Doomwyte (23 page)

Corksnout Spikkle volunteered to guard the captives. He ushered them into the tower, standing sentry over the single door, armed with his huge bung mallet. Corksnout issued stern commands. “Find somewheres to lay down or sit, an’ not a peep out of anybeast. Oh, an’ just let me hear one ding out o’ those two bells, an’ ye’ll find out just wot this mallet’s for, when it ain’t bein’ used on bungs!”

Nokko stared admiringly at the huge Cellarhog. “Now if’n I was a Painty One, there’s a beast I wouldn’t mess wid. Dat big ’ammer of his makes a sambag look like a baby’s toy!”

It was a strange experience for the Gonfelins, seeing inside Redwall Abbey. They had all heard of it, both in story and song, but for long generations no Gonfelin mouse had been inside the hallowed building. Their curiosity, however, was soon dismissed when they were introduced to their first Abbey supper.

Coveting a huge bowl of salad, a wedge of cheese and a fresh-baked farl, Bosie viewed them with awe, whilst repelling one or two of the raggedy mice from his own portion. “Och, will ye no’ look at the wee terrors, Ah’ve never seen beasts shovin’ vittles doon like that! Yowch! Away, ye fiend, that wee rascal bit mah paw!”

Glisam was being introduced to his new guests. Nokko shook the Father Abbot’s paw cordially. “Me name’s Nokko, Pike’ead of all Gonfelins, pleased t’meet ye, Abbo, sir!”

Bisky had to explain that all Gonfelin names ended with an
o.
Glisam smiled.

“Abbo, eh, I like it. Well, friend Nokko, allow me to present Brother Torilo, Friar Skurpo and our owl, Aluco.”

The tawny owl bowed. “Actually, my name really is Aluco, so I could be considered as a Gonfelin, in an honorary sort of way.”

Bosie raised his nose from the salad bowl. “Ah’m no bothered what ye call anybeast, as long as ye don’t refer tae me as Bozo!”

Nokko spotted Bosie’s one-string fiddle, the bow of which he also used for firing short metal rods. The Gonfelin inspected it, enquiring, “Is this thing a figgle, can ya play it?”

Amused by Nokko’s mispronunciation, the hare nodded. “Aye, ’tis a fiddle right enough, an’ Ah can play it. Do ye play the fiddle yersel’, Chief Nokko?”

Shaking his head, Nokko passed the instrument to Gobbo, adding, “No, I never learnt to figgle, but Gobbo can. Hah, it’s the only thing he’s useful for. Cummon now, Gobbo, me ould son, play the figgle an’ sing for yer supper, as a thank-ye to the Abbo.”

Gobbo twanged the string once. Satisfied with the tone, he sang the quickest ditty that any Redwaller had ever heard.

Amidst the general laughter and applause, Skipper Rorgus called out to the Gonfelin leader, “Ahoy, mate, I don’t mind bein’ called Rorgo, in fact, ye can call me wot y’want, long as ye don’t call me late for vittles!”

Nokko responded cheerfully to the Otter Chieftain, “I agree with ye there, bucko, these Redwall Abbey vikkles are the finest anybeast could sit down to, ain’t never tasted scran so great. Wot do yer say, mates?”

Both the Gonfelins and the Guosim roared their approval, pounding the tables and raising their beakers. When the merry tumult died down, Tugga Bruster remarked loudly, “Huh it’s not so bad, I’ve tasted worse!”

There was a horrified silence, then Nokko roared, “Say that agin an’ I’ll knock yer inta the middle o’ next season!”

The Guosim Log a Log reached for his club. “Ye won’t knock me anywhere, cheeky ragamuffin. I’m free t’speak my mind if’n I so please!”

Nokko let his paw stray to his war hatchet. “Touch that club o’ yores an’ it’ll be the last thing ye do, sherrew!”

At a signal from the Abbot, Bosie was between the two, with drawn sword, whilst the Father Abbot of Redwall made a pronouncement. “Put aside those weapons, there will be no violence done within this Abbey!”

Nokko protested, “But did ye hear wot ’e said about yore good food, Abbo?”

The Abbot nodded. “Somebeasts have a habit of making contrary remarks. Log a Log Bruster is one of them. But that is no reason to draw weapons and fight. As our friend said, he is free to speak his mind.”

Sister Violet, the jolly hedgehog, came up with an acceptable solution to the dispute. “Then why not let both beasts speak their minds, Father, how about an insulting battle?”

Nokko quaffed off a beaker of October Ale, grinning as he wiped a paw across his mouth. “Us Gonfelins are good at that, I’m game!”

Tugga Bruster curled his lip scornfully. “I wouldn’t lower meself to bandy words with that scruffy object!”

Nokko thrust out his chin aggressively. “Ho, please try, sir. Ye bowlegged, snot-snouted, baggy-bottomed excuse fer a Chieftain!”

Lots of stifled chuckles were heard from the Guosim. Bruster had never been a popular Log a Log. Tugga trembled with rage. He was forced to reply, “You…you…fleabag, you thief!”

Nokko laughed lightly. “Thief? That’s a compliment where I comes from. Ye thick’eaded, spiky-bellied, waxy-eared paddle paw!”

His opponent seethed, struggling for words. “Yore worse than a Painted One, smelly toad!”

Now in his element, the Gonfelin Chieftain chuckled. “Bet ya wish yore mother hadn’t dropped yew on yer ’ead when ye were little. Is that wot made ye grow daft? Ye slobnoggled, piddlypawed, ould onion bum!”

There was a gasp of wholesale shock at Nokko’s language. Some parents covered their young ones’ ears. Tugga Bruster was lost for a reply. All he could do was to perform a stamping dance of rage.

Nokko roared with laughter. “Hohoho! Lookit the mighty Log a Log, he even dances like an ould frogwife. He must’ve practiced his dancin’ wid a broom, ’cos no maid could face such an ugly partner. Hahaha, mind ya don’t trip up o’er yer tail, ploppypaws!” The Gonfelin tribe and the Guosim shrieked with laughter, as Nokko began tapping his paws and singing.

With the laughter of everybeast ringing in his ears, Tugga Bruster fled, defeated. The door slammed behind him as the ill-humoured Log a Log dashed off outdoors.

Spingo winked at Bisky. “Hah, that’ll teach ’im to mess wid my da, he’s a champeen insulter, y’know.”

Some of the Dibbuns thought the contest had been great fun; they started repeating Nokko’s insults at one another. “Hurr hurr, you’m a baggity-bottum, snotty ole snout!”

“Heehee, an’ yore a pigglypaw h’onion bum, so there!”

Abbot Glisam rapped the tabletop sharply. “We’ve heard quite enough of that language for one evening, thank you. The next beast I hear using dreadful insults will be scrubbing greasy pans for a day. Now let’s forget all bad feeling and enjoy supper like real Redwall friends. Here’s a toast to our new companions, the Guosim, the Gonfelins—oh, and our new permanent resident, Mister Aluco!”

The tawny owl bowed solemnly. “Thank you, Father Abbot, and all Redwall creatures. This is a most happy day for me, and I wish you to accept this with my heartfelt best wishes.” He hopped over to the Abbot’s table, and placed the round, green emerald on it. Nokko was heard to gasp, “Seasons of swipin’, will ye lookit that jool!”

Spingo whispered to him, “Easy now, Da. That belongs to Redwall Abbey, so keep yore eyes off it!”

Nokko patted her paw. “Shame on yer for thinkin’ such a thing, darlin’.”

Abbot Glisam held the shining green orb up, for all to see. “A most generous gift, friend Aluco, we will treasure it. Please accept our gratitude. Skipper, where do you suggest we keep such a treasure?”

The Otter Chieftain pondered for a moment. “I think ’twould look good in front o’ Martin the Warrior’s tapestry, Father. I’ll put it in an empty candleholder. The light from the lanterns’ll shine through the jewel nicely.”

Samolus held up a paw. “I second that, a wonderful idea, Skip. What do you think, Abbot?”

Glisam smiled. “So be it, a splendid choice!”

Outside, Tugga Bruster had his ear to the door, he had heard everything. A plan began to form in the embittered shrew’s mind.

Completely surrounded by the menacing band of crows, Dubble had the awful feeling that he would be slain in the next few moments. The young Guosim could see the stream, not far off. His only chance was to break through the cordon of fierce, black birds and make it into the water. With hungry, cruel eyes, the carrion closed in on him. Dubble did the only thing he could. Yelling the Guosim battlecry, he charged for the stream. “Logalogalogalooooog!”

It was a short-lived attempt. Dubble got no more than a few paces when he was brought down. A savage blow from one of the predators’ beaks hit him on the back of his neck. The young shrew collapsed with a roar of pain. In that same instant, several events took place in lightning-swift succession.

Yelling like a banshee, a huge black otter hurled herself upon the birds. “Eeeezaranaaaaaa!” The weapon she wielded was like a pair of sword blades, with a hilt at their centre.
Whip! Slash!
Two crows dropped, mortally wounded. Without pausing, the lithe, muscular beast threw Dubble over her shoulder, bulled through the carrion like a juggernaut and dived headlong into the deep, running middle of the stream.

Bleeding from the neck, and shocked by his sudden submersion in icy streamwater, Dubble tried valiantly to hold his breath. Dark weed fronds rushed by as the otter held her burden tight to her back with both paws. Somewhere above, Dubble glimpsed a gleam of tree-shaded sunlight. He clung grimly to his rescuer’s powerful shoulders. Caught in their vortex, an errant fish struck him in the face. Dubble began to panic, his lungs could not sustain the wild underwater journey. There was a ringing noise in his head, water began running up his nostrils and forcing a passage into his mouth. He struggled as everything went dark around him. Dubble felt an energetic upsurging lunge, it thrust him out of the water, onto a hard, smooth surface. Then the otter landed on top of him with a bump, water spouted from his nose and mouth as he spluttered weakly. Trying to rise, Dubble felt himself thrust flat by the otter, who was muttering.

“Get all water out, shrew be better then, lie still, still! No fret, you still alive, shrew.”

More water vomited forth, until Dubble retched and sucked in air greedily. They were under a sort of overhang, on a shelf, somewhere along the streambank. Sunlight seeping in made wavering patterns on the rock walls. The big, black otter nodded, satisfied. “You good now, what name ye have?”

The young Guosim held out his paw. “Dubble!” He gasped as the otter took his paw in a grip like a steel vise.

“Dubble, eh, funny name, I be Zaran the Black.” She retrieved her weapon, and began honing the blades on the wet rock, commenting with a wave of her sinewy rudder, “This be my holt, not much, but a finegood place to hide from Wytes, carrion scum and monster snake. You see him, Dubble?”

The young shrew nodded. “Oh I saw him sure enough. Wot a giant, he scared me just to look at him!”

Zaran finished sharpening her weapon. She thrust it in a sling, which hung across her back. “Snake not hurt me, I leave him well alone. Zaran slay Wytebirds, carrion, othersnakes, lizard, toad. Anybeast that come from caves of Skurr!” The white teeth of Zaran shone as she spat out the word “Skurr!”

The big otter was an awesome sight as she prowled sinuously around the rock ledges. Zaran was the strongest-looking otter Dubble had ever seen. Muscles like coiled steel springs, sinews like greased rope, lithe and fluid at every move she made.

Dubble repeated the name curiously. “Skurr?”

Her hazel-hued eyes radiated savage hatred. “Aye, Korvus Skurr. One day Zaran will kill that one. Kill him and all his creatures. They must die, Zaran has spoken, so will it be!”

Dubble was surprised at the black otter’s vehemence. “Why must you kill Skurr and all his kind, Zaran?”

The otter snapped angrily, “No ask me that, Dubble. When Zaran ready she tell you.” Noting the respect and awe in her guest’s eyes, she changed immediately. Producing some fruit and a sun-dried trout from an aperture in the rocks, she placed them in front of the shrew. Zaran smiled briefly. “You young, eat now, young ever be hungry. Eat, Dubble, then sleep. Safe here, Zaran keep watch. We go out when nightfall. I show you. Eat, sleep, first.”

As Dubble sat eating, Zaran examined the back of his neck, where the crow’s beak had struck. For such a fierce creature, she was surprisingly gentle, murmuring softly to reassure him. “Hmm, not bad hurt, but hide is broken. Zaran can fix that, Dubble be still now. Dirty birds are carrion, never know where crows’ beaks have been!”

The young shrew finished his meal as the black otter cleaned his wound, then applied some fragrant ointment, dabbing it on with soft moss. “Dubble live to fight another day, there, sleep now.” He drifted into a comfortable slumber, watching the wavering sun patterns on the rock ledges, and listening to the soothing music of stream currents.

Night had cast its mantle over the woodlands when Dubble wakened. Zaran the black otter was sitting silently watching him. He sat up and stretched slowly. She nodded. “You sleep well, feel better now?”

The young shrew nodded, rubbing his eyes. “Much better, thank you, is it dark already?”

Zaran hitched up the double blade at her back. “We go now, Zaran will show you the lair of Korvus Skurr. Tread soft, make no sound, follow, do as I say, Dubble. Come!”

As they left the holt by a landward exit, one thing became became abundantly clear to Dubble. His new friend was a born hunter, wise in the ways of silent travel. Zaran moved through the nightdark woodlands as though it were bright noon. Silent as a leaf upon the breeze and, at times, virtually invisible.

Dubble learned a lot from his new friend that night. How to blend in with their surrounds, to move swiftly, without seeming to hurry. To stand motionless in the shadows, controlling his body, so that even his breath could not be heard. He was amazed at how Zaran would lean, draped against a tree trunk, observing all about her, whilst ignoring moths, beetles and small nocturnal predators as they wandered over her paws and across her face.

They were following another stream course, avoiding marshground, leaving no tracks upon rock outcrops, halting frequently in the shelter of overhanging willows. After awhile, Zaran pointed ahead to a large, forested hill, which could be discerned in the half-moon and starlight. She mouthed the word
Skurr
. Having learned the lesson of total silence, Dubble nodded. He continued following Zaran, the pair of them moving smoothly as oiled silk.

Skirting a stream, they took extra caution. This was due to the presence of dark carrion birds perched in the boughs of a downy birch. The birds slept on as they stole by, some of them emitting small cawing noises as they dreamed. Zaran took an upward route, into the trees which grew thick upon the hillslope. When she judged they had gone far enough, the black otter indicated a poplar. At some time during its growth, the tree had been blown askew in a winter storm. However, it had established a new position by setting down more roots. Now it grew at an angle, sticking out oddly from its neighbours. It was not difficult to walk along the poplar trunk, to where Zaran had set up a hidden lookout platform. She pointed below.

“See, Dubble, stream, cave entrance. From here Zaran sees all, snakes, toads, carrion birds, Wytes. They come and go, night and day, but nobeast sees Zaran.”

The young Guosim lay flat on the poplar trunk, staring down. It was an excellent spying post. Remembering to keep his voice low, he murmured softly, “But why do you watch them like this?”

Zaran’s teeth flashed in the darkness as she spat out the words. “Each night, every day, Skurr sends them on his evil business. I will kill them all, it is my vow. Everybeast that crawls, or flies, to carry out Skurr’s commands must be slain. Zaran will do it!”

Dubble did not doubt his powerful friend’s word, but he felt constrained to point out a fact. “There must be far too many creatures for just one beast to overcome, even a great warrior?”

The black otter slid from the poplar trunk. “Come, Dubble, Zaran will show you.”

Over the course of the next hour, the young Guosim followed his friend, awestruck at the sights which greeted his eyes. Holes, pits and deep ruts had been gouged into the steep hillside. Around rocks, between trees, wherever the earth could be dug or scraped. Every bit of the workings was disguised, by bush, rock slabs, foliage and moss.

Zaran led him back to the leaning tree, where she showed him a hidden cache of rough-fashioned digging tools, spades, picks and levering bars. She made Dubble feel her pawpads. They were deeply scored, and thickly calloused, from gruelling labour.

“Five seasons’ work, but when it is the snow season all will be ready. That is how one beast will overcome many, Dubble.”

The young shrew saw the grim determination in his friend’s face. He shook his head. “I’m still not sure how yore goin’ t’do it.”

Zaran lay back on the almost horizontal trunk, gazing off into the still summer night as she explained. “Beneath this hill is a big cave, where Skurr rules over Wytes, and all who serve his evil desires. Zaran knows all about this place, many beasts from there I have captured. They tell me all, before I send them away.”

Dubble knew he asked a foolish question, even as he spoke. “Send ’em away, where to?”

Zaran allowed herself a hint of a smile. “How many seasons are you, Dubble?”

The young Guosim thought for a moment. “Twelve, I think.”

The black otter held up her lethal double-bladed sword, watching starlight glinting on it. “My Namur would have been twelve seasons by now.” Something in his friend’s eyes told Dubble not to ask who Namur was. He sat silent as Zaran continued, “There is but one entrance and exit to Skurr’s lair, the one below us. Many times I search to find another, but there is only one. Zaran will make this hill move one day, it will collapse upon the entrance. Skurr and his creatures will have a living grave, and a slow death!”

Dubble understood then. “So that is how one will overcome many!”

The black otter gave a low bloodcurdling chuckle. “Trapped in there, they will die once fresh air is gone, slain by the yellow poison fumes!”

Dubble recalled being under water, when Zaran rescued him. He shuddered at the thought of being deprived of air to breathe. “What an awful an’ slow way t’go!”

Zaran’s eyes shone savagely. “I would like to be there, to see it. Then I would know…my daughter Namur, my mate Varon, her father…their deaths would be avenged!” With a swift thrust, she buried the weapon in the poplar trunk, beside the young shrew. “Dubble stay here, Zaran has work to do.” Gathering her crude tools, the lithe black otter vanished into the darkness.

It took Dubble some considerable effort to free the odd weapon from the tree. He lay on his stomach, watching and listening for any alien sounds in the still woodland night.

It had been a long, hard day, Dubble soon dozed off. He slumbered for a short time, then rolled over, almost falling from the poplar trunk. The sword fell to the earth, one of its two points sticking in the ground. Steadying himself, Dubble sat up, immediately alert. Somebeast was close by, and it was not Zaran. He began inching from his perch to reach the sword.