The Urchin of the Riding Stars (31 page)

“Captain Crispin, sir!” called Urchin. “I can’t see you!” Through mist and darkness, he heard Crispin laugh.

“Don’t be anxious! I’m still here!”

Something silver rushed toward them, so that Urchin gasped and ducked.

“Crispin!” he called. “Did you see? A star!”

“The stars are riding for us, Urchin!” cried Crispin. And Urchin, who had thought nothing could be more wonderful than this, caught his breath. The stars that had danced on the night of his birth were sweeping through the sky to bring him home to Mistmantle, and he rode among them.

On Mistmantle, dawn was cold. Aspen had ordered the kindling of a fire in the hearth and stood beside it to warm herself, but Husk would not leave the king. He remained, fierce-eyed with terrifying delight. Gleaner gave the king drinks from the flask whether he asked for them or not. It was her way of helping Lady Aspen.

Cold air from the window, and the spring water Lugg had put in his flask, had helped to clear the king’s head. His wits were his own again, and he understood only too well.

At last he knew he had been Husk’s puppet. He had been drunk half the time and doped the rest, and in his weakness and grief he had let Husk get away with it. He no longer deserved to be king. But he
was
king, and it was up to him to save the island. He remembered the days when he had been young, sharp, and ready for action. He dozed and woke again; and each time he woke he was more fully himself.

Husk’s dagger was at his throat, but his sword was still sheathed. If only he could free his left paw. If he concentrated and summoned all his old skill, he could whip that sword away and with a quick twist send the dagger flying from Husk’s paw. Then he would be free, and Padra could storm the tower. He himself might not last against Husk and Aspen until Padra reached him, but he would take the chance.

Gradually, slowly, in the tiniest movements, he wriggled his left paw in the ropes. It might take until morning, but he could do it.

Aspen left the warmth of the fire to watch him. The king stopped trying to free his arm, and turned his head a little. Although the window was wide open, he could, from this angle, see a reflection in the glass. He watched and watched, seeing the stars ride across the sky while the night seemed to last forever, until at last Husk’s eyelids drooped, and Lady Aspen yawned.

He slipped his paw up a little farther. Husk’s eyes snapped open.

“Stand still!” he ordered.

“Husk,” he said wearily, trying another way, “enough blood has been shed. Let me abdicate. The crown is yours. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“What, and leave you alive so they can all plot behind my back to make you king again?” snarled Husk. “And let that otter get away with it? I could have been king by now, and nobody would have drawn a single sword. And this island would be perfect. Perfect! They’d all obey me. We’d have weapons. We could conquer other islands. The beasts would only have to obey me and not think too much, that’s all! It would be so easy! I will not be content until I have personally hacked that otter into pieces and put his head on a spike over the priest’s tower. And I will. Do you see the riding stars? They are for me! The stars proclaim me king! Stop wriggling, you!”

The king looked down to see Padra near a campfire, watching the window. Far away, golden light streaked across the sky. It was nearly day, and his paw was free. He couldn’t tell how clearly Padra could see him, but he looked directly down and hoped.

“Now,” he mouthed silently. “Ready. Now.”

Aspen had been falling asleep on her paws. With a jerk she woke, shook herself, and turned sharply to watch.

“The king!” she cried, and leaped forward as the king swept Husk’s sword from its sheath and spun the dagger from his paw. With a kick, she sent the king careering off balance and, with her dagger in her paw, fell on him with a force that flung them both to the floor. Picking himself up, Husk dashed forward to grapple for the sword, screaming something about the window.

It was too late. As Husk shouted, Aspen and the king were on the window ledge. Husk was still screaming as the two fell and crashed onto the rocks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AKE THE TOWER
!” shouted Padra, and with a rush and a roar the ranks tore forward. Padra glanced about for the oldest and slowest.

“Look to the king,” he ordered, “and to Lady Aspen.”

As the troops streamed past to the tower, he bent over Aspen and the king. A sword lay on the rocks. The king’s eyes were closed, but he moaned softly. Lady Aspen lay absolutely still, with a pool of blood darkening the rocks behind her head.

Padra put a paw to her throat. There was still a pulse. Both were wounded, and the sword and the dagger were both bloodied.

“Do your best for them both,” he said shortly, and ran for the tower as Husk’s terrified guards either flew for their lives or fell back to the Gathering Chamber. Padra’s forces rushed in: squirrels scrambling through windows, moles pouring from tunnels, otters and hedgehogs surging through every gate. As Padra ran for the Gathering Chamber, Arran was leaping down a staircase.

“Release Fir!” he called.

“Done it!” she said. “He was off like a fish, I don’t know where to.”

Battle cries and the clash of swords came from the Gathering Chamber. Husk’s supporters must be making a last fight of it. Padra found squirrels and hedgehogs, moles and otters battling with teeth, claws, and weapons. Husk had armed himself again, and with a sword in one paw and a dagger in the other, fought with all the passion and fury of his life. Padra raised his sword in both paws, and with all his might, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, rang it against the doorway.

“In the king’s name!” he yelled.

The fighting stopped. All eyes turned to him. The animals stepped back, breathing hard, leaning on their swords, nursing their wounds.

He had thought of this moment, and prepared for it. His shoulder still ached and his hind paw stung. He wasn’t as fast as Husk, but he was stronger and heavier.

“Enough blood has been shed,” he said. “Husk: deceiver, murderer, traitor to your king and to Mistmantle, I challenge you to single combat in the names of the ones you have wronged. I come for King Brushen, Queen Spindle, and Prince Tumble. I come for Captain Crispin the Exile, and for Urchin of the Riding Stars. I come for the Isle of Mistmantle.”

“And I come for Husk,” growled Husk, crouching over his sword. “Captain Husk, Lord Husk, Husk the Triumphant, King Husk.” His voice rose high and wild. “For the great King Husk, and for Queen Aspen!” He raised his sword in both paws.

Padra raised his own sword, and kissed the blade. He was suddenly aware of a hedgehog running past him, and recognized Needle as she dashed to the window.

“Look!” cried Needle with joy. “All of you!
LOOK!
”

All heads except Husk’s turned to look. All stared, wide-eyed, hushed with wonder.

“It’s a trick!” sneered Husk, but nobody listened. They were watching the sky as something emerged through the mist, something that flew high and steadily toward them. “Squirrels on swans!” whispered Needle in awe. “Captain Padra, sir, it’s…”

“Yes,” said Padra, and felt his heart would burst with joy. And Husk, too, heard the depths of his own heart.

Fear nothing until squirrels fly through the air
.

Slowly, sickeningly, he felt his courage drain. He did not want to see what the rest of them saw, but he turned to the window, leaned out, and screamed at the archers.

“Fire! Wake up, you fools!
FIRE!
”

Urchin’s ears were sharply pricked, and his eyes shone with joy. The tower was before them. But why were those animals huddled on the rocks, and why was nobody else about?

“Get down, Urchin!” yelled Crispin. “Arrows!”

Urchin ducked, pressed his head down against the swan’s neck, and gripped tightly. The swan swerved, bobbed, and rose so steeply that it took all of Urchin’s balance to stay on. He raised his head a little, just to anticipate the next flight of arrows.

“Urchin!” called Crispin. “We’re putting the swans in danger! We’ll have to jump. Ready?”

“Yes, captain!” called Urchin. Still holding on, he struggled to his hind paws. He saw Crispin spring, all paws extended, to the windows of the Gathering Chamber. Then the swan swerved and, for the third time in his life, Urchin fell from the sky.

He landed on soft sand beyond the Spring Gate, rolled, and drew his sword as he ran at the gate. Nobody was there to stop him, and he was dashing to the Gathering Chamber when a noise from below the ground made him stop.

It was the thin, quavering voice of a young animal in distress. A hedgehog, from the sound of it. It was too far away to hear the words, but the voice was angry and close to tears at the same time. There were other voices, too, unpleasant ones.

Irritation ran through Urchin. He should be with Crispin, flying into the Gathering Chamber in triumph. But somewhere nearby was a very young animal in distress, and almost certainly in danger. He knew what Crispin would want him to do.

Urchin didn’t often use tunnels. Trying to remember what Padra had taught him about them, he found an entrance in a corner of the wall. The frightened hedgehog voice was closer, and so was cruel laughter and then, to his horror, the rasp of a sword being drawn. Urchin tore toward it.

The tunnel opened out so suddenly that Urchin wasn’t ready for what he saw, and had to pull himself together. He was in some sort of guard room, where a platter lay on a small table, a lamp glowed on a wall, and two moles, who neither looked nor sounded like Mistmantle moles, had their backs to him. They were pointing their swords toward a hedgehog so small, so scruffy, and so brave in its terror that fury fired Urchin.

“I’ll fight you…” the hedgehog was saying, though his voice was thin and his mouth trembled. “I’ll fight you. One at a time. But you’ll have to lend me a sword, or it’s not fair.”

Soundlessly, Urchin sprang onto the table and picked up the platter for a shield. If the hedgehog had seen him, it was wise enough to keep quiet. The entrance was free, so the moles would probably escape rather than fight.

“Captain Padra will be very cross,” said the hedgehog, trying very hard not to cry.

“Aah! Poor ickle hedgehog!” said a mole.

“Aah!” said the other, and was turning away as Urchin sprang from the table. “Aaaarh!”

There was no need to fight. The moles had seen, not a young squirrel, but a raging armed warrior. The first fled, and the other followed as the flat of Urchin’s sword skimmed across his flank. Urchin slipped the sword back into its sheath and knelt by the trembling hedgehog to stroke the soft spines. It snarled, but not very convincingly.

“I won’t hurt you,” said Urchin gently. “The moles have gone. My name’s Urchin: I’m Captain Padra’s page. Who are you?”

“I’m Hope,” said the hedgehog. “I’ve heard about you. The funny-colored squirrel?”

“That’s me,” said Urchin, remembering the nearsighted hedgehog from the nursery.

“Thank you for chasing the moles away,” said Hope. “I would have fought them, you know, sir.”