Loamhedge (18 page)

She tapped her paw on the oak three times. “Dis a many smalla Searatters comin' disaway. No worry, Lonna, dey not see ya, we hide up here plenny good, eh? Asides, dey still more'n a day 'way, not travel fast like squirrel.”

Lonna seized the thick, knotted rope and began clambering down to the woodland floor. “Searats at last! I've got a score to settle with those murdering scum. Figalok, will you show me where they are?”

The squirrel made it down to the ground before him. “A course me will—least I can do for ya, bigbeast. We go now, catch 'em around at dawn, travel alla night, eh?”

Lonna shook her small paw gratefully. “Thank you, my friend!”

The squirrels appeared much upset at Lonna leaving, particularly the little ones. “Don't go bigbeast, ya stay here wid us for longa time!”

One bold little maid thought she knew the reason for the
badger's departure. She shook her head at the others. “Gorra let Lonna go, he gotta find 'is mamma.”

Lonna ruffled her downy little brush. “That's right, miss. Now take care of your mammas, and watch out for ravens.”

Figalok kicked the dead bird's carcass scornfully. “No more Rakkaw Ravin come here. We hangin' dis one up inna tree, dat scare 'em off. Chahaah, you betcha!”

Following the agile Figalok, Lonna trotted off south and west into the thickness of Mossflower. As they went, he envisioned the evil face of Raga Bol—concentrating hard on it, as only a creature of fate and destiny like a badger can.

“I'm coming, Raga Bol! I am Lonna Bowstripe, and I'm coming!”

After marching all night on what he had fondly imagined was a southeast course, Horty was totally fatigued. In dawn's pale light, he slumped down in a fern grove, grumbling.

“It's no blinkin' use, you chaps, I've got to take a jolly old snooze. Ahah! But first we must deal with the inner hare. Brekkers beckons the poor lad's slim stomach, wot?”

Furious, Springald grabbed the provision sack from his paw, ranting on at him. “Food, food, food, don't you ever think of anything else? Here we are, in the middle of nowhere, and you're yowling about brekkers after eating all night as we marched! We're lost, you lop-eared oaf, lost!”

Horty tried unsuccessfully to tug the sack back from her. “Lost? Don't talk piffle'n'woffle, m'dear gel, we're merely restin'. Now don't be so flippin' moody, an' pass the scoff!”

Springald dealt him a wallop with the soggy ration sack. “You've no idea where we're going. You've completely lost Bragoon's and Saro's tracks, and we could have been walking in circles for all you know! You're an idiot, d'you hear me?”

Horty twiddled his ears and smiled at Fenna. “Rather pretty when she's angry, ain't she? Spring, me old beauty, why don't y'give your face a rest. We'll find the right track sooner or later. Or would you prefer to toodle back to the Abbey an' face the blinkin' music, wot wot?”

Fenna sat down wearily beside Horty, then closed her eyes. “Good grief, I'm bone worn-out. He's right y'know, Spring,
arguing isn't going to get us anywhere. Let's have a bite to eat and a rest. Give him the bag.”

Springald threw herself moodily down amid the ferns. “Here, take your confounded food. I wish I'd never left Redwall in the first place.”

The gluttonous young hare seized the sack eagerly. “I wish you hadn't, either—there'd be more scoff for me an' Fenn, wot. Hawhawhaw!”

Fenna looked into the sack to select her breakfast. She drew back with a look of disgust. “Yukk, I'm not eating any of that mess. Look at it, pie and trifle squashed up with onion gravy pastie. Just the sight of it makes me sick. Nobeast could stomach that!”

Horty dipped his paw in and came up with an unappetising lump of sludge. “Well tut tut, little miss fussy apron. What's wrong with the flippin' scoff, it's good food ain't it? Please yourself, marm, but I'm jolly well starved.”

He began eating with evident relish. “Mmmmm, you bods don't know what you're missin'. Nothin' like a spot o' tucker to settle the old tum for a good sound snooze, wot!”

This time it was Fenna who lost her temper. She tugged Horty's ears sharply. “Listen to me, you great ten-bellied buffoon, you were supposed to be supplies officer, remember? You appointed yourself in charge of provisions. There'll be no naps or snoozes for you while us two are still hungry, so shift yourself and get us some breakfast, right away!”

Horty made a languid gesture. “There's two other sacks there, or ain't you blinkin' well noticed? You can open 'em yourself!”

Where Fenna upended one of the sacks, a great splodge of squashed pastie and meadowcream trifle splattered among the ferns.

Springald inspected the contents of the other sack. “Ahah, scones and cheesebread. But guess what, pals? Our genius packed 'em along with a flask of mint tea and one of strawberry cordial. Of course he never made sure the stoppers of the flasks were on tight, so we've got another sackful of sludge. Oh, Horty, how could you?”

The gluttonous hare was munching pawfuls of the mixture from the second sack. He smacked his lips loudly. “Sorry
about the blinkin' flask stoppers, chaps, but I didn't want to make too much noise, y'see. Mmmm, rather good this stuff. Hawhaw, I've just invented apple'n'rhubarb'n'gooseberry surprise. Hmm, there's some soft white celery cheese in here, too . . . excellent mixture. I must give old Gurvel the recipe when we return t'the jolly old Abbey, wot!”

Springald peered into the third sack, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “How could anybeast even think about eating that?”

Horty took the sack and sampled a pawful. “An' what, pray, is the matter with it? 'Tis perfectly top-hole scoff! Trouble with you two is y'don't know how to blinkin' rough it. You've become spoiled by Abbey life, too picky by far!”

Springald took hold of a sack. “Go and get a bath, Horty.”

The young hare grinned at her. “Not right now, thanks, I don't need a bath.”

She upended the sack over his head. “You do now!”

Horty rose slowly, making two eyeholes in the mess of flan and pudding, then sucked his paws. “Gettin' a bit touchy, aren't we?” He saw Fenna take hold of another sack and fled. “Hello out there, any frogs or tadpoles know a good stream where a chap can get a wash an' brush up, wot?”

Fenna sat down and rested her head between both paws. “We should've known better than letting him go for supplies. 'Tis our own fault, I suppose. The fool never even thought of bringing a flint along to make fire.”

Springald produced a chunk of crystal from her belt pouch. “That's no trouble. I got this off Old Phredd. He told me how to use it . . . watch this.”

She held the crystal close to some unlit twigs and moss, focussing until it caught the sunrays and concentrated them in a small bright point. Instantly, the moss began smouldering. After a short while, a single puff of the mousemaid's breath caused a slim column of flame to rise.

Fenna was both delighted and astonished. “That's marvellous! At least we can boil some water and pick mint leaves to make tea. There's plenty of wild mint growing round here. What's the matter, Springald?”

The mousemaid kicked the sack she had upended. “Guess what? Horty forgot to bring anything along to boil it in.”

Fenna sat down beside her friend. “Right, that's the last
time I listen to the mad plans and stupid ideas of a hare. We'd best go back to Redwall!”

Springald did not relish the suggestion. “Redwall? Imagine having to face the Father Abbot, and Sister Setiva, and Granmum Gurvel and all the rest! I'd sooner sit out here for a season or two and starve, until they've forgotten about us drowning those Dibbuns, plundering the kitchens and disobeying the Abbot. Lack a day, we'd be scrubbing floors and washing pots until we were old and grey!”

Springald's despairing thoughts were interrupted by Horty's voice. “Yowch ouch, I say, leggo me blinkin' ears, you bounders!”

Horty appeared, dripping wet, with six big, mottled rats dragging him along. Their garb was a curious mixture of leaves, shrubbery and purple tattoos. All of them were armed with cudgels and long knives.

Springald let out a cry of alarm, Fenna seized an old kitchen knife and leapt up. Soon they were surrounded, as more rats stepped out from the trees.

Their leader—a tall, brownish-white mottled vermin carrying a long spear—growled warningly. “T'row down der knife, or you're deadbeasts!”

Something about his bleak stare told Fenna it would be wise to obey the order. She let the knife fall.

Horty indignantly took up his case with the tall rat. “I say, d'you mind tellin' these chaps to stop swingin' on me blinkin' ears? They'll pull 'em out by the flippin' roots, tuggin' at 'em like that, wot!”

A sudden jab of the tall rat's spearbutt jolted into the young hare's stomach, leaving him doubled up and gasping for breath. The rat turned the point swiftly, covering Fenna and Springald as they leapt forward to intervene.

“Be still or die! I am Birug, High Kappin of de Darrat. You be prisoners for invadin' our lands!”

Springald protested. “We're not invading anybeasts' land, only passing through. We are innocent travellers!”

Birug sneered. “Shut you mouth, shemouse, you not talk to High Kappin like dat. Bring dem along!”

Fenna was shocked to see that they were surrounded by at least a hundred rats. Horty regained his breath, but before he
could speak he and his two friends were gagged with thick pieces of rope. Darrat rats swarmed over the trio, binding their forepaws tightly and linking their footpaws together on a long rope. They were helpless. The squirrelmaid barely had time to cast a frightened glance at her companions before sacks were pulled roughly over their heads. Cudgels prodded them, none too gently.

Birug's voice rang out. “March now!”

Stumbling and bumping into one another, they were hauled swiftly along, dragged upright and cuffed soundly whenever they fell by the wayside. The unhappy trio bumbled along in the midst of their captors, terrified witless and ruing the day they had set paw outside of Redwall Abbey.

 

Sarabando and Bragoon lay in the treeshade, out of the shimmering midday heat. They sipped dandelion and burdock cordial and nibbled at oatcakes, supplemented by some watercress they had found near a stream. Saro tootled a small reed flute and played a melody. Bragoon sang the tune quietly.

 

“I know not young 'uns or a wife,

no scolding tongue I fear,

I live a carefree traveller's life,

from yon to hither and here.

O'er mountain hill and lea,

I'm bound to wend my way,

cross river lake or sea,

with never a beast to say,

Sit down! Stand up! Stay here!

O ring a lairy lay.

Stand back! Be still! Just wait!

Farewell my dear, good day!”

 

Saro began piping the tune to a second verse, when Bragoon ceased singing and held up a paw. “Ssshhh! Did ye hear somethin', mate?”

Ears cocked, the squirrel looked around. Silently she nodded, pointing over to the dense growth of trees on her left. Putting aside the flute, Saro pointed to her friend, indicating that he should stay put. In a flash she was gone, nimbly
scaling a beech trunk and vaulting away through the foliaged upper terraces of Mossflower.

Bragoon sat perfectly still, his eyes roving from side to side as he searched the woodlands. Several minutes elapsed before Saro somersaulted back to earth from the high treetops. She picked up a twig, then snapped it and flung it away, muttering darkly to herself.

Bragoon raised his eyebrows. “Wot's upset ye, matey?”

The squirrel began gathering up her possessions. “Upset? I ain't upset, buckoe, I'm steamin' fit t'burst! Those three young fools from Redwall, Horty an' the two maids—they've got themselves captured by a hundred or so big spotty rats!”

Bragoon sighed heavily. Buckling the sword across his back, he dusted himself off and made ready. “You shore 'twas them?”

Saro checked her sling and pouch of stones. “Aye, I'm sure enough. They was bound t'gether an' had sacks over their heads, but it's got t'be them. Wot other young hare, squirrel'n'mouse would be wanderin' willy-nilly through these woodlands, eh? They've sneaked out o' Redwall an' come searchin' for us, to share the adventure. Huh!”

Bragoon shook his rudder in disapproval. “Fivescore o' big spotty rats, ye say? Well, they'll get their share of the fun—that's if'n the three idiots live long enough. Ye recall those spotty rats we battled with last time we was up this way?”

The squirrel nodded grimly. “Aye, they were flesh eaters!”

Evening was crimsoning the sky over the western reaches as Birug led his Darrat vermin into camp. The Darrat tribe gathered around to see what he had captured. A huge old rat—almost white, with a few brown flecks—pulled himself out of a hammock which was slung under a rocky ledge. Bulling his way through the crowd, he indiscriminately kicked babes, young ones, females and males out of his way. Studying the bound and hooded creatures lying exhausted on the ground, he addressed Birug in a shrill voice totally unsuited to his bulk.

“Lemme see dem!”

Horty felt the sack being pulled from his head and a knife slitting the rope gag in his mouth. He spat out the gag and found himself looking at the huge, fat one. Immediately the young hare began complaining.

“Y'don't mind me sayin', sah, but this is all a bit bally much! Is this the way y'treat jolly peaceable wayfarers, wot?”

A slap from the huge rat silenced him. “Shutcha face, rabbert, d'great Hemper Figlugg don' like talky rabberts!”

He glared at Springald and Fenna, who had been unhooded and had their gags removed. “Don' like talky mouses or squirrels either!”

A shrunken and incredibly ugly female pushed her way through to Hemper Figlugg's side. Ignoring him, she began
pinching the three captives, nodding approvingly as she did so. Hemper Figlugg whispered something in her ear.

She nodded, replying aloud. “Burcha Glugg!” The Darrat tribe nodded in agreement and laughed.

Always ready to take advantage of a situation, Horty winked at his two companions. “At least they seem happy, must be a good joke, wot! Burcha Glugg, wasn't it? Watch this.”

He grinned at the assembly and repeated the words, “Burcha Glugg!”

The Darrat tribe howled with laughter at Horty's remark. A tiny ratbabe wrinkled his nose at the young hare and squeaked, “Burcha Glugg!”

Horty favoured him with a kindly smile. “Aye old lad, Burcha Glugg, indeed, wot! Yowhoooo, y'little savage. Gerroff!” The ratbabe, who had bitten Horty's footpaw, clung on grimly. High Kappin Birug pulled the ratbabe off and cuffed it.

Hemper Figlugg nodded at his prisoners. “Glugg cayjizz!”

They were picked up bodily and borne to two large cages, formed of thick branches lashed together, one of which was open. Into this the three companions were thrown. The Darrat tribe dispersed and went about their business. Seeing they were being ignored, Springald began loosing herself from the ropes binding her forepaws and the running rope about her right footpaw. The other two did likewise.

Fenna watched the fat Hemper Figlugg settling himself back into the hammock. “What now, I wonder?”

Springald answered hopefully. “Well, we're still alive, aren't we? Where there's life there's hope, they say.”

Horty rubbed his stomach—as usual, his mind was on food. “I won't be alive much longer if somebody doesn't feed us. Chap gets hungry, bein' captured an' all that, wot?” He called out to a passing rat. “Hi there, I say, me old vermin, how about somethin' to jolly well eat?”

He pantomimed eating and pointed inside his mouth. “Eat! Y'know, just like starvin' chaps do. Grub, food or whatever you savages call it.”

The rat grinned and pointed to his own mouth. “Glugg!”

Horty clapped his paws together. “Hoho, that's the stuff. Glugg!”

Something suddenly dawned on Fenna. “Glugg, that must be their word for food. Oh, great seasons!”

Horty winked. “Leave it to me eh, wot! I can translate any bally thing when it comes to food!”

Springald understood all too well. She clapped a paw to her brow. “Glugg, that's what we are. Food!”

Horty patted her reassuringly. “No no, old gel, you've got it all wrong. They said Burcha Glugg—that prob'ly means feed them, or give these bally prisoners some food, they look hungry.”

Just then, four Darrat males bore a big cauldron to the cage. They placed it outside the bars, within the captives' reach. It was filled with a form of porridge, full of berries and sliced fruit.

One of the rats indicated they should eat. “Burcha Glugg, you eat all up.”

Horty smiled. “Told you so!”

Fenna asked the rat, “What does Burcha Glugg mean?”

The rat shrugged. “Old Darrat way of saying good food.”

Springald's worst fears were confirmed. She whispered in a shaky voice. “They're fattening us up before they eat us!”

Horty dipped a paw into the cauldron and scooped some up. “Oh, don't be silly! Nobeast'd dare to eat us, shockin' idea. I say, this tastes rather good, wot. Come on, you two!”

They shrank to the back of the cage, shaking their heads. “I couldn't bear to touch it!”

“Oh Horty, how could you eat at a time like this?”

One of the rats unwound a whip from about his waist, gave it a sharp crack and shouted at the pair. “Eat or whip!” They were forced to dip their paws in and eat. However, with the prospect of what they were being fed for, the food, as good as Horty said it was, turned to ashes in their mouths.

Fenna and Springald could only manage a small mouthful apiece, but Horty bolted the porridge down until his snout and whiskers were crusted with it.

“Mmmch, no sense in a chap bein' eaten, grmmfff munch, on an empty stomach. Capital stuff, wot!”

 

Night fell, bringing a cloudless vault of carnelian blue, dusted with stars. Bragoon lay alongside Sarobando, among some rocky hillocks that skirted the Darrat camp. The otter watched as campfires glimmered low.

“Let the vermin settle down, they prob'ly outnumber us by a couple o' hundred to two.”

Saro chewed on a dandelion stalk. “What then?”

Bragoon raised his head, risking a glimpse of the camp area. “They're in a cage, over by that long rocky ledge. We'll have to work out a plan to break 'em out an' escape without bein' seen.”

The squirrel lay back and closed her eyes. “Yore good at schemin', mate. What's the plan?”

The otter lay down and closed his eyes also. “First a short sleep, wait'll the camp's quiet.”

Saro opened one eye. “An' then?”

Bragoon stuck Martin's sword into the ground, close to paw. “I don't know just yet, but ye'll be the firstbeast I tell when a good idea comes along. I'm goin' to sleep, wake me in an hour. Otters get good ideas when they take naps.”

Saro rolled over onto her side. “No, you wake me, 'tis your turn.”

Her companion watched the starlight playing along the swordblade. “How can I wake ye when I'm makin' the plan? You wake me!”

The squirrel grumbled. “Huh, 'tis always me. Alright, you take a nap an' do all the plannin', I'll wake ye in an hour.” The only answer she received was a pretend snore from the otter.

 

The midnight hour had just passed. Silence reigned over the Darrat camp, broken only by protracted snores mingled with nighttime woodland sounds.

In the cage, Horty sat clasping his stomach and grimacing. Fenna came over to sit by him. “Tummyache, eh?”

The young hare answered dolefully. “Absolute agony, doncha know. No use upsettin' you an' Springald, so a chap's got to be brave an' silent, even though he's dyin'. It must've been somethin' I ate.”

Springald overheard him and snorted. “Something? You
great glutton, 'tis not something, but how much of that something you ate. That big cauldron's almost empty!”

Horty winced. “Ah me! Maids can be beautiful but cruel. I only scoffed that porridge because you two wouldn't touch it after the first mouthful. Ha, 'twas me that saved you a jolly good whippin'. Sacrificed meself for your rotten sakes, that's all the gratitude a chap gets, wot?”

One of the three guards in front of the cage snuffled and grunted at the sound of Horty's raised voice. The captives sat in frozen silence until he settled back down with the other two rats. The three guards snorted in soft unison.

Springald whispered, “Look at them—not a care in the world. We'd be that way, too, snoring in the dormitory. Huh, that's if we'd had the sense to listen to the Abbot and your sister Martha. Wish we were back at Redwall now.”

Fenna murmured, “Wishing isn't much use. What we should be doing now is escaping while the guards are asleep.”

Horty forgot his pains for a moment. “By jingo, you're right, old gel. Escape, that's the bally idea! Right, chaps, anybeast got a scheme or a plan of some type, wot?”

They sat racking their brains for a while, until Fenna admitted limply, “We've got no chance, locked in a cage and surrounded by armed guards. They'd cut us down before we managed to get two paces!”

Numbly they stared at one another. A tear trickled down Springald's cheek; Fenna's lower lip started quivering. Horty blinked and sniffed.

“We've really gone an' done it now, haven't we, chaps, wot!”

Then a rope fell from above, close to the cage. Attached to it was a sharp knife and a piece of bark that had charcoal writing scrawled on it: “Hush, take knife, escape. Tie rope to pot. Wait.”

Horty peered up through the bars at the overhead rock ledge. Bragoon's tough-lined face was staring back at him. The otter held a paw to his mouth, signalling silence. Working feverishly, Springald took the knife and tied the rope to the cauldron handle. At a wave from Fenna, the cauldron rose upward, halting just above the cage.

Gripping the rope firmly, Bragoon began swinging the iron
cauldron from side to side until it moved back and forth in mighty sweeps like a giant pendulum. Horty watched it as it swung, lower and lower, whizzing close to the cage front, until it reached the level of the three snoring Ratguards. Then the cauldron jerked outward.
Kurblunggggggg!
It struck two of the rats, laying them out senseless. The remaining one sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Wot was th . . .”
Podongggg!
The cauldron caught the third rat on the return swing, knocking him head over paws.

Springald was sitting on Fenna's shoulders, slashing at the ropes which kept the wooden roof bars in place. The sharp knife made short work of them.

Hemper Figlugg awoke. He heard the cauldron toll like a muted bell as it hit the last rat. Waddling out of his hammock, he went to investigate the noise. Seeing Fenna's head poking out of the cagetop, he hastened forward, shouting wheezily, “Burcha Glugg 'scapin'! Wakey wakey, Darrats!”

Borlongggggggg!
The swinging cauldron biffed him on the back of his great fat head. Hemper Figlugg performed a somersault, raising a big puff of dust as his back hit the ground. His shout, however, had roused the Darrat horde, who came staggering from under the ledges and thick bushes, grabbing for weapons.

Bragoon roared down to the escapers, “Cut that pot loose an' grab on to the rope!”

Springald slashed the cauldron free, and they took hold of the rope.

Saro's head appeared above the high ledgetop. “One at a time, we can't pull ye all up t'gether!”

Horty grabbed the spear from a fallen Ratguard. Taking charge, he rapped out orders like a veteran sergeant. “Steady the buffs, chaps! Spring, you go first, Fenna next! I'll hold these bounders off, wot!”

The Darrat had just realised what was taking place. Around half a dozen of the boldest came at the young hare.

Spear at the ready, Horty challenged them bravely. “Step up there, laddie bucks, meet a flippin' Redwall warrior, wot! Two or ten at a time, doesn't blinkin' matter to Bonebreaker Braebuck. Have at ye, scurvy nosewipes! Come on, don't be shy, ye wiltin' wallflowers. Wot!”

A big broad mottled rat charged at him, waving a hatchet. A slingstone flew from above, and the rat stood still, tottered, then collapsed in a heap.

Horty threw himself at the other five rats, who had been advancing on him slowly. He was in his element.

“I'm the son o' the roarin' buck! D'ye want to visit your ugly ancestors, eh? Well, I'm the one who'll send ye to Hellgates. Yaaaaaaah!”

At the top of the ledge, Fenna and Springald stood with their rescuers. Bragoon shook his head. “Is he mad? Look at 'im!”

Horty was like a whirling demon, lashing out with his long hind legs as he thwacked wildly about with the spear. Rats went down like ninepins before his onslaught.

Sarobando nodded in admiration. “That young 'un's got the makins of a powerful warrior, but he's still a hotheaded learner. Soon as he tires they'll overpower 'im an' bring 'im down.”

Springald yelled down to her friend. “Horty, get to the rope, hurry!”

The young hare looked at the pack of rats charging toward him. “Right away, marm, cover me jolly old back, chaps!”

Saro used her sling, while the others pelted the rats with rocks from the ledge as Horty ran for it. He reached the rope and looped it about his waist.

“Haul away!”

Kappin Birug flung a wooden club that caught Horty square between both ears, before bouncing off his head.