Loamhedge (8 page)

Flinky rolled over and emitted a huge snore. To avoid a second kick, Redd rose stiffly and looked around. Dargle's cloak was still draped over the ferns. He let out a sigh of relief and wandered over to check on Skrodd. Redd was dumbfounded by the sight that greeted him—Skrodd and Dargle, both dead!

Little Redd circled them slowly, poking both beasts with a stick and uttering their names softly. There was no doubt about it, they were still as stones. His first thought was to run and tell the others. He had already opened his mouth to shout when a thought struck him. Who would be the next to claim leadership of the gang? Little Redd sat down and did some serious thinking. It did not take him long to reach a
decision. He would be the new chief. Getting the cutlass loose from Skrodd's paw was a difficult task, but he managed it somehow. Dargle was almost decapitated by Skrodd's death blow. Two good chops of the hefty blade finished the job.

 

Flinky was roused by a painful feeling he knew well, the slap of a flat cutlass blade. He sprang upright, rubbing his rump, expecting to see Skrodd standing over him. Instead, there stood the small fox, whacking away at the other gang vermin and yelling aloud.

“Up on yore hunkers, all of ye!”

The weasel Juppa grabbed a chunk of firewood and advanced on the small fox, snarling. “Ye snotty liddle runt, who do ye think y'are, smackin' me wid the chief's blade?”

Redd jarred the wood from Juppa's paws with a blow from the cutlass. His voice was shrill but commanding. “I'm the new chief round here, that's who I am. Come an' see this, all of ye!”

The gang stood around the two carcasses in awed silence as the small fox explained. “I saw Dargle run Skrodd through with his spear. So I rushed in, grabbed the cutlass an' slew the dirty murderin' sneak with one swipe!”

Crinktail looked at him disbelievingly. “You, Little Redd, took off Dargle's block in one go?”

Redd was getting the feel of the heavy sword now. He took a pace back, then leaped forward, swinging the cutlass in both paws, shouting fiercely. “Aye, one swipe! D'ye want me to show ye how? I'm the chief now, this sword's mine, I killed to get it!”

He was gratified to see fear shining from Crinktail's eyes as she backed away from him swiftly. “No, no,” she pleaded, “if you say ye did it, I'm not one to argue with ye!”

Ever the one to seize an opportunity, however, Flinky confronted Redd and held out his paws placatingly. “Ah now, don't go upsettin' yoreself, Little Redd. We all think ye'll make a grand chief. Anyway, better'n the last two. Isn't that right, mates?”

He turned to the gang, winking broadly at them but making sure the small fox could not see his gesture.

“C'mon now, raise yer paws an' salute the great new chief!”

A newfound confidence flooded through Redd as he watched the remaining nine vermin acknowledging his leadership with raised paws. He suppressed a shudder of joy. For as long as he could recall he had been ignored, bullied or pushed about. Now, in the course of one day, he was in command of the gang.

Deciding to assert his authority, Little Redd glared haughtily at the ratbag vermin. “My name ain't Little Redd no more. From now on ye'll all call me Badredd. Is that clear?”

Flinky threw him an elaborate salute. “Badredd it is, yer honour, sure an' a fine ould name it is! Well now, Badredd sir, wot's yore pleasure—do we stop 'ere awhile in this grand camp? There's water an' vittles aplenty roundabout, an' 'tis a pleasant spot.”

Badredd nodded imperiously. “Aye, we'll stop 'ere awhile!”

As they prepared the evening meal, Flinky's mate, Crinktail, whispered to him. “Badredd, huh! Wot'n the name o' blood made ye support that liddle fool?”

Flinky winked at her as he turned a roasting woodpigeon on a willow spit over the fire. “Trust me, mate, better a liddle fool than a big bully. I can 'andle this 'un. Badredd'll do like I suggest, ye'll see. We've 'ad enough o' weasels, big foxes an' bullyrats in this gang. This Mossflower territory's a good soft place to stay, plenty of everythin'. Better'n those ould Northlands. Leave the thinkin' t'me, we'll live the good life from now on. Badredd'll do like I tell 'im.”

 

The newly elected Badredd sat on the streambank, picking a roasted woodpigeon leg and watching the westering sun die in a crimson haze. He listened to Flinky singing as he dished out supper to the gang, who lay about looking contented enough.

 

“Oh this is the place to be,

where the fruit falls from the tree,

where eggs an' birds jump out of the nest,

right in me pan they come to rest.

Oh this is the place for me,

far from that Northland sea.

Here the good ould fish leap out of the stream,

an shout, ‘Please, sir, cook me,'

where the sun shines all the day,

an' the cold wind stops away,

an' the water's clean 'n' fresh 'n' clear,

I'll make ye a promise now, me dear,

I'll take a bath so don't ye fear,

in ten summers' time if I'm still here,

'cos this is the place for me!”

 

Badredd, however, had totally different plans. Not for him all this lying about on sunny streambanks. Ambition had entered his being. To be the owner of the magic sword and ruler of that place Skrodd had spoken of—Redwall Abbey.

Lonna Bowstripe sat outside the cave, savouring the approach of summer in the harsh northeast coastlands. Pale sunlight glimmered out of a watery, cloud-flecked sky. It was breezy, but the chill had died out of the wind. Green buds were shooting out of the scrublands, seabirds mewed across the marshes.

The huge badger shifted his position near the fire, wincing momentarily and arching his back. Young Stugg sat beside him like some constant shadow, always close to the big creature. Lonna fascinated the young sea otter.

“You back still be hurted, Lonn'?”

Lonna smiled down at his companion. “A bit, but it's getting better every day, mate. Pass me the bow, please.”

Stugg ambled across and carried the yew sapling to him. Out of six lengths, this was the one Lonna had chosen to use for fashioning his bow. Stugg inspected it closely. The wood had seasoned out until it was strong as sprung metal. Lonna had shaved away the bark, leaving a broad band at its centre that he had bound and whipped with green cord to make a pawhold. At both ends, the wood was circled and notched deep to accommodate bowstrings. Stugg watched as the badger tested the yew's strength by bending it against his footpaws.

“Wot you think, Lonn', bee's it ready?”

The badger applied heavy pressure, bending the bow until
it formed a deep arc. He straightened it slowly and then responded. “As ready as it will ever be, young 'un. This is a good bow!”

Stugg jumped up and down impatiently. “Putta string on it, Lonn'. Fire a h'arrow for Stugg!”

Abruc wandered out of the main holt cave toward them. “Ahoy there, young pestilence! Are ye still botherin' Lonna? Yore more trouble than a sack o' frogs!”

The giant badger tugged Stugg's little rudder fondly. “Oh, he's no trouble, Abruc. Stugg's my good old workmate.”

Abruc sat down beside them. He could not keep the curiosity out of his voice. “Well, bigbeast, is yore bow finally ready?”

Lonna used the bowstaff to pull himself upright. “Let's string it and see, shall we?”

 

A short time thereafter, all the sea otters had gathered to watch the testing of the bow. Lonna limped slightly as he went back into the cave to fetch his quiver of arrows.

Stugg stood outside, holding the bow and declaiming proudly to everybeast, “All stan' back now, please. I help Lonn' to make dis bow. 'Tis a very dangerful weapon, so watch out!”

The big badger emerged with the birch bark quiver. It was packed heavily with two score of long ashwood shafts, which Abruc and Shoredog had helped to fashion. Each one was fletched with grey gull feathers, gleaned from the shoreline. The arrows were tipped with flint shards, sharpened and ground to lethal points.

Lonna took the bowstring which Abruc had woven and looped it over the notch in the yew staff.

After knotting it with a skilful hitch, he remarked, “If this bow fails, it won't be for want of a good string. This is the finest one I've ever seen, thanks to you, friend.”

Abruc flushed with pleasure. “Thankee. 'Tis a special string, worthy of a mighty bow.”

Lonna braced the yew sapling against his footpaw, with the string at the bottom end. Tying a loop into the free end, he leaned down heavily on the centre of the wood.

A gasp arose from the otters as the yew bent in a great arc.
With the graceful ease of an expert bowbeast, Lonna slipped the loop deftly over the notched top end. It was a bow now, a mighty and formidable longbow that only a beast the size and strength of Lonna Bowstripe could draw. Taking three arrows, he set them point down in the earth and selected one, explaining as he did, “Height, distance and accuracy are what an archer needs.”

Whipping the bow up, he laid the first arrow on it, heaved back powerfully and let fly, all in a split second. Swift as lightning the shaft sped upward and was immediately lost to sight.

Shoredog let out a growl of surprise. “Whoo! Where did it go?”

Stugg gestured airily. “Stuck inna moon I appose, eh Lonn?”

A rare smile creased the badger's scarred face. “Aye, I suppose so, mate. Let's try for distance next.”

The second arrow he laid flat against his jaw, squinting one eye and holding the bow straight.

Zzzzip!
Out across the stream over marsh and scrubland it flew, until it was lost on the seaward horizon.

Abruc clapped his paws in delight. “Speared a big fish I bet, eh Stugg?”

The young otter smirked. “Prolably two, anna big crab!”

Lonna scanned the countryside. “I need a target now.” He bowed to Abruc's wife, Marinu. “Lady, would you like to choose one? Anything will do.”

She looked around, then pointed. “There's a piece of driftwood just beyond the marsh, see? To the right of that rivulet which runs out onto the shore. I don't know if you can reach that far, Lonna. Shall I pick something a little closer? I'm afraid I don't know much about firing arr . . . !”

Her words were cut short as the chunk of driftwood went end over end, pierced through by the badger's arrow. A rousing cheer went up from the spectators.

Lonna unstrung his bow, passing it to Stugg. “Well, mate, it looks like we made a proper bow. Thank you for all your help.”

The young otter nodded. “Searats better watch out now!”

 

Lonna took supper in the sea otters' main cave that night—a large seafood pie, followed by a preserved plum crumble,
washed down with beakers of last summer's best cider. He sat by the fire with Abruc and Shoredog, with Stugg dozing on his lap.

Old Sork made Lonna hold still whilst she inspected his facial scar. “A luckybeast is what ye are. 'Tis healin' better'n I hoped. So what are ye lookin' so miserable about, eh?”

The big badger shrugged. “Every day that I sit here, Raga Bol and his crew get further away. Soon there'll be no trace of them to follow.”

Abruc refilled his beaker with cider. “Never fear, Lonna. A Searat like Raga Bol always leaves a trail, a path of murder an' destruction that anybeast with half an eye could follow. I've been watchin' ye since you've been up an' about. I know yore impatient to begone from here. Well, summer's almost in, the time'll soon be ripe.”

Lonna stared into the flames as he replied. “Raga Bol and his crew won't live to see the leaves turn gold this autumn. I leave tomorrow!”

Shoredog helped himself to more cider, peering curiously at the big badger. “Then we'll go with ye, Lonna, us an' a dozen of our best fighters. Even a warrior as big as yoreself will need help with Bol an' his crew!”

The badger shook his huge scarred head. “I'm grateful, friend, but this is a thing I must do alone. You stay here and care for your families. There will be a hard time ahead for me. Raga Bol knows I am coming.”

Abruc replenished the fire with driftwood and sea coal. “He probably thinks yore dead, mate. How could he know yore comin' after him?”

Lonna never took his eyes from the flames as he explained. “I never knew my mother and father. Grawn, the wise old badger you buried, was the one who reared me. Not only did he teach me all the skills of a bowbeast but also many other things. When I was very small, Grawn told me that I was gifted with something few other badgers possess. He said that I was born with the power of a Seer. Old Grawn used to question me a lot. One day he said to me, ‘You have the keenest eyes of any bowbeast I have known, but you also have another eye, inside your mind. You can see things the rest of us cannot, strange things that will shape your destiny.' It has
always been so with me. Even when I was lying wounded in the cave, I could see Raga Bol. I can stare into this fire and see his face. Believe me, he knows I am coming. I want him to know, to fear me. He is evil and must die!”

Shoredog felt the fur on the nape of his neck begin to prickle. “But if yore a Seer, ye must have known Grawn was goin' t'die, didn't ye?”

Lonna's eyes left the flames momentarily. “Aye, I knew the old beast had not long to go, but I didn't know the manner of his death. Grawn was old and very ill. He wished to end his days at the badger mountain of Salamandastron. I was taking him there, and I knew my own fate was also linked to the mountain.”

Abruc leaned forward. “Do ye know where this mountain is?”

Lonna turned back to contemplating the fire. “I have never been there, but I feel I am guided to it by my mind's eye. It is far to the west, on the shores of the great sea. When my business with the Searats is done, that is where I'll go. I will not return to this place again. That is why I must travel alone.”

 

As they sat silently by the fire, Marinu came and lifted the sleeping Stugg from Lonna's lap. All the other otters had retired for the night. Only the three of them—Lonna, Abruc, and Shoredog—remained.

Shoredog broke the silence. “Garfo Trok, he's the answer!”

Abruc nodded vigorously. “Right, mate, good ole Garfo!”

Lonna stared from one to the other. “What are you talking about—who's Garfo Trok?”

Shoredog rose and picked up his warm cape. “Skipper o' the Nor'east Riverdogs, that's who Garfo is. He runs a riverboat. Garfo will take ye westward along the waterways. That should save time an' strain on that back o' yores, Lonna. Ye'll pick up Raga Bol's trail in half the time ye'd take limpin' along step by step.”

Shoredog hurried from the holt, calling back to Abruc. “I'll be back with Garfo by midday. Tell the cooks to pack plenty o' vittles, especially nutbread!”

Abruc nudged Lonna cheerfully. “Ye'll like ole Garfo, that otter knows waterways like the back of 'is rudder.”

Happy but puzzled, Lonna smiled at the sea otter. “I'm sure I will, but what's all this about vittles and nutbread? I eat only lightly when I'm travelling.”

Abruc stood up and stretched. “Ye may do, Lonna, but Garfo Trok ain't a beast that's ever stinted 'isself when it comes to vittles, particularly nutbread. Why, that ole dog'd go to Hellgates for a loaf! Now get yoreself off an' rest, ye've a big day tomorrow!”

After Abruc had gone, Lonna stretched out by the fire, intending to sleep there for the remainder of the night. Before he closed his eyes, he spent several minutes intensely concentrating on the red embers, repeating mentally, “Rest not too deeply, Raga Bol! Know that I am coming for you! As surely as night follows day, I am coming!”

 

Raga Bol and his crew were sleeping. They had made it out of the hills and moorlands into the first fringes of heavy forest. A spark from the campfire touched Ferron's nose, startling him awake. The gaunt rat sat bolt upright, rubbing at the stinging spot. He saw Raga Bol sit up as well, waving his silver hook and mumbling as he tried to come fully awake.

“Go 'way, yore dead! Get away from me, d'ye hear?” The Searat captain caught Ferron looking strangely at him across the fire. “Who are ye gawpin' at, long face, eh?”

Ferron knew better than to answer back. Instead, he lay back down and closed his eyes. All the crew had been saying the same thing. Lately Cap'n Bol was acting very strange.