[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain (11 page)

As Girry watched them hurrying away, his face fell. “But, Sister, what about me?”

Snowdrop pushed him ahead of her as she bustled toward the bookshelves. “You've just been appointed Second Assistant Librarian. A younger pair of eyes, somebeast who can carry stacks of books and reach high shelves, that's what I need. Come on, young squirrel, quick's the word and sharp's the action. Now, shall we start at
A
for anything,
G
for Green Isle,
R
for Rhulain or
D
for dreams?”

Old Quelt looked up from the desk, where he had installed himself to catch up on recording events of Abbeylife. “I'd start with U, for upstairs attic. There are still lots of books and scrolls up there, waiting to be identified. Prepare to get your tail dusty, young Girry! Now, where was I? Oh yes! This fine day began eventfully with the visit of an injured barnacle goose, and the slaying of a vermin creature by a warrior ottermaid. . . .”

 

Sunlight lanced through the foliage of East Mossflower Woodlands, creating a bright kaleidoscope of green, gold and tan. Brimstone, clouded yellow, and small white butterflies fluttered and perched on the marshy banks of a gurgling stream, which flowed out of a watermeadow. Skipper Banjon crouched on the edge, casting about amid the rank black ooze.

Brink Greyspoke tested the soggy mess with a cautious footpaw. “Careful, Skip, ye could go down in that stuff!”

The Skipper retreated, wiping his paws on the grass. “Aye, this is the furthest I'm trackin' any vermin. They've either sunk under that lot or they've made it to the watermeadows. There's more'n ten exits from those meadows. We'd be half a season tryin' to pick up their trail again. Brink, what d'ye think?”

The Cellarhog held his snout to help block out the odours of rotted vegetation and soggy, water-logged wood. “I don't reckon they'll be botherin' Redwall again. Let's go back to the Abbey. That little walk has whetted my appetite for lunch.”

The pair strode off, back the way they had come, chatting amicably.

“I didn't know yore appetite had t'be whetted, mate. I've never knowed it t'be blunted!”

“Hoho, lissen who's talkin', ole Banjon barrelbelly!”

“Nonsense! I'm only a slip of a beast compared to you. That apron o' yores would go round me three times!”

 

As their sounds receded into the woodlands, not a stone's throw from the bank where Banjon and Brink had been standing the sticky morass beneath an overhanging grey willow burst asunder, spewing forth Groffgut and his gang of water rats. Spitting and vomiting the nauseous slime, they staggered up onto firm ground. Every one of the rats was plastered from head to foot with marsh debris and reeked with its stench.

Frogeye dug something from his ear with a piece of twig. “Wot did we hafta jump in der for? I nearly drownded!”

Groffgut clouted him over the head. “ 'Cos we woulda got caught. We hadter 'ide, softbrain!”

Rashback spat out a woodlouse, then picked it up and ate it. “Cudden't we 'ave fought 'em off, Chief? Der's eight of us, an' only two of dem.”

Plugtail wiped ooze from his eyes as he corrected him. “Seven, ye mean, der's only seven of us now. Pore ole Hangpaw was slayed when we was runnin' away.”

Threetooth sat down and started scraping off body mud with his stone spearblade. “Mebbe Hangpaw wasn't kil't. He might be still alive back der.”

Groffgut kicked out at Threetooth but missed, slipped and fell flat on his tail. Obbler and Fleddy, the youngest two gang members, burst out into cackling laughs at Groffgut's mishap.

The gang leader jumped upright, fuming. “Wot's so funny, eh, eh? Youse lot makes me sick ter the neck. Ye think we cudda fought dem off—a great big ‘edgepig anna giganantic waterdog? Yer think Hangpaw's still alive back in dat ditch, eh, eh?”

Ranting and spitting mud, he vented his temper on them. “Well goo on den, chase after de 'edgepig an' de riverdog. An' when youse've kil't 'em, den go back ter d'ditch an' see if Hangpaw's still alive. Well, who's gunna go?”

None of the gang felt like pursuing the issue further, knowing Groffgut's violent temper. They sat silent, cleaning themselves up and avoiding their leader's angry stares.

Frogeye finally made an attempt to calm the situation. “Yah, who cares about all dose daftbeasts an' their h'abbey? Hangpaw's dead, an' dat's dat! Dis is a big forest, wid plenny o' vikkles about. Let's jus' move on an' find somewheres else.”

It was the wrong thing to say, as Frogeye soon learned when Groffgut bit him on the nose and kicked him in the stomach. The gang leader waved his rusty scythe blade sword at the rest.

“Youse lot ain't goin' nowhere 'less I tells yer so, see! Are we a vermin gang or wot? Dose h'abbeybeasts stoled our h'eagle, ambushed an' battered us, kil't one of our gang an' chased us 'til we 'ad ter jump inter a bog an' 'ide from dem! Nobeast does that ter my gang an' gets away wid it, 'specially not dat mouse who kept wallopin' me wid a big pole. I've got dat 'uns name writ in me brain!”

Threetooth made certain he was out of Groffgut's range before he popped the question, “So, worra we gunner do about it?”

The gang leader actually jumped in the air twice to emphasise his first two words. “Do? Do? . . . I'll tell yer wot we're gunner do! We're gunner get revenge on dem, dat's wot we're gunner do! Cummon, we're goin' back ter that Wallred h'abbey. I'll make 'em sorry dey ever messed wid our gang!”

Big Kolun Galedeep had ten small otterbabes, which was almost half of his family, aboard his boat, the
Rustynail.
The sails had been furled on his orders. He sat in the stern, twanging away at his banjotta. Leatho Shellhound sat beside him, holding the tiller steady as the little otters pulled away, two to each oar. Helping them to keep an even stroke, Kolun and Leatho roared out a lusty shanty. The
Rustynail
travelled at a fair clip around the bay, broken occasionally when one of Kolun's small brood pulled too hard, missed the water and tumbled over backwards. They were learning not only to row but also to sing. They were raucous infants, missing some of the lyrics but coming in heartily on every last line.

The little otters thought it was all great fun. They went into tucks of laughter when their father and Uncle Leatho roared at them in colourful nautical terms.

“Heave away, ye tiny sea swabs! Bend yore backs an' straighten yore rudders!”

“Hahaarr, buckoes, we'll put muscles on ye like cockles! Haul on those oars, or 'tis over the side with ye!”

“Ahoy, can't ye pull better'n that? Ye'd have trouble pullin' yoreselves out of a pot o' skilly'n'duff!”

Deedero, big Kolun's missus, came bustling along the bayshore with a young ottermaid in tow. Both were waving and hallooing to get the Galedeep Skipper's attention. When one of the otterbabes spotted them, she prodded her father with her oar.

Big Kolun scowled comically at the tiny creature. “Avast there, ye bold salty scoundrel, strikin' yore cap'n with a paddle. Ye'll be keelhauled for that!”

Leatho squinted villainously at his big friend. “Keelhauled? Shiver me tripes, yore gittin' too soft with these mutineers, matey. Chop 'er up an' chuck 'er t'the sharks, I say!”

The infant pointed a chubby paw to the pair onshore. “Daddo, it be Mamam, I fink she want you!”

Kolun waved to his missus, shouting, “Ahoy, me heart's delight, just ye wait there, me ole treasure chest. We're headin' in to port full speed!”

As the boat scraped the shallows, Deedero tapped her rudder impatiently upon the sand. “Move yoreself, Leatho Shellhound, there's big trouble a-brewin'. This pretty maid's got a message for ye!”

The outlaw sea otter sloshed through the shallows to her side. He smiled kindly at the ottermaid. “Yore all out o' breath, me darlin', an' ye've been weepin', too. Tell me now, wot is it?”

The ottermaid, a slave called Memsy, scrubbed at her eyes as she sobbed out the message. “Oh, Mister Shell'ound, sir.'Tis Whulky an' Chab. They was caught this mornin' early, taken by the weilmark an' that marten beast. Lord Felis questioned them about where they'd been, but they wouldn't speak nary a word. Oh oh, 'tis a terrible thing, those pore creatures!”

Taking Memsy by the shoulders, Leatho spoke softly. “There now, don't go upsettin' yoreself, beauty. 'Tis nought the Shellhound can't sort out. Do ye know where that wildcat is keepin' Whulky an' Chab?”

Memsy strove to calm herself, but she shook like a leaf. “Tied under the pier in front of the fortress, sir. Both their wives an' Chab's three little 'uns are there, too. Lord Felis says that if they don't talk afore tomorrow morn, they'll be dragged off to Deeplough . . . an' . . . an' . . . throwed in to Slothunog. Oooohhhh!”

She fell to crying in earnest, and Deedero wrapped her comfortingly in her wide shawl, hugging her like a babe.

Leatho's teeth ground audibly. He unwound his sling, muttering to Kolun in a voice tight with anger and urgency, “I'm goin' on ahead to scout out the situation, mate. Get as many armed warriors an' good swimmers as ye can from the clans. When ye come to meet me, do it as quiet as ye can. I'll be lyin' in the rushes, about a quarter way up the south edge o' the lake. If'n I ain't there, then stand by an' keep yore heads low until I show up. Will ye do that?”

Big Kolun Galedeep picked up an oar and hefted it grimly. “Never fear, Leatho. I'll pick a good crew out, an' be on time to meet with ye. You go now, mate, an' fortune go with ye!”

 

Chab and Whulky were moored by their necks and waists to the posts beneath the pier. Their wives and the three little ones were tethered several posts away, though only by a thick rope knotted about the otterwives' shoulders, which still allowed them to hold the babes in their paws. Not knowing what they were guilty of, they stared at Chab and Whulky with wide, frightened eyes. Above them, feral catguards paced the boards on both sides of the pier. More could be seen patrolling the lakeshores.

Chab whispered to his companion, “I'd give my whiskers'n'rudder for an ould shellblade knife t'cut through these ropes. First thing I'd do would be t'free the wives an' little'uns, so they could swim fer it!”

Whulky strained against the rope about his neck. “No, mate, keep still for the moment, an' stow those wild ideas if'n ye ain't got anythin' to back 'em up with. If'n the wives an' babes had t'make a run fer it, they wouldn't stand a chance with all those catguards around. All we can do is to hope somebeast got word to the clans. If'n the Shellhound gets t'know, he won't leave us t'be slain. I'd take an oath on that!”

A long, thin willow withe was pushed down between the spaces of the pierboards, swung by a cat with a whipping motion. The cane caught Chab a stinging blow to his cheek.

“Sharrap down there, or I'll lay about the lot of ye, little'uns, too!”

Both Chab and Whulky knew who the voice belonged to: Scorecat Groodl, a minor officer, subordinate to Weilmark Scaut. Groodl was a brutal and sadistic cat, short in stature and savagely cruel to those beneath him, particularly slaves. He twitched the willow withe from side to side, taunting the prisoners.

“Not a peep out of any of ye now. 'Twould be a shame to deliver ye to Slothunog tomorrow, all cut'n'bruised. He likes his meat t'be tender an' unmarked.”

He continued flicking them lightly with the long, whippy withe. It was some while before Groodl became bored by his callous sport and wandered off, leaving a guard of ordinary rank to watch the prisoners.

Chab's wife bit her lip to stop a wail of anguish, now that she knew the fate that was in store for them. Angling his neck against the rope, Whulky gave her a confident wink in an effort to keep up her spirits.