The Island of Whispers Read online

  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.

  Slayer broke the silence.

  ‘Kill them,’ he said quietly.

  In one sudden, concerted movement, the young warriors charged, snarling and spitting, towards the Protectors. On the right, Slasher and Belcher sprang forward. Both Broken Tail and Jagged Fangs spun round and raced for the tunnel. One of the guards scampered off to raise the alarm, while the two others remained just inside the tunnel, their backs arched, ready for the onslaught.

  Jagged Fangs reached the guards first. Broken Tail, heavier and slower, hurled himself into the tunnel just as the two leading slave-rats leapt on his ample hindquarters. Screeching and squealing, the rest of the slaves clawed at each other in their eagerness to squeeze into the narrow entrance.

  Slayer moved to the edge of the pit. His voice rose above the din at the tunnel and echoed round the lair.

  ‘Come, comrades!’ he roared. ‘We invade the Master’s lair! We kill all the Master’s race!’

  Immediately, a horde of rats swarmed down from the ledges, reaching the flat ground only moments later. Utterly terrified, the two prisoners cringed back against the wall. The horde swept past them. The black mass below had begun to move. Like a great, angry wave, it heaved up and then crashed against the side of the pit. As the first of the slaves scrambled up to the high ground, Slayer turned quickly to the prisoners.

  ‘Go!’ he boomed.

  The paralysis had lifted. Reflex replaced terror. Without hesitation, the young Watchers plunged towards the tunnel.

  His bearing stiff and proud and regal, the slave-King watched the bristling black mob stream from the pit. Then he, too, turned and charged into battle.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty-Three –

  The Common lair rang with a crescendo of squeaks and squeals as rats in their hundreds jostled each other and chattered excitedly. It was difficult to tell what made them more excited: the gory horrors that would soon befall the two unfortunate rebels from the Watchers’ lair, or the slave-flesh that would come afterwards, ending days of hunger. The presence at the Assembly of she-rats and trembling, wide-eyed youngsters was unprecedented, marking the occasion as special; the nervous voices of the newcomers added to the high-pitched clamour.

  Fat One squatted silently at the back of the throng. His thoughts were dark and angry. So it has come to this, he reflected. The worst of cruelties. Our comrades tortured and killed before our eyes. Not even their own mates and young ones will be spared the spectacle. And then what? Who will be next? How many more Watchers will be dragged from their nests to face interrogation and slow death? We are not safe here. That’s why we must go. That’s why we must fulfil the plan.

  He peered across the crowd to check that they were still there. He had told them to stay in a group, unobtrusive, close to the edge of the lair. When the time came, when he gave the signal, they would skirt round the edge and slip into the Protectors’ lair. He would get there immediately behind them, make sure that they weren’t followed. It would be just as Twisted Foot had planned it.

  He could pick out Small Face. The little Watcher crouched slightly apart from the group. His anxious eyes met Fat One’s, and his body shook with fear. Behind Small Face, Grey Eyes, by contrast, kept her head erect; she looked proud and unbowed by the coming ordeal. Her son also had an air of defiance, although he stayed close to his mother’s side. Fat One’s mate, Bone-Cruncher, was in the group, together with her two youngsters, a fine son and a portly daughter. Long Ears’ mate and daughter and Timid One and her son made up the rest of the group. All there, Fat One nodded to himself. Our new society.

  It had all become so clear to him when Sharp Claws announced the Assembly and told of the awful fate planned for Twisted Foot and Long Ears. He had acted quickly, gathering together Small Face and the four mates, spelling out what might occur to them and their children if they remained in the underworld. They had all agreed readily to proceed with the escape plan. It was left to him now to ensure that the dream – the dream begun by his doomed comrades – was realised. He was the leader now, no longer the fat, lazy grumbler of the lair. First, though, he would have to stand by impassively while the Protectors destroyed his companions. He would have to show strength. He must not grow afraid; he must stay angry, hold his nerve, grasp the right moment.

  The members of the Inner Circle had taken up their positions on the platform. The Chief Protector would return imminently from the Scavengers’ dungeon with the rebel Watchers and slave-rats in tow. Long Snout rose up from the centre of the platform. He stood rigid and all-powerful. His fierce red eyes surveyed the rows of eager, upturned faces. Fat One stared into those eyes, directing the full force of his hate at them. He swore silently. Just one opportunity – a moment alone with the old tyrant – and he would rip the throat from him.

  Long Snout’s screech now filled the lair, stilling every movement, silencing every voice.

  ‘Comrades of the Dark World!’ he began the Assembly. ‘Yet another threat to our society has shown itself. This time, comrades, the threat comes from within –’

  He broke off suddenly to wa
tch the commotion that had erupted at the entrance to the Scavengers’ lair. The Protector who had shot out of the tunnel was still catching his breath. He was staring up, panic-stricken, at the platform.

  ‘The slaves! ...’ he gasped. ‘The slaves are coming! ...’

  In the brief, utter stillness which preceded the carnage, Fat One and Small Face locked eyes. The moment had come much sooner than they had expected.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty-Four –

  The little plum-coloured boat lurched through the angry, swelling sea on its way from the Hawes Pier in South Queensferry to Inchgarvie Island. Big, spume-tipped waves sprang up from the sea to leap over the prow of the boat and crash into the narrow windscreen. Heavy rain slanted from the east, lashing the boat’s starboard side and pummelling the flimsy roof of the cabin. Inside the tiny cabin, the three occupants stood close together, peering into the wildness of the day.

  The two young men felt queasy. Their pinched pallor contrasted with the gaudiness of their apparel: shiny yellow anoraks and trousers; orange lifesaving jackets; and green Wellington boots. Their ‘skipper’, Charlie McNulty, thought that they looked like overdressed parrots. Charlie was a thin man in his forties; a six-footer with shoulders which seemed permanently hunched, a long face with a square chin, unruly black hair and wild, bushy eyebrows. It was his job to patrol the waters under the railway bridge in case any of the maintenance team fell into the sea. If they were lucky, they might still be alive after they hit the water. If they were even luckier, he might just get to them before they drowned or perished from the cold. No-one was working on the bridge today – the weather would have prevented it anyway – but he had been called out urgently to ferry the ‘whiz-kids’ from the exhibition company to Inchgarvie. Charlie had been on duty every weekend while the floodlighting was installed on the bridge. He would be on duty again during the whole of the next day’s festivities. He wasn’t too happy about this latest inconvenience, nor was he pleased about the storm which was tossing and buffeting his little boat.

  Charlie lit a cigarette with one hand and steered the boat with the other. As it plunged under the first giant arch of the bridge and moved out into the estuary, the vessel began to lurch more violently. The two passengers clung, white-knuckled, to the rail under the windscreen. Their faces were even greyer now. Charlie puffed the cigarette and smiled a thin, malicious smile.

  Digger hunched down and closed his eyes again as yet another blast of icy rain swept over the island. He felt cold and wet and exceptionally tired. He was an old Watcher, well past his prime, probably in his last Cycle. One day soon, he knew, he wouldn’t wake up, and they would drag his corpse into the Scavengers’ lair. It seemed to him that he had spent forever out here among the rocks, trying to shield himself from the worst of the storm. Darkness was an awful long time in coming. He alone kept guard over the outside world. The members of the daylight watch had been told to return to the underworld for a special Assembly. He came in their place. He was old and useless; he could forego the ranting of the Chamberlain on this occasion – and suffer the fury of the storm instead. He had been forbidden from seeking shelter under the debris at the entrance tunnel. He had to stay in the open, on the lookout for the arrival of Two-Legs. He had wedged himself below some large rocks close to the monastery wall, but the spot that he had chosen offered scant protection from the biting east wind and the driving rain.

  Altogether, Digger decided, he was having a thoroughly miserable time. He felt very, very tired. He had already spent all night above ground. It was he who had been forced to report Narrow Back’s disappearance from the watch. Poor Narrow Back. He saw later what they had done to him. Now, it seemed, Twisted Foot and Long Ears would get the same treatment. Well, that was one compensation: at least he wouldn’t have to witness their demise. They were so foolish, the young Watchers. To rebel against the society. It was unthinkable. He had learned that a long time ago. So foolish and futile.

  Digger shivered. He had to keep his mind on his duty. Duty must always come first. He tried to peer out from the rocks. The rain stung his eyes. He could barely discern the jetty down below and the frothing waves which threatened to engulf it. He closed his eyes. He was so tired. Sleep came like a stealthy predator, claiming his mind.

  – o –

  – Chapter Twenty-Five –

  Jagged Fangs stumbled into the Common lair. There were bloody gashes across his muzzle and down his chest and forelegs. Broken Tail came limping behind him, his back and flanks lacerated and bleeding, the bone from one of his hindlegs gleaming white where the fur and flesh had been ripped away. The mangled corpses of the two guards lay back in the tunnel.

  The first of the Scavengers appeared only moments later. The little warrior darted from the tunnel, paused, blinked, selected a victim and then flew at the target’s throat. The others followed, one by one, snout to tail, often scrambling over each other in their eagerness for blood; an unending black torrent of bristling, sinewy avengers. The pattern each time was the same: a momentary pause to seek out a target, followed by a ferocious attack.

  Shrieking and screeching, the Chamberlain’s audience scattered in all directions. Protectors broke from their ring round the platform and raced to stem the flow at the tunnel. With amazing presence of mind, One Eye, the Chief Hunter, herded the members of his lair into the space by the pool and then set up a barricade of warriors to protect the she-rats and young. Sharp Claws also showed his calmness and quick thinking; pushing and prodding his charges, he began to move them back to the safety of the Watchers’ lair.

  There was great panic among the Rulers on the platform. Up on his hindquarters, Long Snout struggled to make himself heard over the mews and squeals of his colleagues. He wanted them to retreat to the Inner Circle lair, but they seemed incapable of understanding or acting.

  Wave after wave of Scavengers leapt at the wall of Protectors. The Protectors fought back fiercely. Before long, the ground outside the tunnel was strewn with slave corpses, but the Scavengers continued to surge forward; the flow of attackers was relentless, unstoppable. Several Protectors fell back with as many as five or six slaves clinging to each of them, biting, clawing, gouging at their eyes. Other slaves rushed through the gaps in the wall, springing into the open, immediately searching for new victims. Invariably, the cries and wails of the Rulers drew their attention. The fat brown ones were easy targets; so soft and juicy, so vulnerable. The wailing grew louder as drooling Scavengers began to propel themselves into the quivering mass on the platform.

  Twisted Foot and Long Ears were swept along by the momentum of the rushing slaves. They emerged from the tunnel, breathing hard, with little time to take in the incredible noise and mayhem of the battle. Slayer sped past them and sprang straight at the eyes of a beleaguered Protector. The Protector screamed and stumbled backwards. Reflex took over the Watchers’ actions. They slipped through the space left by the Protector and then headed across the Common lair.

  ‘The tunnel!’ Twisted Foot shouted. ‘The escape tunnel!’

  They raced past the platform. There was a blurred glimpse of Long Snout, towering above the rest, magnificent in his anger, a struggling Scavenger trapped by the neck between his massive jaws. As they rounded the platform, they caught sight of Small Face and the others, pressed hard against the wall, staring terrified at the squirming bodies just outside the entrance to the Protectors’ lair. Twisted Foot recognised the burly shape of Fat One. His companion was floundering on the ground, trying desperately to dislodge the Scavenger on his back. Again, reflex dictated Twisted Foot’s movements. He leapt into the fray, seized the Scavenger by the back of the neck and bit hard. The Scavenger gasped and shuddered. There was a horrifying, gurgling noise, and then hot blood spurted into Twisted Foot’s mouth. He tossed the slave’s body to one side.

  Fat One scrambled up.

  ‘Back from the dead, comrade?’ he growled affectionately.

  The others pressed round Twisted Foo
t. Grey Eyes and Soft-Mover nuzzled into him.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Quickly!’

  Led by Fat One, the group moved off into the tunnel. Twisted Foot and Long Ears lingered at the back. They took a final look at the mounting slaughter in the Common lair. The black torrent continued to gush from the Scavengers’ dungeon. The Protectors had all but lost control; snarling slaves were moving in on their mates and young ones. Up on the platform, the squealing, obese body of the King-rat toppled over as Slasher and Belcher tore greedily at his snow-white throat.

  Sharp Claws prowled anxiously outside the Watchers’ lair. Behind him, his warriors were bunched round the entrance tunnel. Most of the she-rats and youngsters were inside, safe for the time being. The slaves would come soon, though. The Watchers would fight bravely, but Sharp Claws knew that they would be quickly overwhelmed.

  The noise of the battle was deafening, terrifying. His eyes scoured the Common lair, searching for stragglers amongst the carnage. He glimpsed Grey Eyes and her son as they fled into the Protectors’ lair. Then he saw Long Ears, and Twisted Foot next to him. They were staring at the platform, as if transfixed by the sight of the Inner Circle in its death throes. Now they were turning, sprinting after Grey Eyes.

  Escaping at last, Sharp Claws said to himself. He was glad. Whatever perils awaited them above ground could be no worse than down here. The society was doomed, and he along with it. He had been its loyal servant all this time; a true and faithful leader of the Watchers. Now, it seemed, he would die protecting the society.

  He thought suddenly of his time as a young, fresh Watcher. The hardships. The humiliations. The cruelty of the Protectors. The smug, bloated faces of the Rulers. He had had dreams of escape then, but the power of the society had always held him back, kept him servile. Where was that power this day? What held him back now? He was old, yes, but he was still fit and strong, with Cycles yet to live. He didn’t have to die here.