The Rogue Crew (40 page)

Everybeast sat down gratefully, backs to the tunnel wall. Posy cupped a paw around one ear, listening. “Hark, I can hear noises from behind us, a bit faint yet.”

Lieutenant Scutram's long ears stood up. “Aye, I hear it too, missy. Sounds like those bats returnin'. Keep y'voices down, chaps, we can do without a visit from them.”

Uggo murmured unhappily, “I don't like it down here. We could be goin' anywhere or nowhere, could even be lost forever!”

Young Wilbee was equally miserable. “I say, imagine never seein' flippin' daylight again, wot. Dyin' of hunger'n'thirst miles underground!”

Sergeant Miggory raised his voice sternly. “H'attention, now, ye can stow that kind h'o' talk. We'll get h'out of 'ere sooner or later, right, sah?”

Rake nodded. “Right, Sarn't. Och, here's the scouts returnin'. They've no' been gone long. What's tae report, Buff?”

The haremaid saluted. “Not very good news, I'm afraid, sah. Just round the next bend there's a whoppin' great hole in the tunnel floor blockin' the flippin' path. There ain't no way around it. Come an' take a look, sah!”

Rake, Skor and a small party went to investigate. Buff Redspore led the way, holding forth her torch as they came to the spot.

The floor fell sharply away, leaving them on the edge of a gaping abyss, which threw up a pale green light.

Ruggan edged to the rim, peered down, then stepped back. “Blood'n'bones, it makes ye dizzy just lookin' at it!”

Sergeant Miggory chanced a peep. “Aye, 'tis h'a long way down. There must be water at the bottom—that's wot's makin' the green light.”

Rake stared across to the other side of the huge hole. “Och, only a bird could cross that!”

Taking a lighted torch, he swung it to gain momentum, then flung it. The torch twirled in a blazing arc, landing on the far side in a shower of sparks.

Skor shook his grizzled head. “Ye can see the tunnel continues over there. Steel an' hellfire, how do we get across that distance?”

Buff Redspore answered, “We can't, sah. Without ropes or planks, it looks like we're blinkin' stuck here!”

They faced the disappointing fact in silence.

Then trouble piled upon trouble when the remainder of the company came running. Behind them the whirr and squeak of bats rose to a deafening crescendo as Uggo yelled, “The bats are comin', thousands of 'em!”

Then the dark horde broke over them like a tidal wave.

 

Protecting
Greenshroud
from the menace of fire, Razzid Wearat ordered his ship to retreat from the bonfire on Redwall's northwest walltop. Amidst the cheers of Redwallers, Abbot Thibb maintained his stance on the battlements, holding high the flaming sword of Martin the Warrior.

Foremole Roogo stared at him in admiration. “Boi 'okey, zurr, you'm looken gurtly brave oop thurr. Oi thought et wurr Marthen ee Wurrier cummed back to save us'ns frum they vurrmints!”

Not returning the trusty mole's glance, Thibb spoke out of the side of his mouth as he held his pose. “I'm hoping that's what the vermin think also, Roogo. D'you think I'll have to stay up here for long? My paw is tired from holding up the sword, and I don't want the burning oil to drip down on me.”

Fottlink, the mouse Recorder, nodded toward the enemy ship. “I think you and our bonfire warned them off, Father. Come on down and tell us, what gave you the idea of dressing up?”

Ding Toller and the Foremole helped Thibb down onto the parapet. He put aside the flaming sword gratefully. “Whew, I could feel the heat from that blade!”

Friar Wopple removed Thibb's helmet, chuckling. “My copper trifle mould suited you well, Father.”

Accepting a beaker of cold pear cordial, the Abbot removed the rest of his disguise. “Thank you, Friar, the trifle mould was indeed yours, just as the sword belonged to Martin. As for the rest, this red cloak is my bedcover, the gauntlets are a pair of oven mitts which one of your kitchen helpers loaned to me. The idea must belong to Martin the Warrior. I stood in front of his tapestry long enough, wonderin' what to do. Then I sat down on the floor—I must have dropped off for a while. Suddenly, I knew exactly what I must do, so I took his sword, disguised myself as him and came straight up here. Just in time, too, so we've got our Abbey Warrior to thank.”

Dorka Gurdy spoke, dampening the victorious mood slightly. “No matter what we do, I think those rascals are goin' to attack sooner or later.”

Aboard the
Greenshroud,
Razzid had been putting his mind to the problem. He had not come this far to see himself turned away from his aim. Having reached a decision, he called the crew together.

“Well, buckoes, one thing's for sure, they ain't goin' to attack us. Those woodlanders'll sit tight behind their big stone walls. So, we're safe enough here, eh?”

“So wot d'ye say, Cap'n, are we goin' to take that place, or 'ang about 'ere 'til we grows old?”

The voice, which came from a group amidships, was that of Jiboree.

Giving no clue that he knew this, Razzid answered, “Dig the dirt outta yore lugs an' I'll tell ye. I wants a good gang of ye to go into that forest. Yore to chop down about six good-sized trees—pines or firs should do, good straight ones. When ye've done that, bring 'em back 'ere, an' I'll tell ye the rest o' my plan.”

The crew stood in silence, as if unsure of the next move.

Razzid wiped moisture from his bad eye. “Mowlag, Jiboree, yore in charge o' the tree-choppin' gang. Pick twoscore crewbeasts an' get to it. Vixen, I wants a word with ye. Come t'my cabin!”

As the searat and the corsair weasel chose their party, Razzid jabbed his trident toward the cabin. “You go first, fox.”

Filled with trepidation, Shekra entered the cabin. Razzid closed the door behind him. Leaning on his trident haft, he fixed the vixen with a piercing stare, stating flatly, “Ye know the penalty for mutiny agin yore cap'n, I suppose?”

With a sob in her voice, Shekra protested, “Sire, I have always been loyal to you, I swear!”

He knocked her flat with a swift kick, hissing viciously, “D'ye take me for an idiot? I know wot's been goin' on twixt you an' those other two, Mowlag'n'Jiboree. Speak just one more lie an' I'll rip yore throat out with this trident. Tell the truth an' I'll let ye live. So?”

Shekra had no option but to confess, though with a little twist of her own. “Lord, they threatened to kill me if I didn't go along with 'em. They were going to murder you as we sailed up the River Moss, but I talked them out of it. I said wait until we conquer Redwall first. I was playing for time, you see. I was going to warn you, believe me, sire.”

Razzid nodded. “I see, an' were the crew with them, too?”

The vixen sensed a further opportunity. “They wouldn't tell me, sire. Some were, some weren't. But leave it to me. I'll discover who was in on it with them.”

The Wearat leaned forward, his breath tickling her nostrils. “Leave that to me, an' heed wot I say now. Nobeast, not Mowlag, Jiboree or any o' the crew must know of this—not a single word, d'ye hear me?”

Shekra gulped. “My lips are sealed, Cap'n!”

Razzid's searching eye never left her for a moment. “They'll be sealed for good if'n ye play me false. Get up!”

The vixen staggered up on shaking limbs as Razzid pointed to the bulkhead wall. “Stand there an' raise yore right paw. Go on, fox, do it. I ain't goin' to kill ye. Just raise that paw an' swear to serve me truly.”

Gaining a little confidence, Shekra spoke up. “I give my oath I'll always serve you truly, sire!”

Razzid struck like lightning.

Thud!
The trident's middle prong went right through the vixen's paw into the wall behind. She gave an agonised screech, which was stifled by Razzid's paw across her mouth. Smiling savagely at Shekra, he explained his cruel act. “Said I wouldn't kill ye, didn't I? That didn't mean ye weren't to be punished for plottin' agin me.”

Shekra gave vent to a long-stifled moan as he twisted the trident, withdrawing it. Razzid shoved her contemptuously toward the door. “Yore still alive, ain't ye? Stop whinin' an' git out o' my cabin. Yore gettin' blood everywhere!” With her face a drawn mask of pain, the Seer reeled out on deck, clasping her paw tightly to stanch the wound.

Razzid put his head out, calling to the cook, “Badtooth, bring me some decent food an' a jug o' the best grog. Move yoreself, I'm famished!”

Badtooth, the fat greasy weasel, watched as Razzid divided a roast wood pigeon into two portions and placed beakers of grog on the table. Razzid winked. “Join me, my ole shipmate—ye did well.”

Badtooth gnawed on the meat, then slopped down some grog. “Thankee, Cap'n. Anythin' else ye need me t'find out for ye?”

Razzid clinked beakers with his spy. “Just keep yore eyes'n'ears open when ye mix with the crew.”

The fat weasel cackled. “Heeheehee! That'll be easy. Oh, I sent me liddle nephew Twangee out wid the tree-choppin' gang. Young Twangee's got a sharp pair of ears on 'im fer a wee galley weasel.”

Razzid nodded. “Good! When ye dish up vittles t'night, give the crew an extra ration o' grog, eh!”

The cook's huge stomach wobbled as he laughed. “Heehee, ain't nothin' like extra grog t'set their tongues loose an' waggin'. I'll give 'em plenty! Well, Cap'n, here's t'the death of yore enemies an' a victory over that Abbey!”

Razzid winked his good eye at Badtooth. “I'll drink to that, shipmate!”

 

Dusk was falling as Sister Fisk and Milda the volemaid supervised the Dibbuns' bedtime. It was difficult, as there was an air of excitement amongst the Abbeybabes. No sooner were they put into their truckle beds than they wriggled out and scurried to the dormitory windows. The Sister stamped her footpaw firmly down.

“Back in those beds immediately. Right now, d'ye hear me?”

The squirrelbabe Guggle yelled as Milda prised her paws from the windowsill.

“Lemmego, Mildy, wanna see da big naughtybeast ship!”

Sister Fisk tried not to raise her voice. “There's nothing to see—it's dark outside. Now go to bed!”

Alfio, the Dibbun shrew, wrinkled his nose cheekily as he encouraged the others to set up a chant. “Dab! Dab! Dab!”

Milda sighed. “They're starting the Dibbuns Against Bedtime chant, Sister. What'll we do?”

Ever resourceful, Fisk emptied the contents of a small vial into a jug of warm plum cordial. This she poured into small beakers, coaxing the Dibbuns into their beds with it.

“Last one in bed doesn't get any plum cordial—hurry now!”

There was a mass scramble to be first under the covers. As Fisk and Milda distributed the drinks, the little ones kept up a constant chatter, each question demanding a reply.

“Will the bad naughtybeasts go away, Mildy?”

“Oh, yes, I expect they will, when Father Abbot has a word with them. Careful with that drink now.”

“Hurr hurr, ee h'Abbot choppen they tails off with Marthen's gurt sword—they'm wull soon go 'way!”

Sister Fisk smiled at the molebabe. “Indeed he will, and you'll be next if you're not asleep soon.”

Alfio the shrewbabe sat up, shaking his head decisively. “Alfio can't go t'sleep wivout a song!”

Milda gently eased him back down. “All close your eyes, then I'll sing for you.”

The young volemaid had a warm, soothing voice. She sang a lullaby as Sister Fisk moved quietly about, collecting the beakers.

Sister Fisk patted Milda's paw. “Oh, well done, miss. Now come away carefully, we don't want to disturb them.”

Outside the dormitory door, Milda remarked, “The little ones were asleep before I'd finished, Sister, but I usually have to sing the lullaby twice.”

Fisk held up the small vial, chuckling. “My last few drops of marjoram oil—pure and harmless, the best slumber medicine I know. I shouldn't say this, but I wish the Dibbuns would sleep through all of this ill fortune which has descended on us. Mark my words, young un, there's trouble ahead for our Abbey. Big trouble!”