Loamhedge (32 page)

Saro looked anxiously at the shrew chieftain. “But ye do know where the two big rocks are?”

Briggy stowed his monocle away. “Ho, I knows that place sure enough. East along this river for a day or so, then cut south when ye leave the bank. Wicked country, 'tis.”

Bragoon patted his swordhilt. “That don't worry us, we've travelled wicked country afore. So will ye take us upriver to the Bell an' the Badgers 'ead, me ole mate?”

Briggy held out his paw. “Course I will, 'ere's me paw an' 'ere's me heart on it. But afore ye gets to the big rocks, ye've gotta cross the great gorge. I never knew of anybeast who's done that yet.”

Saro winked at him. “You leave that to us. We've done lots o' things nobeast 'as ever done, me'n my mate.”

Jigger joined them, taking a great interest in Bragoon's sword. “That's a fine-lookin' blade ye carry, mate.”

The otter drew the sword, holding it out to let the firelight play along its blade in the gathering twilight. It shimmered and glinted like a live thing. “Aye, a fine blade it is, young 'un. My friend, the Abbot o' Redwall, loaned it t'me for the journey. 'Tis the sword of Martin the Warrior!”

The shrews had evidently heard of Martin. As word ran through the camp, they crowded around Bragoon, straining to catch a glimpse of the legendary weapon.

“So that's the sword o' Martin. 'Tis a sight to be'old!”

“They say 'twas made at the badger mountain from a piece of a star wot fell out the sky!”

“Blood'n'fur, fancy ownin' a blade like that!”

Jokingly, Jigger drew his own short rapier and waved it. “Would ye like to challenge me to a spot o' swordplay?”

There was a twinkle in Briggy's eye as he nudged the otter. “Go on, mate, show 'im wot a real swordbeast kin do.”

Bragoon rose casually, then moved like lightning. Jigger stood aghast, rooted to the spot as the sword encircled him in a streaking pattern of light. It clipped one of his whiskers and tipped the bandanna from off his forehead. The young shrew closed his eyes tightly.

Bragoon whirled the blade as he roared. “Yahaarrr, ssssss'death!”

The rapier flicked from Jigger's paw. It whipped through the air, then quivered pointfirst in the prow of his father's big logboat which was drawn up on the bank.

Jigger gasped. “Scuttle me keel! How'd ye do that, mate?”

Bragoon winked roguishly at him. “That's a secret, young 'un!”

The Guoraf shrew greatly admired the otter's prowess. “Could I see yore sword, sir, just fer a moment?”

Bragoon held the blade about a third of the way up. Raising his paw, he did a short hop and threw it. It turned once in the air, almost lazily; then, with a solid thud, buried its point into the logboat, next to the rapier.

The otter nodded. “Aye, 'elp yoreself. But take care, yon's a sharp blade.”

Jigger retrieved his own rapier, but he could not budge the sword since it was too deeply imbedded in the oaken boat. Bragoon went to sit down with Briggy.

The shrew chieftain stroked his beard. “Where'd ye pick up swordtricks like that?”

The otter shrugged. “A Long Patrol hare from Salamandastron showed me some dodges with a blade one time. That
'un was wot they called a perilous beast, a real swordfighter, no mistake!”

Horty looked up from the remnants of a huge pastie. “A Long Patrol hare, indeed! That's what I'd like to jolly well be someday, wot!”

Saro patted Horty on the stomach, knocking the wind from him. “Then ye'll have to scoff less an' exercise more. Long Patrol hares are fightin' fit.”

The young hare got quite huffy. “Fiddlesticks, marm, one's got to get the right nourishment t'grow strong first, wot?”

Briggy smiled at him. “Yore right there, Horty, an' ye need a full night's sleep, too. Go an' pick yoreself out a good berth on my vessel. We've got a journey upriver t'make at dawn. I'll put ye to the oars, that'll toughen yore muscles up a bit. You git yore rest now, an' you, too, Jigger.”

Horty gathered up some bread, cheese and pear cordial. “Right y'are, Cap'n Briggathingee. I'll just take along a light snack to guard the young body against night starvation. I suffer from it terribly, y'know. I was born with the illness. I say Jigger, old lad, not takin' any rations with you? Well, suit y'self, laddie buck, but don't come pesterin' me durin' the flippin' night.”

Jigger, however, was not listening. He had found a new object for his admiration. The young shrew was all smiles and attention for Springald. Carefully he helped the mousemaid aboard the logboat that he was travelling on.

“Watch yoreself, Miz Spring, these boats are tricky craft. You take some o' my cushions an' a soft blanket. Sleep up in the prow, that's the best spot aboard!”

The pretty mousemaid played him up outrageously, fluttering her eyelashes and allowing him to make up her bed. “Oh thank you, my friend, that's so kind of you!”

Fenna scooted in and flopped down on the cushions. “Plenty of room for us both here, Spring. Thanks, Jigger mate!”

Sitting by the fire with Briggy and her otter friend, Saro watched the young ones with amusement. “Nice to see 'em gettin' on well t'gether, eh?”

Stirring the flames with his rapier, Briggy laughed. “
Haharr, bless 'em, they're only young once. The seasons soon fly by, ain't that right, Brag, ye ole battler?”

Bragoon polished Martin's sword with a piece of damp bark. “Ye never spoke a truer word, ole pal. Me'n Saro have gotten quite fond o' those three young 'uns, they're made of the right stuff. Now an' agin we gotta yell at 'em, but they learn fast. By the way, on that chart o' mine it says Long Tails an' desert beyond the river. Will that mean danger for us?”

Briggy looked scathing. “Huh, Long Tails? My ole Granpa whopped those rats seasons afore I was born. Guorafs drove 'em off into the desertlands south o' the great gorge. They shouldn't trouble ye, though the desert might. 'Tis a long dusty trek to the gorge. D'ye want us t'come with ye?”

Saro clapped the stout old shrew's shoulder. “No, mate, you git back to yore river, that's what ye know best. We've managed one desert by ourselves, another one won't make much difference. We'll be fine!”

Briggy seemed relieved. “I thankee fer that, Sarobando. I don't like bein' far from runnin' water anytime. But I'll tell ye wot I'll do. We'll bring the boats back to where we drop youse off, say in about six days. I'll pick ye up for the return journey. There's a secret route I know that'll take ye back to the flatlands below the plateau. It means shootin' a mighty waterfall to git down there. But don't fret, my crews kin do it if anybeasts can. 'Twill get ye back 'ome to Redwall much faster.”

Bragoon shook the old shrew's paw heartily. “Yore a real friend, true blue'n never fail, Log a Log Briggy!”

The shrew chieftain rose from beside the fire. “Think nothin' of it, mate. I'm off t'me bed, if'n that young Horty ain't stolen it. Us old 'uns need sleep as much as the young do. Pleasant dreams, ye pair o' rips!”

The aging otter and his lifelong friend sat by the fire awhile. Bragoon stared into the flames. “We're gettin' too old for this sorta thing, Saro. I think when this adventure's over I'll settle back down at Redwall. Maybe that brother o' mine'll teach me to be a cook.”

The squirrel stared levelly at him. “If'n that's wot ye want, then fair enough, matey. I'll be by yore side wherever ye are.”

The otter chuckled drily. “An' so ye will be, we been
together since we was Dibbuns. I wouldn't know where to turn widout ye.”

That night they slept by the fire, dreaming dreams of the sunny old days at the Abbey when they were both young tear-aways together.

Martha was up at dawn, trying out her newfound skill—walking! At first it was painful and slow, but the progress she was making, holding on to things for support, was remarkable. With the aid of Sister Setiva's blackthorn stick, which the Infirmary nurse had parted with happily, the haremaid wandered joyfully along Great Hall.

Martha laughed inwardly at what Setiva had said: “Och, take this auld thing an' use it in good heath, ma bonny lass. Ah've only kept it tae threaten Dibbuns with—not that they ever took much notice, the wee villains!”

The young haremaid manoeuvred the stairs, pausing every few moments to revel in her newfound freedom. Walking!

Abbot Carrul came up behind her, watching Martha's progress, until she turned and noticed him.

“Good morning, Father Abbot, it's a fine morning!”

Carrul beamed back at her. “ 'Tis the finest of mornings, young miss, and all the better for seeing you up and about!”

As Toran came out onto the dormitory landing, he waved down to them. “Now then, you two gabby idlers, why ain't ye bringin' brekkist up to the pore beasts on guard, eh?”

Martha started eagerly back downstairs. “Breakfast for how many, sir—one, two, ten? It'll be up there directly!”

Granmum Gurvel came trundling through Great Hall, heading a small convoy of moles who were pushing four trolleys. She brandished her best copper ladle at Martha.

“Ho no you'm woant, brekkist bee's ee cook's tarsk roun' yurr. Miz Marth', you'm 'asten oop to ee durmitrees an' set ee on a churr. Rest yore paws naow. Doo ee hurr?”

Brother Weld had joined Toran on the landing. “Best do as she says, or old Gurvel'll skelp your tail with her ladle. That's one old molecook who'll stand no nonsense.”

Breakfast in the dormitory was a makeshift affair, rather inconvenient for most but huge fun for the Dibbuns. The Abbeybabes, who thought everything was a game, perched in the oddest places, singing, playing and eating together. Sister Portula was trying to coax Muggum, and several of his cohorts, down from a shelf, where they were bouncing up and down as they squabbled over hot scones and honeyed oatmeal.

In a state of despair, she turned to Martha. “Oh dear, I do wish the Searats weren't here and we were back to normal. Just look at those little ones, they're getting very wild. But with no Abbeyschool, and having to spend all day indoors, who can blame them?” Portula looked to Martha for comment, but the haremaid was not listening. Her joyous mood dispersed, she stood gazing forlornly out the window.

The kindly Sister showed concern. “Martha, dear, is something the matter, what's wrong?”

Toran was close enough to hear his young friend's reply. “I'm sorry, Sister, but I can't help feeling sad, I've just realised something. What a waste of time it all is. Bragoon and Saro, together with Horty, Springald and Fenna, have gone off questing for Loamhedge. Little do they know that I need no cure or remedy. Suddenly I can walk! My brother and good friends are far away from Redwall—who knows what deadly danger or injury may befall them? There was no real need for them to go. Oh, fate can be so cruel at times. I feel responsible and guilty about the whole thing!”

Sister Portula comforted her. “You must not blame yourself, Martha. None of this was your doing, was it, Toran?”

The ottercook had strong feelings about Martha's supposed dilemma, and he minced no words in telling her so. “Wot's all this nonsense, don't ye be talkin' that way, Martha! Huh, ye could go on all day, worryin' about this an' that, an' supposin'. Lissen, I'll give ye a suppose. Supposin' yore friends an' my brother an' Saro hadn't gone, eh? Things would've
turned out totally diff'rent, fate would've cast other lots for everybeast. You mightn't 'ave been at that window in yore chair last night, but those Searats may've changed their plans. Then where'd ye be now, Martha? I'll tell ye, still sittin' stuck in a chair!

“So don't ye dare say that there was no point in our good friends undertakin' a mission to find a cure for ye, Martha Braebuck! An' don't talk t'me of danger or injury. If'n Brag an' Saro 'ave anythin' t'do with it, the only ones sufferin' perils an' wounds will be anybeasts who tries to stop 'em! So quit complainin' an' supposin', miss. Be grateful that ye can go runnin', on yore own footpaws, to greet the travellers when they return to our Abbey!”

Martha had never heard Toran speak so forcefully, or truly. Wiping her eyes, the haremaid clasped her friend's paw fervently. “Thank you, Toran, you're right. What a silly creature I am!”

The ottercook turned away, brushing a paw across his own eyes. “No you ain't, yore our Martha. Now put a smile on that face, an' get those liddle villains down of'n that shelf afore they fall an' 'urt themselves!”

 

Sharpening his silver hooktip on the wall, Raga Bol lounged in the gatehouse doorway. Bright summer morn had done nothing to ease his foul mood. Dreams of the big stripedog had begun haunting him afresh, plus he was still smarting from the previous night's shameful defeat. Striving to put thoughts of the badger from his mind, he took out his mean temper on every crewrat in sight, snarling menacingly at them.

“Belay there, Wirga, ain't there any vittles left, where's me brekkist? Ahoy, you there, stop scrapin' mud off'n yoreself, an' grubbin' at yer eyes like some snotty liddle whelp. Go an' get some vittles for yore cap'n, sharpish!”

All four of the Searats, not knowing exactly whom the glaring captain was addressing, ran off to do his bidding. “Aye aye, Cap'n! Right away, Cap'n!” they chorused as they tugged their ears in salute.

Raga Bol turned his spleen upon the one called Rojin, who was sitting on the gatehouse wallsteps, poulticing a swollen eye. “Quit dabbin' at yore lamp, ye've still got a good
'un left. I never got no brekkist, 'cos Blowfly let me servants escape. They're the beasts who should be doin' the cookin'. Git yoreself after Blowfly an' Glimbo. I want t'see ye all back 'ere by noon wid the runaways in tow. 'Cos if'n ye ain't, I'll let the livin' daylights into the lotta youse wid this 'ook. Go on, gerrout o' me sight, ye laggard!”

The next to come in for a tongue lashing was the one called Rinj, who happened to stray within earshot. “Stan' by the big gate there, Rinj, ye useless mess of offal. Keep a weather eye out for Rojin an' the others comin' back. Report ter me the moment ye spot 'em!”

The Searat captain stalked back into the gatehouse, slamming the door so hard that its hinges rattled. He slumped into Old Phredd's armchair, trying to banish thoughts of the badger and concentrate instead on his plans to conquer the Abbey.

Morning rolled on into the summer noon. The crew danced attention upon their captain, but he barely glanced at the food they brought. Instead, he ordered them to bring him volumes and scrolls from the shelves. Bol rifled through them, searching vainly for some clues—a reference or a sketch, perhaps. Anything that would help him gain access to the Abbey building. After awhile he tired of this pursuit and banished the crewrats from the gatehouse. Scattering volumes and parchments over the floor, the Searat captain flung himself upon the bed and fell into a fitful slumber, the coverlet draped over his face.

On waking, Raga Bol saw that the sunlight shafts had shifted across the window. It was late afternoon, merging toward eventide. Rising, he took a mouthful of his favourite grog, swilling it around his mouth, then spat it out sourly. It was silent outside, with no sounds of activity. The Searat captain went swiftly outside.

Rinj was standing upright, propped against the gatepost, obviously sleeping. Raga Bol dealt him a savage kick, knocking Rinj flat. He continued to kick the hapless Searat, accentuating his words.

“Ye scabby-eyed, useless bilge swab! Did I tell ye to go snoozin' on duty? Wot's this door barred for, eh? Yore supposed t'be outside, watchin' for the others t'come back. If'n
we was at sea now, I'd tie ye t'the anchor an' sling yore lazy carcass o'er the side!”

Dragging Rinj upright by his ears, Bol knocked the gate bars up with his hook. He hauled the gates open, still shouting. “I'll learn ye to disobey yore cap'n's orders, I'll . . . Yaaaagh!”

The gates swung inward, revealing Rojin, pinned to the timbers by a huge single arrow, head slumped and footpaws dragging in the dust. Dead as the proverbial doornail!

Beyond the outside path and ditch, out on the flatlands, Lonna Bowstripe roared as he fitted a shaft to his bowstring. “Raga Bol! Death is here! Hellgates await you, Searat! Eulaliiiiaaaaaaa!”

Bol took one glance at the avenging giant and hurled himself at the Abbey gates, slamming them and dropping the heavy baulks that served as locks. The wood shivered under the thud of the badger's massive arrow. Raga Bol leaped back from the gates, as if expecting the shaft to come right through.

 

Sister Setiva was prying the paws of little Yooch from the dormitory windowsill. “Och, come away from there, ye wee pestilence!” Attracted by the shouting from the gatehouse area, she peered over to see what was amiss there. Raga Bol's hoarse yells left her in no doubt.

“All paws to the walltops! Bring spears, slings an' bows. Jump to it, the stripedog's 'ere!”

Setiva caught Abbot Carrul's sleeve. “There somebeast oot there, yon Searat's howlin' like a madbeast!”

Toran was out the dormitory door, with Martha close on his heels. Carrul and Setiva followed as Toran called to them. “Up t'the floor above, mates, ye can see better from there!”

Redwallers crowded to the second-story windows, which gave them a clear view of all that was taking place. Out on the flatlands, Lonna was raising his bow again. Brother Weld transmitted an excited commentary of what was taking place, for the benefit of those few who could not see. “Great seasons of slaughter, it's a giant Badger Lord! The Searats are throwing spears, firing slingstones and arrows at him. Haha, their
range is too short, their weapons can't touch him. Oh my, oh golly! Did you see that?”

Old Phredd croaked impatiently. “See what? I can't see a thing!”

Brother Weld described what he had seen. “The big badger fired off an arrow, huh, more like a spear. It struck a Searat, up on the ramparts. Got the vermin dead centre and drove him clear off the wall onto the lawn!”

Sister Setiva shook her head in disbelief. “Och, what a shot, ah've never seen aught like it!”

The Abbeybeasts set up a great cheer. Lonna caught sight of them and waved. Leaning out from the upper windows, the Redwallers waved back furiously, shouting encouragement.

“Give 'em blood'n'vinegar, well done, friend!”

“That's the stuff big feller, keep those shafts coming!”

“Hurr, zurr hoojbeast, you'm give ee vurmints ole billyoh!”

With her eyes shining fiercely, Martha yelled at Toran, “Isn't he magnificent! Can't we do anything to help him?”

The ottercook bit his lip anxiously. “We got nothin' to throw that'd span the range twixt this Abbey an' the walltops, 'tis too far off for slingstones. There ain't a single bow'n'arrer in the buildin'. I'd love to 'elp the big badger, but wot kin we do, miss, wot?”

Brother Gelf, normally a quiet, inobtrusive mouse, spoke out. “Er, I may be able to help, but I'll need to be down in Great Hall. I think I'll need a long windowpole, some twine, a couple of those pepper bombs and a few stones. Er, make them slightly larger than slingstones, but not much.”

His curiosity immediately piqued, the Abbot bowed to Gelf. “You shall have them, Brother. Let's go down to Great Hall. No pushing there, please, let Gelf go first.”

 

Up on the walltops the Searats were lying low, stunned by the accuracy of the bowbeast. Raga Bol was trying to instil some confidence n his crew. “We're safe be'ind this wall, buckoes. That stripedog's got to stay out of our range. Soon as 'e moves forward we'll get 'im. Ain't been a beast born yet that spears an' arrers can't slay. All's we gotta do is stay inside these walls!”

Wirga shuffled closer to Bol. “Aye, but while we're on the inside, the stripedog has us pinned down from the outside. No Searat owns a weapon with the range an' power of that big bow, Cap'n.”

Bol did not want to hear this. He stared cold-eyed at the Seer. “What would ye 'ave me do then, run out an' charge 'im?”

The loss of her three sons rankled Wirga, who now did not lose the opportunity to needle Bol. “We outnumber the bigbeast by about twoscore. I never saw a Searat cap'n back off with those odds on his side!”

Before Bol could strike out, or argue against Wirga, a Searat further along the parapet gave out a shout. “Aaargh, wot the . . . Oooch!”

He fell sideways, slain by one of the big arrows. Raga Bol crawled swiftly along and inspected the dead crewrat. “Wot in the name o' blood'n'thunder 'appened to 'im?”