The Island of Whispers (11 page)

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 watch 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.