Loamhedge (5 page)

The haremaid tapped the cover of the book. “This is the history of Loamhedge that you loaned me, Sister. I think the answer lies inside it. That's why I called you here. I am still
young, but you three have the knowledge of seasons on your side. I was hoping that you could help me. I never dreamed that there might be an answer to why I can't walk. Do you think there is?”

Old Phredd picked up the big tome and laid it on the table. He spoke to it, as it if were a living thing. “Well now, you dusty old relic, are you going to assist us with this little one's problem, eh, eh?”

He turned and gave Martha a toothless grin. “Heeheehee, I think he will. Though one can never really tell what a book says until one reads it, eh?”

Abbot Carrul opened the book. “This may take some time, but we're on your side, Martha. If there is a way to make you walk, rest assured, we'll find it.”

Martha could feel tears beginning to brim in her eyes. She blinked them away swiftly. “Thank you all, my good friends. But there is something that I don't think the book can tell us. Who are the ones we must look out for? The two travellers from out of the past, returning home someday?”

Sister Portula gazed out the window into the sunlit noon. “You're right, Martha. I wonder who they could be.”

North of Redwall, spring eventide filtered soft light through the leafy canopy of Mossflower Wood. Amid aisles of oak, beech, elm, sycamore and other forest giants, slender rowan, birch and willow stood like young attendants, waiting on their stately lords. Blue smoke drifted lazily upward through the foliage which fringed a shallow stream. Somewhere nearby, a pair of nightingales warbled harmoniously.

The tremulous beauty was lost upon a small vermin band who had trekked down from the far Northlands. They had camped on the bank to fish. A fat, brutish weasel called Burrad was their leader. Beneath his ragged cloak he carried a cutlass, its bone handle notched with the lives he had taken. Burrad's sly eyes watched his band closely. They were spitting four shiny scaled roach on green willow withes to grill over the fire.

Drawing the cutlass, Burrad pointed it at the biggest fish. “Dat'n der is mine, yew cook it good fer me, Flinky!”

The stoat called Flinky let out a pitifully indignant whine. “Arr 'ey, Chief, I caught dis wun meself, 'tis me own fish!”

Despite his bulk, Burrad was quick. Bulling the stoat over, he whipped Flinky mercilessly with the flat of his blade.

Covering his head, the victim screeched for mercy. “Yaaaaaargh, stop 'im mates, afore he kills me pore ould body! Yeeegh, spare me, yer mightiness, spare me. Aaaaagh!”

Cruel by nature, Burrad thrashed Flinky even harder.
Throwing himself upon the hapless stoat, he pressed the blade against Flinky's scrawny neck, snarling viciously.

“Wot d'yer want, the fist or yore 'ead? 'Urry up an' speak.”

The cutlass blade pressed savagely down. Flinky wailed. “Yeeeeh, take de fish, I've only got one 'ead. Take de fish!”

Burrad rose, grinning wolfishly as he kicked Flinky's bottom. “Cook dat fish good, or yore a dead 'un!”

He turned on the other eleven vermin gang members. “Wot are youse lot gawpin' at, eh? Gimme some grog!”

A female stoat called Crinktail, whose tail was shaped almost like a letter
Z,
passed Burrad the jug of nettle grog. Snatching it roughly, the bully sat down, taking long gulps of the fiery liquid.

He watched Flinky like a hawk. “Crispy outside an' soft inside, dat's de way I likes fish.”

The others averted their eyes; there was no doubt about who the leader of their gang was.

 

Crouched low in the reeds on the far bank, two creatures viewed the scene. One was an otter, the other a squirrel, both in their late middle seasons.

The otter squinched his eyes, letting them rove over the gang. “Hmm, about twelve o' them over there, I'd say.”

The squirrel nibbled on a young reed. “There's thirteen.”

Her companion shrugged. “I won't argue with ye, 'cos my eyes ain't as good as they used t'be. I tell ye though, mate, that's one sorry gang o' vermin. Looks as if they got rocks in their skulls instead o' brains.”

The squirrel chuckled. “Aye, campin' there without a single sentry posted, an' a fire smokin' away like a beacon. 'Tis a wonder their mothers let 'em out alone.”

The otter nodded. “See ole lardbelly yonder, the big weasel? Leave him t'me, I enjoy takin' bullies down a peg.”

The squirrel commented drily, “Watch he don't fall on ye, he'd flatten ye like a pancake. Are those fish ready yet?”

Her companion sniffed the air. “I'd say so. Right then, are we ready t'go an' pay 'em a visit?”

The squirrel sighed. “Aye, layin' here won't get us any supper. You go in the front, an' I'll make me way around back.”

The lean, aging otter grumbled. “It's always me wot has t'go in the front. Why can't I go in the back?”

The squirrel cut left along the streambank, replying, “ 'Cos I'm the best tree climber. Give me time t'get ready, mate, don't walk in too early. Good luck!”

Tucking his rudder into the back of his belt, the otter draped his ragged cloak to conceal it. He bound a faded red bandanna low on his brow, disguising both ears and scrunching down over his eyes to make them look shortsighted.

Picking up a polished hardwood staff, he splashed into the stream shallows, muttering to himself. “Huh, I'm gettin' too old for this game!”

 

Little Redd was the youngest of the vermin gang. Small and runty, he was often the butt of their coarse jokes.

Seeking about for firewood, Redd glanced sideways. He saw the bedraggled creature wading across the stream, and called to Burrad. “Aye aye, Chief, looks like we got company!”

Burrad took his mouth from the grog jug. He cast a contemptuous glance at the hunched figure struggling toward the bankside. “Wot'n de name o'bludd is dat?”

The otter sloshed ashore, calling in a quavery voice. “A good evenin' to one an' all. Seems I'm just in time for supper. Mmm . . . roasted roach, me favourite vittles!”

Burrad's cutlass was drawn and wavering a whisker's breadth from the unwanted visitor's nose. “Who are ye? Huhuhuh, or should I say, wot are ye?”

The stranger avoided the blade neatly. Ducking under it, he stood at the vermin leader's side, wrinkling his nose comically. “Wot am I, young feller? I'm a ferroat, o' course!”

Flinky looked up from the cooking fire. “A ferroat? Ah' shure, an' wot sort o' beast is dat now?”

The intruder replied airily. “Oh, just a cross twixt a ferret an' a stoat. I was a small sickly babe, or so me ole mum'n'dad told me. That's why I look like this.”

Ignoring his fish-cooking task, Flinky continued. “An' who, pray, was yore muther an' father?”

The stranger replied, straight-faced. “A rat an' a fox, I s'pose, but they was terrible liars.”

Flinky scratched his head. “Liars? Huh, I'll say they was!”

Burrad interrupted by thwacking Flinky between both ears with the flat of his blade. “Who asked yew, puddle'ead? Ger-ron wid cookin' dose fishes!”

He turned to the odd-looking creature. “Wot's yore name, ferroat, an' wot d'ye want 'ere?”

The newcomer pointed to himself. “Just told ye, haven't I? Me name's Ferroat, an' I'll sing an' dance fer me supper. That's if ye'll allow me, kind sir.”

The vermin gang winked and sniggered among themselves. Burrad, a kind sir? This old fool was begging to die.

Testing his cutlass blade by licking the edge, Burrad leaned close to his intended victim and grinned. “Allow ye, eh? If'n yore dancin' an' singin' ain't to me likin', I'll allow this blade to chop ye into ten pieces. Then I'll allow me gang to roast ye over that fire. If ye don't taste nice, we kin always use ye fer fishbait!”

Smiling affably, the odd beast bowed creakily. “ 'Tis a fair offer, sir, I thankee kindly.”

Shuffling about in a curious jig, the creature twirled his staff and began singing.

 

“I'll always recall wot Ma said to me,

ere I went a rovin' a minstrel to be,

beware of the vermin, they ain't got no class,

an' they ain't got the brains Mother Nature gave grass!

Rowledy dowlety toodle um day.

 

I soon found out me dear mother was right,

I met up with some vermin the followin' night,

they were strangers to bathin', an' that made me think,

why didn't Ma tell me that all vermin stink?

Rowledy pong and a toodledy pooh!”

 

The comic-looking old ragbag of a beast jigged and shuffled around. Raucous laughter greeted his performance followed by tears of merriment that coursed down the vermin's cheeks. It was only at the start of the third verse, when vermin's faces were compared to toads' bottoms, that Burrad realised the singer was insulting him and his gang.

Roaring with rage, the fat weasel rushed the disguised
otter. Whirling his cutlass, Burrad aimed a mighty swipe that should have left the singer headless. However, far from being slain, the odd creature ducked under the blow, came up under Burrad and tweaked his snout.

Purple with spleen, the gang leader grappled with his opponent, yelling to his second in command. “Skrodd, gut this old fleabag wid yer spear, I've got 'im!”

The tall, evil-looking fox dashed forward, plunging with his spear. But the otter was fast and more clever than both vermin. He butted Burrad under the chin, wriggled from his grasp and scuttled to one side in the blink of an eye.

Burrad stood gaping at the spear protruding from his stomach. He raised his clouding eyes to the open-mouthed fox, faltering. “Ye've killed me, yer blather-brained foo . . . !”

Burrad crashed over backward, slain by his own gang member. Amid the drama, nobeast noticed the four fish vanish up into the willow foliage, hauled on a thin twine by the green withes they were spitted upon.

Skrodd's surprise was only momentary. His brain was already reacting to the fact that he was now the vermin gang's new leader. Leaving the spear stuck in his former chief, the tall fox grabbed the cutlass from Burrad's limp grasp. He came at the otter with a blurring barrage of swift slashes.

Whizzzzzthonk!
A slingstone from the trees suddenly rendered him senseless. Skrodd's fellow vermin looked on in horror as his body collapsed in a heap. Before the gang could move, the squirrel dropped from her perch. Danger glinted in her eyes as she twirled a loaded sling expertly.

“There's twoscore more of us layin' in the bushes, just waitin' on the word!”

Shedding his disguise, the otter knocked daggers and other weapons from the vermin's paws, with sharp raps of his polished staff. He looked nothing like the ragged, dancing fool he had been a moment ago. His voice was stern and commanding.

“Everybeast stand still, right where ye are! Believe Saro, we've got a full crew ready to pounce on ye!”

Halfchop, a rat who was minus a paw, gulped. “If'n that un's called Saro, yew must be Bragoon?”

Flinky look at the pair in astonishment. “I've heard of ye, Bragoon an' Saro. Two mighty warriors!”

Bragoon leaned on his staff and nodded. “That's us, an' there's forty more trained fighters like us, just waitin' to get a crack at you lot. So have the brains to stay alive an' listen to wot we say.”

Flinky bowed politely. “Anythin', yer honour, sure we're in no position to be arguin' wid ye.”

Saro pointed at a wobbly-nosed ferret called Plumnose. “You, where have ye come from? Speak!”

Gesturing back over his shoulder, Plumnose replied, “Durr, we cummed from der Nort'lands.”

Saro nodded. “The Northlands, eh? Then listen carefully to my friend Bragoon.”

The otter let his fierce eyes wander round the hapless vermin as he ground out an ultimatum. “Get yoreselves back to the Northlands, 'cos if yore anywhere south of here by nightfall, yore all deadbeasts! We're goin' now, but our mates'll stay hidden, watchin' ye. Sit still here until 'tis properly dark, then break camp an' get back to where ye came from—sharpish! We'll be passin' this way again tomorrow. Make sure yore not still here. Is that clear?”

Flinky's head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. “Ah, sure, 'tis certain clear, yer mightiness. We've all got the message, an' a fine important one it is, sir!”

Bragoon and Saro backed out of the camp. A moment later they were lost in the surrounding trees. The vermin sat wordlessly staring at one another until Plumnose broke the silence.

“Wodd duh we do now?”

Flinky's mate, Crinktail, was in no doubt. “Like they said, we wait 'til it's dark, then we gets out of here. I don't know about youse, but I'm goin'.”

Flinky agreed. “Aye, ye don't disobey two like Bragoon an' Saro. Best do the sensible thing, mates.”

 

Recovering from the slingstone blow, Skrodd sat up groaning. “Unnnh, wot hit me?”

Slipback, a weasel with most of his back fur missing, toyed with the cutlass that had belonged to Burrad.

“Ye were knocked cold by a slingstone, mate.”

Skrodd felt the lump on his skull and winced. “Who did it?”

Flinky chuckled. “ 'Twas none other than a famous squirrel called Saro. Yore lucky she did, 'cos the one you was goin' after wid yore blade was 'er partner, Bragoon.”

Skrodd stood slowly and walked across to Slipback. Suddenly he dealt the weasel a swift kick to the chin. As Slipback fell, the tall fox grabbed Burrad's cutlass.

“Keep yer paws off dat blade, 'tis mine now. I slew Burrad, an' I'm the new chief round 'ere!”

Slipback avoided a second kick. “Only by accident—dat don't make yew chief!”

Skrodd turned to face the rest of the gang, wielding his new weapon. “Accident or not, Burrad's dead. Does anybeast want to challenge me? Come on!”

None came forward. They knew the tall fox's reputation as a fighter; even Burrad had never kicked him about.

Skrodd smiled grimly. “Right, up on yore hunkers, we're goin' to track those two down!”