Mousch the Crooked

Robin Bennett

Description

Crippled since childhood and half blind, Mouesch must use his unusual talent to find the Chalice before Corbeau.Small Vampires Series:Think you know the truth about Vampires? Well, think again.A mysterious volume in an unknown tongue, a thief who could change the course of the world and a closely-guarded secret, older than Humankind..."Robin Bennett's Picus the Thief is that seemingly impossible take on the genre - funny, intelligent, imaginative story-telling that mixes Arthurian legend with faeries and vampires and comes up with a unique mix of all three."- SSF Chronicles "Aimed at the young adult market, the world building is incredible and it's almost impossible not to become immersed in this fantastically realised world of charm and grandeur. The characters are just as lively too, Picus is brilliant as a small but almost indestructible, irrepressible vampire thief who throws himself head first at life's little adventures." - SF Books Reviews (best fantasy fiction for book lovers) "Picus the Thief is highly original, beautifully imaginative and utterly engaging. It is no mean feat that the author has managed to create a series of interconnected worlds, a loveable central character, as well as a host of other characters that all have genuine depth. If you are looking for gifts for books lovers or top fantasy books, read Picus the Thief."

Sujets

• Children's

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 02 juillet 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780956868473
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Title Page
MOÜSCH THE CROOKED
Small Vampires
Volume 2

by
Robin Bennett



Publisher Information
Originally published in Great Britain by Monster Books
The Old Smithy, Henley-on-Thames, OXON RG9 2AR
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.
The right of Robin Bennett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
© 2013 Robin Bennett
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser



Introduction
Although I am now well over sixteen hundred years old, I am unlikely ever to forget the smallest detail of the night that Corbeau came to our house, looking for the Chalice.
Moüsch and his best friend Corbeau are ordered by the Eltern to find the greatest of all the greatest of all the Small Vampire treasures – the Chalice. Hampered by visions that he cannot make sense of and physical disability he embarks on a quest, following Picus’ steps from centuries before to England and beyond.
(Small Vampires) is that seemingly impossible take on the genre – funny, intelligent, imaginative story-telling that mixes Arthurian legend with faeries and vampires and comes up with a unique mix of all three.
- SSF Chronicles
...the world building is incredible and it’s almost impossible not to become immersed in this fantastically realised world of charm and grandeur.
- SF Books Reviews



Dedication
As ever, I am bound to miss people out and feel guilty about it afterwards, but here goes: Thanks, once again, to Serena Jones for her invaluable editing and good advice, Barbara Newman for all her time spent writing complimentary letters to people about me, and to Patrick Walsh for his help an encouragement all the way back in 2008.
This book is dedicated to Father Anthony Sutch for encouraging me to write when I would rather have been playing cricket.



Chapter 1
Corbeau
‘The Chalice defines Vampires as the most powerful species on the planet: it is our mother, our father, our protector and our avenger. It is the greatest weapon we have.’
Kaier Slavdomi Krillinc (‘Corbeau’). The Book of Truth.
Although I am now well over sixteen hundred years old, I am unlikely ever to forget the smallest detail of the night that Corbeau came to our house, looking for the Chalice.
The Cracked Bell in the Keep had just struck midnight as I stared out of our attic window at the fires raging below. Terrified Vampires ran in short, panicked bursts between the houses, seeking safety in the shadows as the renegade Vampire knights, led by Corbeau himself, swept through the town, hacking to pieces or burning everything in their path.
To get a clear view of the street below, I had to stand on a pile of old boxes. I was nine. Alouette, my sister, dark-haired and quiet, was seven and Moineau, the baby of the family, plump and loved, was only two.
‘Get down, Moüsch, you’ll fall.’ Alouette stretched up and took hold of my wrist. I still remember the feel of her hand - it was small and soft.
‘Shh, Aly, I’m trying to see.’ I was squinting with my weak eyes, craning out even further over the window-ledge. Cold seeped through my pyjamas from the stone and made me shiver, and my breath billowed white, then crimson, as the thatch on a house opposite collapsed into a whirlwind of sparks and flames.
Suddenly my father was at the attic door. ‘Moüsch,’ he said furiously as he strode in. ‘I thought I told you all to hide.’ We turned around. I saw a second emotion playing on his face, sheltering behind the irritation. It was fear. I had seen him angry before, but never frightened.
I jumped down as best I could and took hold of Moineau’s hand. Then I turned to Alouette, who opened her mouth as if about to say something. Her back was to the window I had been looking out of moments before, and her white nightdress fanned out, as she raised her arms, blocking the flickering light from the burning street below. Somewhere further up the hill, towards the Keep itself, someone screamed and yet strangely my sister, her mouth open to reveal her small milk fangs, made no sound. Then she coughed and I saw blood well up from her throat.
And she fell.
Revealed behind her on the window ledge, framed against the infernal backdrop of his own making, was Corbeau himself; his wings beat slowly, and in his left hand he lightly held a tapered sword.
A solitary drop of my sister’s blood ran to the tip of the blade and dropped like a tear to the floor as I stood, rigid with terror, my hand grasping Moineau’s. I watched the tremoring orb of blood fall at Corbeau’s feet. When it hit the ground, I was close enough to register how it exploded into dozens of smaller droplets, sending up tiny puffs of dust from the wooden boards.
I still recall how my whole attention was taken with staring in horror at the blood, so that I was hardly aware of my father, who flew past me, his sword unsheathed, slicing through the air in a single, fluid movement.
The speed and the ferocity of the attack almost worked.
Corbeau, with a look of mild surprise, only just managed to bring his own rapier up in time to meet my father’s sword; a burst of sparks from the blades brought me back to my senses, and I pulled Moineau behind four large sacks of grain that stood in the attic corner.
Corbeau fought for his life as my father, his face deathly pale and savage, pressed home the advantage, bringing his sword down on Corbeau’s in a brutal series of blows. Corbeau had flown down to meet him in the room but now had no choice but to retreat, forced back by the raw power of my father’s anger until his back was against the wall. As with all great swordsmen, my father switched tactics abruptly: he stopped slicing and lunged once, then twice in quick succession. Corbeau managed to parry the first attack with a look of alarm on his face, but the second got through his guard and speared his free hand, pinning it firmly to the wooden rafter behind him.
I often think how different all our lives would have been had it not been at that moment, when he seemed on the brink of defeat, that one of Corbeau’s renegade knights kicked the door open and dragged my mother into the room.
She had a deep gash across her forehead and the fingers of her left hand looked bruised and broken . A s she looked at the small, bloodstained corpse of Alouette, a thin stream of blood escaped her broken lip in a silent wail. Moineau cried out, ‘Mummy!’ as my mother’s soft brown eyes looked up and met ours.
All of my mother’s gentleness, her fierce love for us and her regret were poured into that one brief glance that still haunts me down the centuries of my long life.
The knight pulled out a thin, curved dagger as my father turned away from Corbeau. From the corner of my eye, I saw Corbeau’s sword arm move.
‘No!’ was all my father had time to shout before the knight sliced the razor-sharp steel across my mother’s exposed throat in a terrible carving motion. At that same moment, Corbeau’s sword pierced my father through the shoulder blade and found his heart.
I was too young, or perhaps simply too terrified, to be fully aware of what I was about to do: but at that moment I burst from my hiding place, grabbing my father’s sword from the floor and bought brought it up between the legs of the Vampire who had killed my mother. He let out an unnaturally high-pitched cry and fell where he stood, dark red blood pumping onto the floor from his exposed inside leg. Even at that age, I knew enough about blood to recognise it was arterial. He would be dead within minutes. Then I turned, remembering Moineau. His pyjamas had always been too big for him, and so they slipped as he ran towards my mother, his eyes wide with the horror and his hands outstretched. Up until that evening all he had known was kindness.
‘Get back, Moineau!’ I shouted but my misshapen legs could not react fast enough.
Corbeau wrenched his speared hand free and strode forward; blood ran freely from the wound, yet his face was calm. Barely pausing as he passed, he swiped sideways and my brother’s body flew into the air. As his head hit the wall, I heard an appalling crack .
Seconds later, with his sword raised at my own throat, he hesitated and something like puzzlement crossed his face. At that moment a commanding voice came from the street below.
‘That’s it, Corbeau, your murderous friends have surrendered ... it’s over!’ Still expecting a deathblow, I had closed my eyes.
When I opened them again Corbeau had gone.



Chapter 2
The Were Wars
‘The Chalice is not a mere weapon! Its true power may lie in peace. If used for violence, it will surely become unstoppable. The Chalice, wrongly used, has the power to destroy everything we know.’
Qi LiFang. Dragon Clan Chronicles.
Why Corbeau did not kill me when he had the chance remains a mystery to me. With my bent, distorted legs and stunted wings it may have been pity, though it seems doubtful. More likely was that he saw in me what no one until much later knew.
I often get visions.
Most of the ti