
whimper softly. Fat One and Small Face returned to their own nests
in silence. Fear, more than grief, stilled their voices. Where were
Twisted Foot and Long Ears? Why had this awful thing happened to
Narrow Back? There had been no explanations, but each knew
instinctively that the dream of escape lay in ruins. What now of
their own safety? Were the mates and youngsters in danger? They
could do nothing, but wait and watch and worry.

Old Sharp
Claws looked down sadly at Narrow Back’s stiffening corpse. He
shook his head. Such a waste, he thought. Then he, too, returned
slowly to his nest. Foolish young Watchers, he cursed. They think
they know everything. They think they can run away and form their
own society. Young fools! Look at what they’ve brought on
themselves – and on the Watchers’ lair. More misery, more ridicule,
more scorn. As if things weren’t bad enough.

He thought of
Twisted Foot and Long Ears, defenceless and frightened in the midst
of the Scavengers. He thought of his own early Cycles. Yes, it’s
true, he remembered, I dreamt of flight when I was young. But
that’s all it was: a foolish dream. I knew even then that the power
of the underworld couldn’t be broken.

He climbed
wearily into his nest, shook his head again. He thought of the
coming ordeal. Such a waste. I try my best to look after the young
Watchers, to guide them, to protect them. Poor, foolish creatures.
They’ll be gone soon, destroyed like Narrow Back. I’ll miss them.
But it won’t end there. Discipline will be increased; punishments
more severe. Life for the Watchers will be harder than ever.

Sharp Claws
sighed deeply. He kept his gaze on the entrance tunnel. Broken Tail
would come soon, and the ordeal would begin. He had to stay strong,
unflinching. The underworld had no place for sentiment.

Slayer
crouched on the flat ground close to the mouth of the tunnel. He,
too, waited for Broken Tail. On his left, in an excited huddle,
were the ten young warriors whom he and Slasher had selected from
the pit. The warriors were all fit and strong, his gift for the
Master. On his right, Slasher and Belcher kept guard over the
prisoners. The Watchers – or so they called themselves – seemed
frightened, but they stayed silent, as if they were resigned to
their fate. He hadn’t talked to them again. Their words had been
strange and confusing. Their notions had disturbed him. They had
talked of a society ruled not by the Master, but by the fat brown
ones; of fantastic worlds above their own; of slaves who were
killed for their flesh; and of insurrection ... Was it possible?
Could it all be true? He needed to dwell on the things they said.
He had but a short time to do so before the Master returned.

The lair was
unusually quiet. The chattering along the ledges had ceased for the
moment. Even the multitude of rats in the pit had grown still, as
if their constant milling and squabbling had brought them to the
point of exhaustion. Twisted Foot kept his gaze fixed on the black
mass. That way, he knew, lay escape. One leap, and he would be in
the pit. The bodies would boil and froth again, but the disturbance
would be momentary. Death would be swift and merciful; the torment
ended. One leap, and then salvation. Long Ears recognised it. He,
too, stared, mesmerised, into the pit, his body tensed, ready to
spring.

Up on the ledge, in the slave-King’s nest, there had been a
glimmer of hope. They had waited for him to return, to signify that
he would act on their words. They had followed his movements in the
pit. The power that he wielded over his race was brutal and
terrifying. Perhaps it was no wonder that he didn’t respond.
Outside the lair, the world would be strange and unknown. In here,
he controlled life and death. In here,
he
was the Master.

When he did
return to the nest, there was no acknowledgement, only a cold, hard
stare. He had ordered them back down to the level ground. What
little hope they had clung to perished with that order. Now, there
was nothing left. Just the sea of black fur below. Just one leap.
Then relief.

Without
warning, dark shapes began to emerge from the tunnel. Twisted Foot
caught the movement. His heart raced. He recognised Broken Tail and
Jagged Fangs close behind. Three more Protectors hung back at the
tunnel entrance, their forms still blurred.

The slave-King
stayed where he was. The young slave-warriors became more excited.
Broken Tail and Jagged Fangs crept closer. Now, Twisted Foot said
to himself. It has to be now. One leap. That’s all it will take.
His breath was coming in short gasps. The pounding of his heart was
deafening in his ears. He tried to lunge towards the pit, but a
great, invisible weight pressed down on him, preventing any
movement. He felt Long Ears’ body grow stiffer. He saw his
companion’s eyes flash wildly in panic. One leap. They wanted to
jump. They willed themselves to jump, but the weight pressed down
harder, suffocating them, paralysing them.

–
o –

–
Chapter Twenty-Two –

Slayer stirred
at last. He moved forward to meet the Master. Some of the more
eager slave-warriors began to follow, but a sharp glance from the
King-rat sent them scurrying back.

Broken Tail
was first to speak.

‘
We will take the prisoners now,’ he growled.

There was a
pause. Slayer looked hard at the Master and then at Jagged
Fangs.

‘
I am curious,’ he said eventually.

‘
Yes?’ snapped Broken Tail.

‘
I am curious about the prisoners. Tell me, what was their
crime?’

Broken Tail
was growing more impatient. He glared across at the Watchers.

‘
It’s not important,’ he snapped again. ‘They’re traitors.
That’s enough.’

‘
Yes,’ Slayer persisted. ‘But what exactly was their
crime?’

Broken Tail
snorted. He seemed to puff himself up. He glowered down at
Slayer.

‘
Return the prisoners now!’ he commanded through bared teeth.
His size dwarfed the little slave-King, but Slayer was neither
intimidated nor afraid.

‘
I shall,’ he said. ‘Presently ...’

Slayer
swivelled his head to regard the group of slave-warriors on his
flank. He turned back to the Master.

‘
Here are the new recruits you asked for. All strong and
healthy. My gift to you.’

Broken Tail
relaxed.

‘
I am grateful,’ he grunted.

‘
Will they be murdered and eaten like the others?’

Broken Tail
stiffened again. He stepped back slightly and then stared
accusingly at the Watchers. The fur along Jagged Fangs’ back began
to bristle. The guards at the tunnel mouth shifted uneasily.

‘
What nonsense is this?’ spluttered Broken Tail.

‘
Answer me!’ Slayer hissed quickly, angrily.

No-one moved
in the charged silence that followed. Slayer kept his eyes fixed on
the Master. On either side of the prisoners, Slasher and Belcher
tensed themselves. The young warriors stayed as still as stones.
Alert faces, full of menace, watched from the ledges.

Broken Tail
recognised his vulnerability. His gaze swept round the lair, taking
full stock of the danger. Beside him, Jagged Fangs had begun to
tremble. To his rear, the guards made ready to retreat further into
the tunnel.