Loamhedge (28 page)

Every ugly son an' daughter,

is a stranger to bathwater,

jerbils wallow round all day beneath the dust . . .
'Neath the dust!”

 

Horty waved to the Jerbilrats, who were squealing and drumming their footpaws angrily. “What ho, chaps, sorry I can't warble anymore for you. The old tongue's all swollen.”

Saro halted Jiboa until the others caught up with her. “This sun is gettin' too much, let's take a rest, mates.”

Shading their heads beneath the cloaks, they squatted on the hot earth. Dozing off was unavoidable in the intense heat. Late afternoon shadows were lengthening as Saro was jerked awake. Jiboa had gnawed through the rope. He sped off in a wide arc, trying to get back to the other Jerbilrats.

The squirrel chased after him, shouting out, “Grab 'im, Horty, he's loose!”

Quick off the mark, the young hare gave chase. He was reaching out to grab Jiboa, when a piercing shriek came from above.
“Kyeeeeeeeeee!”

Jiboa threw himself flat, but Horty was knocked ears over scut by a massive shape. A great buzzard—chocolate-and-white plumed—snatched Jiboa up in its fierce, hooked talons. It bore him off squeaking, high into the blue. Three more of
the deadly predators swooped down on the Jerbilrat pack, each one seizing a victim, as the rest tried vainly to burrow into the dust. Then they were gone. The rest of them fled westward, thrumming and wailing fearfully.

Then there was silence. Horty sat up, dusting himself off. “Stifle me whiskers! Did you see the size o' those birds? That's a pretty awful thing to happen to anybeast, even a Jerbilrat. Fancy bein' scoffed by a flippin', flyin' feather mattress, wot!”

Springald gazed around at the dusty, deserted plain. “Those poor creatures, no wonder life in this area makes them hostile to others. I hate this dreadful place!”

Fenna's voice sounded small and frightened. “How are we going to find water now that we're completely alone?”

Bragoon shouldered his sword wearily. “Just press on. Jiboa knew there was water over this way. We've got t'keep goin'!”

They staggered onwards, but as evening arrived Fenna collapsed. Saro rushed to her side, fanning her brow and rubbing her paws. The aging squirrel looked up at Bragoon. “Pore young thing, the heat an' thirst have got to 'er. We don't even have a damp cloth t'wet 'er lips. Fenna'll die if'n we don't get some water soon.”

The otter covered the little squirrel with his cloak. “Right, mates, that's it. Horty, ye come with me! Spring, ye stay 'ere with Saro an' Fenna. Me'n Horty will find water, or die tryin'. If'n' we ain't back by tomorrer noon, ye'll know we never made it. But don't fret, we'll be long back by then with water!”

Sarobando and Springald shook their friends' paws.

“Good luck, an' fortune go with ye!”

“We'll be alright here, hurry back now!”

Horty bowed gallantly. “To hear is to jolly well obey, marm!”

The two comrades struck off into the gathering dark.

Saro and Springald settled down to their vigil. After awhile, Fenna began murmuring as she tossed and turned feebly. “A beakerful, is that all, Father Abbot? I'm thirsty . . . so very thirsty, Father.”

The mousemaid cradled her friend. “Hush now, Fenn, lie still.”

Softly, Springald began singing an old lullaby, from when they were Dibbuns together at the Abbey.

 

“Peace falls o'er vale and hill,

silence fades the light,

moon and stars watch over

little ones by night.

Dawn will send the day bright,

larks will sing for thee,

streams of slumber flow now,

round this babe and me.”

 

Saro smiled. “That's a pretty song, I remember it from Redwall long ago. Ol' Sister Ormel used t' sing it in the dormitory. Happy days, Ormel was a good ol' mouse.”

Springald sniffed. “I learned it from her, too. Sister Ormel passed on three winters back. She was well loved.”

As they nursed Fenna, in hostile country, far from their beloved Abbey and its friendly creatures, Saro and Springald sat silent with their thoughts of Redwall.

 

Horty staggered gamely onward, though his paws were wobbling and his body bent with fatigue. Bragoon was in slightly better shape, but every step he took was an effort. Side by side they stumbled along through the night. Then the young hare tripped and fell, bringing the otter down with him.

Through cracked and swollen lips, Horty mumbled, “Beg your pardon, old lad, tripped over a confounded bush. Wonder what oaf left it there, wot.”

He grunted as Bragoon scrambled over him and grabbed a pawful of leaves. Thrusting his nose into them, the otter whooped. “Wahoo! This ain't no bush, mate. 'Tis a big clump o' comfrey. There's water nearby, I'm sure of it. Water!”

Leaping up, they plunged forward with renewed hope and energy. The otter suddenly ground to a halt, pulling Horty back. He pointed ahead, to where a soft glow emanated from behind the bulk of a widespread willow tree. Beyond that, the trickle of running water could be clearly heard.

Drawing his sword, Bragoon thrust the young hare behind him, uttering a quiet caution. “Stick close t'my back, an' don't do anythin' foolhardy. There's a fire burnin', t'other side o' yon tree. I 'ope there's friendly beasts sittin' round it.”

Horty snorted. “Fat chance in this neck o' the woods, pal.
All we've met is bounders'n'cads since we climbed those cliffs. Huh, friendly y'say, prob'ly so friendly they'll chop off our blinkin' heads on sight, wot?”

The otter's paw clamped over Horty's mouth. “Stow the gab an' stay behind me, we'll soon see!”

There were six reptiles in all—two large frilled lizards, three fat toads and a grass snake—lounging around the fire. They were grilling a mess of bleak and minnow on green twigs. Having made a bit of noise as they approached, both travellers were expected. One of the lizards stood barring their way to the water, which appeared to be a small streamlet flowing away into a dense pine forest. The rest of the reptile crew crouched, ready to back the lizard up.

Bragoon nodded civilly to them, noting that all eyes were on his sword. “Evenin' to ye, we've come for water.”

One of the lizards sniggered nastily, trying to imitate the otter's voice. “H'evannin' to ye, we've a-come f'waterrrr!”

Horty noticed several large gourds of water nearby. “That's the jolly old stuff, water, you know, that pleasant liquid which is rather nice t'drink. I say, those tiny fish smell rather toothsome, wot. Don't suppose you'd like to donate a few to a worthy cause, a hungry but honest hare, eh?”

The reptiles edged around, circling the pair. The largest of the lizards picked up a crude, flint-tipped spear, pointing it at Bragoon.

“Watersss not a free, iz all oursss. You wanta fisssshes an' drrrrrink, give usss bright a blade!”

Ignoring him, the otter turned to Horty. “I don't know wot it is wid the beasts in this country, but they seem t'think we're dim-witted. Our stream, our water, our fish. While pore young Fenna's dyin' for a drop o' water. I've taken about enough of all this claptrap, mate. Ye take my sword, don't do anythin', just stay there, that's an order!”

Horty took the weapon and saluted. “As y'say, sah! An' pray, what d'you intend doin', if one may ask, wot?”

A slow, savage grin spread across the otter's tough face. “Nothin' much, I'm just goin' t'get us some water.”

Roaring out a warcry, Bragoon launched himself at the reptiles. “Make way fer Bragoon o' Redwaaaaaallllll!”

Horty could not have moved if he had wanted to. He
stood wide-eyed with shock, watching six reptiles take the most fearsome beating he had ever witnessed.

Bragoon broke the spear of one of the lizards over its head, then picked the reptile up and hurled it into the stream. He went at the others like a madbeast. Flinging himself through the air, he butted a toad heavily in its enormous stomach. As air shot out of the toad in a whoosh, he rudderwhipped it hard, thrice across the head, laying it senseless. He turned and grabbed the other lizard, running it forcefully, snout on, into the willow trunk. Seizing the grass snake, he used it like a flail, cracking the jaws of the other two toads with the snake's head. Bragoon leaped high. Still holding the grass snake, he landed on the two toads' stomachs, then booted all three toads into the stream. The other lizard sat facing the tree trunk, nursing its broken snout. Knotting the snake around its neck, the otter looped them both to a low branch.

Dusting off his paws and breathing heavily, Bragoon took the sword from the astounded young hare. Putting the swordpoint at the lizard, he growled, “In the future, mind yore manners an' be polite to visitors!”

The lizard clutched onto the coils of the senseless grass snake around its neck. The snake was looped to the branch above, keeping the lizard on tip-paw. Bragoon put his face close to the reptile and roared thunderously, “Yore all deadbeasts if'n I clap eyes on ye agin! D'ye hear me, slimeguts?”

Dipping a paw into one of the gourds, the otter tasted the water and spat it out in disgust, then called to his companion. “Git yore gob out o' that stream, young 'un. Wash these things out an' fill 'em wid fresh water. I'll get the fish.” He stowed the sword over his shoulder. “Don't dillydally, mate. Fenna an' the others'll be waitin'. Put a move on!”

Horty hurried to do Bragoon's bidding, holding a conversation with himself as he rinsed and filled the containers. “Seasons o' soup'n'salad, 'pon my word! That crackpot must've been a right terror in his younger days, wot? Curl me crusts! A chap'd do well to stay the right side o' that otter, he's a bloomin' one-beast army!”

Bragoon's voice cut sharply into his meanderings. “Stop chunnerin' an' get 'em filled, ye great gabby windbag!”

Horty filled the last gourd with one paw, saluting furiously
with the other. “Chunnerin', sah, who, sah, me, sah? No, sah, not never, nohow. Last one filled, sah, all correct, wot wot!”

Bragoon had chopped branches with his sword. He and Horty carried the gourds, strung on the wood and yoked across their shoulders, two to each of them. They had drunk sufficient water and chewed on the cooked fish as they trekked back to their friends.

Sighting the lean-to in dawn's pearly light, they dashed forward, slopping water, with Horty yelling, “Toodle pip there, you idle lot, here come two handsome water carriers. I say, we've got fish, too! Jolly good, eh?”

There was no reply from the shelter. Bragoon hurried forward, only to find it deserted.

Morning sunlight filtered like molten gold through the gatehouse. Raga Bol picked his teeth with the silver pawhook, spitting a bone back onto the remains of a well-grilled fish, which he had breakfasted on.

The Searat captain was in a expansive mood, having slept dreamlessly without any giant stripedog nightmares. The whole incident surrounding Lonna had faded into the background since his arrival at the Abbey. He felt a sense of power, sheltered by the monumental red walls which he knew would be his new home. No more scouring the cold northeast seas. This was a place of fair weather, a fortress from where he could rule all Mossflower. Lord Raga Bol, he liked the sound of his new title.

Badredd quaked with pent-up tension as he awaited the Searat's verdict on his cooking. Blowfly stood behind him, twirling his knotted rope's end. Relief flooded through the small fox at the sound of the captain's coarse but satisfied chuckle.

“Haharr, I've eaten worse an' lived! Wot kinda fish was that 'un, matey? Wot 'erb did ye use on it, eh?”

Badredd answered promptly. “ 'Twas a grayling, sir, grilled with button mushrooms an' dill. I did it special.”

Bol patted his stomach. “Graylin', that's a nice-soundin' name. Blowfly, wot are we goin' t'do wid this cook—flog 'im to a jelly wid yore rope's end or gut 'im wid this 'ook?”

Blowfly smiled, not a pretty sight. “Gut 'im, Cap'n, go on!”

The hook lunged out, capturing Badredd around his neck. He was dragged forward until Bol was breathing in his face.

“Make yoreself useful round 'ere, me liddle graylin'. Clean this place up, scrub it out an' make the bed. Blowfly, you stay 'ere, tickle 'im up wid yore rope's end if'n 'e slacks!”

Thrusting both scimitar and stiletto in his sash, the captain swaggered out onto the sunlit lawn. “Glimbo, rally the crew. 'Tis time we went for a parley wid our new friends!”

 

All night long, Foremole and his molecrew had been carrying rubble up to the dormitory to be used as extra defence material. Martha sat close to the window with Toran and Abbot Carrul.

Granmum Gurvel laid breakfast out on the windowsill for them. “You'm bee's h'eaten ee brekkist naow, 'tis gudd furr ee!”

The trio had already laid their plans. Toran poured honey and beechnut flakes over his oatmeal, pointing to the gatehouse. “Stand ready, everybeast, they're comin'!”

Raga Bol sauntered up with twoscore of Searats, as though he was out for a morning stroll. He waved up at them.

Toran grunted. “Don't look like they're goin' to attack right now.”

“It wouldn't pay to!” Martha muttered grimly, reaching for one of Redwall's latest pepper bombs. Abbot Carrul stayed silent, polishing his glasses nervously on his habit sleeve.

A Searat brandishing a rusty axe snarled up arrogantly at the dormitory windows. “Get yerselves out 'ere, or we'll come in an' drag ye down!”

Drawing his scimitar, Raga Bol dealt the Searat a swinging blow to the jaw with its bone handle. He placed a sea-booted footpaw on the sprawled-out rat and spoke reprovingly. “Tut tut, I'm surprised at ye, mate. Is that anyways to be addressin' gennelbeasts?” Returning the blade to his sash, the Searat captain lectured the rest of his brutish crew. “Mind yore language when ye talks to the goodbeasts up there, that's an order!”

He winked broadly and turned away from them, performing a flourishingly elegant bow. His gold fangs glinted as he smiled up at the dormitory windows. “My 'pologies, an' a
good day to ye all, messmates. Me name's Raga Bol, fer want of a better 'un. I'm 'ere to parley wid yore cap'n. 'Twould be a kindness if'n 'e'd speak t'me.”

Abbot Carrul showed himself. “I am Father Abbot Carrul of Redwall. What exactly do you want, sir?”

Raga Bol put his head to one side, almost managing to look coy. “Ho, a bit o' this an' a bit o' that. Nothin' fer you to bother yore dear old grey 'ead about, Father Abbot. I'm nought but a simple beast who likes pretty trinkets.”

Toran felt that Carrul had taken enough verbal fencing. Recalling the arrow which had been shot to slay his Abbot, he came forward, placing himself in front of Carrul. In one paw he held a long cook's knife; in the other, a pepper bomb.

“Wot would ye like, silvertongue—a bit o' this or a bit o' that?” He indicated both weapons as he spoke. “Make yore choice, 'cos that's all ye'll get from us. Redwallers aren't born fools. We know scum, even when they try to talk fancy!”

Realising that the otter could not be cajoled or wheedled, Raga hurled himself at the Abbey door, hacking at it with his sabre and knife and yelling to his Searat crew, “Attack! Break this door down!”

“Redwaaaaaallllll!” A warcry rang out as the defenders fired slingstones and pepper bombs down upon the foebeasts. A slingstone pinged off Raga's jaw, leaving it gashed.

He retreated from the door, bellowing, “Back! Out o' their range. Back!”

They stumbled back across the lawn to where they could see missiles coming and better dodge them.

Martha was shocked but elated. It had all happened so fast: one moment she was listening to the talk going back and forth, the next moment she was screeching like a wildbeast and madly launching off slingstones. She held her trembling paws up to her eyes, willing them to be still.

Toran winked at her. “Well done, beauty!”

His attention was distracted by Raga Bol, shouting, “Ahoy there! Is that the way ye treat creatures wot comes in peace? Aharr, ye wretches, I'll show ye the Searat way o' fightin' back. I'll burn ye out!”

The Searat captain marched off, back to the gatehouse. Some of his crew were nursing wounds, while others fled
blindly, their eyes streaming as they sneezed uncontrollably and headed for the pond.

Martha could feel panic welling inside her. She clasped Toran's paw. “Will they really try to burn us out?”

Seating himself on the windowsill, the ottercook stared down at the Abbey's main door, directly below. “Aye, I thought they'd get around to that, sooner or later. But the Searats' plan won't work. How much of that soil an' rubble is there, Dwurl?”

Spreading his hefty digging claws, Foremole shrugged. “Much as ee loikes, zurr. We'm gotten gurt 'eaps o' durt'n'rubble, hooj marsess uv ee stuff!”

The Abbot looked over his glasses at Toran. “What are you thinking of, friend?”

The ottercook turned from the window. “Our Abbey is built o' stone, Father. Ain't many ways they can burn an entrance in. The big Abbey door is the one way. If that went afire, we'd be lost, sittin' on the other side of it, waitin' for the door to burn down. So I plan on blockin' it completely. We'll do it right now. Ain't no sense in losin' time, so we'd best work hard'n'fast. Pay attention, everybeast, this is the plan. . . .”

 

Raga Bol's mood had turned sour. He had supposed that his show of force would have gained him an easy victory rather than a shameful retreat. But it had become apparent that the Abbeybeasts were not afraid to fight, no matter how great the odds. He retired to the Abbey pond where he sat sullenly watching those of his crew who had been struck by pepper bombs dousing their heads in the shallows. Flinky and the rest of Badredd's gang were there, ineptly trying to catch another grayling. The captain took his spleen out on them, booting Flinky headfirst into the water.

The stoat rose spluttering, as he tried to placate the irate Searat. “Sure we was only tryin' to catch a fat ould fish for yer 'onour's supper. Ain't that right, mate?”

Halfchop nodded enthusiastically. “Kachunk!”

Raga Bol drew his scimitar menacingly. “Gerrout o' me sight, ye witless idiots, make yoreselves scarce. Now!”

Avoiding the keen blade, Flinky and the rest fled the scene.

Ferron, the gaunt rat, slung a flat pebble, bouncing it over the pond surface. “I wouldn't give 'em 'til sunset, Cap'n. I'd burn those beasts out now!”

Bol was loath to destroy any part of his new home. He looked to Wirga, his Seer. “Wot say ye, old one?”

Wirga was drawing patterns in the banksand with a stick. She shrugged. “If the sons of Wirga were here, they could use their darts on anybeast who showed at the windows.”

Raga Bol glared at her. “But they ain't 'ere, are they? So do we burn 'em out, or have ye got a better way?”

The Seer sensed the danger in his tone. She made her reply diplomatically. “Set a fire in full view of the windows. Then send a messenger to give them one last warning. The sight of flames should alter their minds.”

This was the answer the captain desired. He gave orders. “Ferron, Glimbo, gather wood an' get lamp oil. Then set up a blaze on the lawn, where they kin see it. Wirga, take Chakka wid ye. Go an' warn those fools wot'll 'appen if'n they don't surrender t'me!”

 

Badredd had just finished mopping the gatehouse floor clean and was about to unbend when Blowfly slapped his rump smartly with the rope end.

“Yew missed a corner be'ind the door!” The fat Searat caught Flinky peering in through the open window at him. “Now then, slysnout, wot do yew want?”

The stoat smiled apologetically. “Beggin' yore pardon, sir, but 'tis the cap'n, 'e wants ye down by the pond.”

Blowfly gave Badredd another sharp rap. “This place better be shipshape when I comes back, or I'll flay the back offa ye. Ahoy there, stoat, lend 'im a paw. I kin find me own way t'the pond.” Blowfly waddled off, twirling his rope end skilfully.

The small fox tossed Flinky a damp rag. “You start on the windows, I'll see t'the floor.”

The stoat pulled him upright, whispering urgently. “We're gettin' out o' this place. Come on now, while they're all at the pond we can make a run fer it!”

Badredd gazed dumbly at Flinky, as if not understanding what he had said. The stoat grabbed the cleaning rag from him and flung it away. “Don't stand there wid yore jaw flappin'! Are ye comin' wid us, or d'ye like bein' a slave? The rest o' the gang are hidin' by the gate, waitin'. All the Searats are down by the pond, there's not a sentry on guard at all!”

Badredd's limbs began trembling. “But wot if they catch us?”

Flinky could not keep the contempt out of his voice. “Huh, some grand ould leader ye turned out t'be. Yore better off stayin' here if'n yore too scared. We're goin'!”

He ran from the gatehouse to where the others were waiting. “Get that gate open, quick now!”

Soon Badredd came running from the gatehouse to join the escapers, shouting out, “Wait for me, mates. I'm comin', too!”

A moment later they were off, dashing south down the path and cutting off east into Mossflower Wood, leaving the main gate swinging lazily in the summer breeze.

 

Raga Bol was putting an edge to his blade on a stone he had found on the pond's edge. He glanced up sourly at Blowfly's approach. “Wot do y'want, eh?”

The fat Searat saluted with his rope's end. “Dat liddle stoat, the gabby one, 'e said yew wanted ter see me, Cap'n.”

Blowfly dodged a swipe from the silver hook as Bol roared, “I never said no such thing. Get back to that gate'ouse an' see wot they're up to. Go on, move yer fat bum!”

He glanced up despairingly at the sight of Wirga and Chakka arriving back from the Abbey building. Both were caked from eartips to tails in a mixture of soil, rubble and sloppy debris, which clung to their bodies. The Searat captain shook his head in disbelief. “Well, make yore report. Wot 'appened to youse two?”

Wirga spat out grit. Pawing soil from her ears, she hawked and coughed to clear her mouth. “They didn't give us a chance to speak. We went round there like thee told us, but they wouldn't listen, would they Chakka?”

She waded into the pond and began washing the mess off as Chakka continued. “They was pourin' muck outta the winders, Cap'n. We tried to give 'em yore warnin', but a crew
o' those moles lobbed a big 'eap o' rubble down on us. Not only that, but they kept tippin' stuff down until we was knocked flat. We 'ad to dig our way out afore we was buried. It looks like they're coverin' the Abbey door, so we can't put a light to it, Cap'n. Those beasts are killers, we was near suffocated!”

Raga Bol put aside sharpening his scimitar. “Have the others lit the fire on the lawn yet?”

Wirga emerged dripping from the pond. “Aye, the wood is burning.”

Raga Bol hurried up from the pond, past the orchard and out onto the lawn at the front of the building where he could take in the full scene. He could see the top few timbers of the Abbey's main door. The rest had disappeared under a heap of debris, which was still pouring out of the window, forming a great hill of rubble, which completely blocked the doorway.

Quivering with rage, Bol strode up to the fire, which his crew was fuelling with logs, branches and planks. He smote at the blazing wood with his scimitar, scattering it onto the lawn. “Glimbo, git yoreself over 'ere! Stop burnin' the wood, we'll need it to pile up agin that load o' rubble!”