Hercufleas (15 page)

The Mousketeers cheered as Hercufleas lay dazed on the tail's tip. His head was reeling, but so far everything was going to plan.

Come on, he thought, while Sir Klaus grinned and high-pawed his soldiers.
Come on…

‘Dizzy, Hercufleas?' laughed the mouse as Hercufleas clung to his tail. ‘I must admit, I did not think you would surrender so easily…'

Hercufleas said nothing. He crouched, ready to jump.

Come on, he thought again, willing the mouse to strike.
Come on!

And Sir Klaus raised his sword.

Yes! He's fallen for it!

When Sir Klaus struck, Hercufleas would leap clear of the blade. The mouse would slice the tip from his tail, spilling his own blood, and defeat himself.

‘Die!' cried Sir Klaus.

Hercufleas jumped.

But something was wrong. Sir Klaus was swinging too high! The sword wasn't heading for where Hercufleas had been – it was slicing towards where he was going!

Sir Klaus had seen through the trick.

He's outwitted me! I'm jumping straight into Grimm's path! I'll be chopped in half!

Somersaulting in the air, Hercufleas reacted on impulse as the blade sliced towards him. Everything slowed down in his mind. He saw Grimm's razor-sharp edge, and at the last moment he kicked his legs sideways. His feet hit the edge of the sword, deflecting it an inch upward. It glided harmlessly above him. Just.

Sir Klaus hissed in annoyance and cracked his tail like a whip. It struck Hercufleas and catapulted him into the floor –
oomph –
where he skidded among the pebbles and frost.

What should he do now?

‘You say you are a hero?' Sir Klaus paced back and forth, waiting for him to get up. ‘Yet you use sly tricks more worthy of a knave!'

Hercufleas had no time to answer before Sir Klaus launched another deadly attack. Left and right, high and low, Grimm stabbed and swept and slashed and hacked and spun. Hercufleas hopped back, retreating, desperately trying to think of a new plan. He needed one quickly. Already he was exhausted. But so was Sir Klaus.

Sweat dripped from the old mouse's whiskers as he pursued the flea up a tower staircase, across the fortress walls, down a turret roof, trying to land a killing blow.

The Mousketeers looked on in awe. Never before had they seen such stunning swordsmanship, or such amazing acrobatics. It was like a dance – a grim fandango – and everyone could see that it could not go on for much longer.

Hercufleas tumbled back down into the courtyard. He lay there, while Sir Klaus descended the turret steps slowly, panting.

‘I do declare,' he said, ‘you have entirely exhausted my right paw. I have not had to fight left-pawed since defending my cousins the rats in Hamelin.'

As Sir Klaus switched his sword from right paw to left, Hercufleas's mind raced. He was running out of time.

Then he saw it.

His only hope.

Hercufleas jumped –

Sir Klaus glanced up –

‘Where did he go?' blinked the mouse, whirling round.

On all sides of the castle, the Mousketeers gasped. In torment they watched their champion turn left and right, looking for his enemy. Each one yearned to tell Sir Klaus where Hercufleas was, but this was a duel and they were honour-bound not to interfere.

Clinging to Sir Klaus's back, Hercufleas was utterly still. He wouldn't be able to hold on for much longer. It didn't matter. His fangs, slender as syringe needles, sank into his enemy's fur and drained a thimble of blood.

Sir Klaus felt his shoulder itch. He squeaked and stabbed backwards, but his broken sword couldn't reach. If he swung too recklessly, he could injure himself and lose the duel. Finally his tail wrapped around Hercufleas like a python and whipped the flea round to face the mouse's ferocious stare.

‘You fought well,' he said, in the absolute silence of the courtyard. ‘But you have lost this duel, and therefore your life. Die, monster.'

And with the jagged edge of Grimm, Sir Klaus stabbed Hercufleas in the belly.

Pain skewered him. His armoured skin crunched as a fat drop of blood welled out from his swollen stomach.

‘It is over. You will never have the Black Death.'

But Hercufleas, though he was slick and red with blood, gave a weak laugh.

And Sir Klaus knew what he had done.

‘
NO!
' he cried, but it was too late. The drop of blood splished onto the courtyard floor.

‘You spilled your own blood.' Hercufleas laughed, though laughing hurt. ‘The blood inside me is the blood I drank from you just now. I win. I win!'

A groan went up from the Mousketeers. It was true. They'd seen it happen. Sir Klaus looked at them, then back at Hercufleas in his grasp. Then he dropped the broken sword to the floor and fell on his knees, squeaking and sobbing.

‘I have lost,' wept Sir Klaus. ‘Forgive me, world, for failing to protect you. The Black Death must be unleashed again.'

Hercufleas lay on the ground in agony, his broken body grating against itself with each breath. He had won the duel, but at what cost? Everything seemed suddenly far away. Sir Klaus came close but Hercufleas could barely see him. What was the mouse saying? Why was it so cold? When had it got so dark?

H
ercufleas woke on a mouse-hair mattress. For a brief, wonderful moment, he thought he was back in the house-hat and everything had been a long, detailed and extremely far-fetched dream. He sat up, looking for Min and Pin; then the pain in his belly made him double over.

He remembered: the fortress, the duel, the drop of blood…

He collapsed back down on the bed, gasping, wondering how he was still alive. Gingerly he prodded his tummy. The wound was sealed with candle wax and stitched shut with mouse whiskers. The Mousketeers had saved his life!

How long had he slept? He was ravenous. By his bedside was a tiny goblet with a drop of mouse blood in it. He gulped it down (suppressing the desire to nibble cheese) and looked around the room. It was cylindrical and made of red brick. He was still in the fortress, then, in one of the turrets. A young sandy-haired Mousketeer with an azure uniform dozed on guard duty by the door. When Hercufleas plonked the goblet down, he gave a squeak, clutched at his musket and saluted.

‘You're awake!' Opening the door, he called, ‘Sir Klaus!'

Footsteps pattered up the spiral stairs.

‘You have recovered,' the albino mouse said stiffly, coming into the room. ‘Then it is time.'

‘Time?' Hercufleas didn't understand. ‘For what?'

The old mouse stroked his white whiskers. ‘For me to keep my vow. You won our duel. Every Mousketeer before me has pledged never to let the Black Death out into the world again. Yet I promised to obey you, though I do so with a heavy heart.'

Hercufleas bounced upright. ‘You're really giving me the Black Death?'

Sir Klaus grimaced. ‘No,' he said. ‘I'm giving you a choice. There is a difference. The Black Death is a weapon. You must choose to wield it, or leave it be.'

Hercufleas nodded, remembering the empty houses of Tumber. Greta's broken heart. His missing fleamily. Sir Klaus might think he was giving him a choice, but what choice did he have?

‘I will wield it,' he said at last.

Sir Klaus looked at the sandy-haired mouse, who saluted and closed the door behind him. He sat in a chair beside the bed. Suddenly he looked very old.

‘I need it,' Hercufleas said, trying to make Sir Klaus understand. He thought back to what Miss Witz had told him. ‘Arthur had Excalibur. Roland had Durendal. The Black Death is my weapon. I need it to be a hero. Otherwise there won't be a Happily Ever After.'

‘Happily Ever Afters do not come from weapons,' Sir Klaus said wearily. ‘Weapons are not an ending, they are the beginning of a cycle. First death. Then from death comes heartbreak, and from heartbreak comes hate, and the white heat of hate forges more weapons.'

‘What else can I do, Sir Klaus? This is the only way to defeat Yuk.'

‘There is always another way. You just have to believe.'

Hercufleas shook his head. ‘Believing isn't enough.'

‘Believing is more than you think.' Klaus blinked his red eyes. ‘To survive, you must believe in something greater than you. Just like your kind, who live off bigger animals. We are all fleas on the back of a creature called Hope. What about the girl who came with you to this place?'

Hercufleas smiled sadly. ‘Greta doesn't believe in anything.'

‘She believes in you.' Klaus stood up and went to the window. ‘Why else is she still here?'

Hercufleas leaped out of bed, this time ignoring the pain. ‘Greta?' He wobbled over to the window, looking out across the courtyard where he and Sir Klaus had fought their duel. There she was, sitting on the battlements, clogs swinging, green scarf streaming in the wind. She was chatting with the Mousketeers while they climbed over Artifax. Hercufleas smiled. He had missed her odd-eyed stares and rare-as-dodo-blood smiles.

‘I thought she'd give up,' Hercufleas said, swaying on his feet. ‘Go back to Tumber.'

Klaus rested his paw on Hercufleas's shoulder to steady him. ‘She stayed here. Four days it has been. Because she thinks you can defeat Yuk.'

Hercufleas felt himself flush pink. ‘You mean she thinks the
Black Death
can defeat Yuk.'

Klaus laughed. ‘I do not think so. She does not speak of the Black Death. She speaks of you and your heroic deeds – like firing yourself from a pig's snout, and being swallowed by a fish.'

Hercufleas stared down at Greta from the window and saw hope in her face, fragile and fierce as a sparrow. But hope for what?

‘You must make the right choice,' said Sir Klaus gravely. ‘Do you put your trust in the power of death? Or will you trust in another power: yourself?'

W
hen Greta saw Hercufleas, she ran across the courtyard in a cloud of dust and scattered mice. She pressed her eye to the window to gaze at him, soaking the sill with her tears.

‘You're awake!' Her voice boomed around the room, making Hercufleas's head ring. ‘I knew you'd be fine, I knew it! You did it, Hercufleas! They're going to give us the Black Death!'

Hercufleas didn't know what to say. He looked at Sir Klaus. Was the mouse right? Could he really defeat Yuk without such a dreadful weapon? How could he trust in himself when he had failed so many times already?

‘Come,' said Sir Klaus, leading Hercufleas down the spiral stairs. Outside it was evening, and the granite chest threw a long tombstone shadow across the courtyard. Two Mousketeers were busy unsealing the keyhole above the lid.

‘You alone can gather the Black Death,' Sir Klaus said, stooped and hollow-eyed. ‘Go in through the keyhole and take a sip of the plague. But know this: it cannot be undone. You will carry the Black Death for the rest of your life. Anyone you bite will die. And once you unleash the plague upon the world, there is no telling where it might spread. Whom it might destroy.'

Greta turned pale and looked down at Hercufleas.

‘Are you ready?' she asked.

Do you want to back out?
is what she meant.

‘Yes,' he said, jumping through the keyhole, unsure which question he was answering.

It was dark inside the chest. Still. Lifeless as a crypt. Nothing moved but the dust dancing in the sunbeam that slanted in through the keyhole and down onto a lead-lined box. Hercufleas hopped closer, stale air swirling around him, blood churning in his belly. The sunbeam was hot on his back, but the lid when he touched it was cold. It sucked the warmth from his fingers. In his head, the words of Sir Klaus and Miss Witz clashed together.

No good can come of the Black Death, only evil.

I wish there was another way.

Make the right choice.

Save us.

He heaved the lid up. The lead seal broke and a rancid smell rushed up, like a ghost flying free from its coffin. Inside the box was the glass phial, just as Miss Witz had described. It was filled with water and a single black speck, like a dried inkblot.

The Black Death.

Hard to believe that something so small could be so deadly.

Hercufleas could scarcely breathe. He grasped the phial. All he had to do was pull out the stopper and swallow the plague. Then he'd have the power to save his fleamily. To protect Tumber. To avenge Greta.