The Sable Quean (22 page)

The sound of Jango’s teeth grinding together was clear—the Guosim Chieftain practically spat out his words. “So wot d’we do, eh? Sit about twiddlin’ our paws, an’ let those scum have all their own way? Never trust wot a vermin says, Oakie.”

Skipper’s rudder thwacked the floor. “Aye, yore right there, matey. We should be doin’ all we can to free the little uns, an’ quick about it, too!”

Buckler had hardly spoken thus far, but now he came to the fore, firm and decisive. “Are we all agreed, then—action must be taken?” They called out as one, “Aye!”

The Blademaster nodded. “Good! So, then, Mister Granvy, what’ve ye got to tell us?”

The Recorder adjusted the little spectacles on his snout. “Right. First things first: I don’t think that the Dibbuns are being held more than a day’s march from here. Why should the vermin keep them any great distance away? It doesn’t make sense. Agreed?”

Abbess Marjoram nodded. “Agreed, that’s my feelings. Also he said that they would return to our Abbey before too long, so they can’t be far away.”

Granvy acknowledged Marjoram. “Thank you, Mother Abbess. Now, this word,
Althier,
is a strange name, not one we’d know around Mossflower. I kept repeating it to myself—
Althier.
You may say that I have a quirky mind, and so I do, friends. So I wrote the name down and tried to decipher it. D’you know, I think it’s actually made up from two words. The first one would be probably a word we use all the time—
the! The
pond,
the
Abbey,
the
orchard,
the
kitchen. And it’s definitely there. So, take away the word
the,
and what are we left with? Four letters.
A
. . .
L
...
I
. . .
R
. What does that suggest to you?”

After a moment’s thought, Oakheart spoke out.
“Rail!”

Granvy shook his head. “What word might we associate with most vermin, eh?”

Diggs shouted out, “
Liar,
that’s the word. Hah, didn’t Jango say that only a moment ago? Never trust a vermin, an’ why? ’Cos they’re all liars, flippin’ liars!”

The solution dawned on Buckler. “
Lair.
Vermin hide in lairs, that’s what Althier means . . . the Lair!”

Granvy patted the young hare’s back. “Well done, Buck. The Lair. So, what are we seeking?”

Oakheart sounded excited. “A vermin lair within a good march from Redwall!”

Diggs began chunnering. “Dearie me, it must be a jolly big lair. Somewhere large enough to take all those bally ravagin’ rascals, plus the young uns. Anywhere that bloomin’ size you could spot from a flippin’ league away. Sounds like a pile of balderdash to me chaps, wot!”

Granvy shook his head. “No, no, you’re wrong. Didn’t Gripchun say that he didn’t know where Althier was? That suggests Zwilt and the Sable creature keep the main body of their army well away from it. There’s lots of places in Mossflower where you could set up a camp for a mob of vermin. Doesn’t have to be particularly secret—nobeast is going to attack that number of armed vermin. But Althier, now, that’s the secret hideout, where only the chosen few are allowed to be. The Quean, Zwilt, some guards and jailers and, of course, the captives.”

Jango scratched at his scrubby beard. “You got a point there, scribe, but where is it, where do we start lookin’?”

Skipper tried reasoning. “Well, those Ravager vermin ain’t been seen hereabouts until lately. So maybe they ain’t had time to build Althier. P’raps they just found it, an’ the Quean made it their lair.”

Abbess Marjoram was in agreement. “It sounds feasible to me. So, what natural hideouts do we know of around Mossflower Country? Who has a working knowledge of the area? Abbeybeasts mainly stay here at Redwall—we’re not travellers. Jango, maybe you could suggest someplace?”

The Guosim Chieftain pondered. “Hmm, lemme see. I’ve spent all me life on Mossflower’s waterways. Hah, wot about the old quarry? That’s full o’ caves!”

Granvy pointed a paw at Jango. “You could be right. I read in the records that the quarry was where they took the stone from to build Redwall. That’s how it became a quarry. It was said to be a breeding place for serpents, though, poisonteeth adders. D’you think they’d choose that? I’m not so sure, friends.”

“Corim, the place of Corim!”

The words had come from the Abbess, but the voice did not sound like hers. Granvy stared at Marjoram. “What was that you said? Corim?”

Abbess Marjoram shook her head and rubbed her eyes, as if just waking from a nap. She blinked at Granvy. “I don’t know. What did I say?”

Oakheart held out his paw theatrically. “As I heard it, marm, you said, ‘Corim, the place of Corim!’ I never forget my lines, you see, and neither should you, Mother Abbess. Corim, the place of Corim. Heard it m’self, distinctly—though I recall, your voice sounded rather different.”

Granvy spoke in hushed tones. “That’s because it was the voice of Martin the Warrior! It isn’t the first time he’s spoken through some other creature. Martin’s sending us a message.”

Jango carried on with his former idea. “I think the ole quarry’d be a likely place—”

“Silence, please!”

Granvy had both his eyes shut tight, his paws clenched. The old Recorder was concentrating hard.

Jango went quiet; they all stared at Granvy. Now he was rocking back and forth, muttering, “Corim, Corim, the place of Corim . . . Corim, where have I heard that name before? Corim, a word from long ago . . .”

He suddenly leapt up in a fever of elation. “Hahah! Of course! Now I know, ’twas here all the time, here right under our snouts!”

Skipper could stand it no longer. The big otter picked Granvy up and stood him on the gatehouse table. “Corim here? Granvy, me ole mate, will ye stop jumpin’ about an’ talkin’ in riddles? Wot’s right under our snouts? Now, calm down an’ speak plain!”

Granvy sat down on the edge of the table. He took a deep breath, then polished his glasses slowly. “Er, forgive my little outburst—not quite the thing for an Abbey Recorder. However ’twas not without reason. Buckler, d’ye see that bookshelf on the far wall? I’d like you to find me a volume there. I’m not quite certain of the title, though.”

Diggs chunnered. “Not quite certain, eh? That’s jolly useful, wot. Confounded great load o’ books on those shelves, an’ the blinkin’ chap doesn’t know the flippin’ name o’ the one he wants. Hah!”

Buckler’s paw gagged his voluble friend’s mouth as Granvy continued, “I know it’s a weighty book, huge, thick thing, probably with a green cover. Or was it red? Something about a journal of somebeast or other. Name began with a
G.
”

Now it was Marjoram’s turn to get excited. “
The Journal of Abbess Germaine!
”

The glasses slipped down Granvy’s nose. “How did you know that?”

Marjoram explained, “Because when I was made Abbess of Redwall I borrowed it from you to learn how other Abbesses ruled here!”

Granvy scratched his ears. “Did you, really? Dearie me, I must be getting old. I don’t remember. Tell me more, please.”

Marjoram did just that. “You were right. It’s a thick old green volume, but you won’t find it in here. I kept it in my study, you see. ’Twas very wrong of me, because I’ve never found the time to read it, though I keep promising myself that I will sometime. Shall we go and take a peep at it?”

As they crossed the moonlit lawns, Diggs saw the dormitory lights going out one by one. He yawned. “Only one thing I like better’n’ scoffin’, an’ that’s snoozin’. In a snug little bunk with a soft pillow, wot!”

Granvy blinked; Skipper caught him as he stumbled.

“Are you tired, too, me ole mate?”

The hedgehog Recorder shook himself briskly. “Not at all. Lead on, my friend!”

The Abbess breathed in deeply. “Ah, just smell that summer night air. So warm and soft. I love the different scents, fennel, marigold, dandelion and gentian, so delicate, faint almost.”

Jango growled, “Let’s get on an’ look at this book instead o’ yafflin’ about goin’ to bed an’ sniffin’ the flowers!”

Oakheart chuckled quietly. “Ah, a true lover of nature and its many wonders.”

The study was a neat room. Marjoram could not abide untidiness. The friends began sorting through her books, but she rapped sharply on her writing desk.

“Touch nothing, please. I know exactly where everything is. See, here is the book!”

Granvy immediately opened it, flicking through the yellowed barkpaper leaves.

It was a huge green-bound volume. The Recorder muttered to himself as he leafed through it. “Must’ve taken Abbess Germaine many seasons to write all this. A good deal is about the time before our Abbey was even built. Goodness knows when that was!”

Abbess Marjoram hovered about the old squirrel anxiously. “Please be careful with the book. It’s so old, and very precious. Take care you don’t damage it!”

Granvy, however, was paying little attention to her. Knowing what he sought, he riffled speedily through. “Hmm, wildcats, vermin, Martin, Gonff, Bella of Brockhall . . . Ah, here it is!”

Buckler leaned over his shoulder. “Here’s what? Have you found something valuable?”

The Recorder raised a small spurt of dust as he slammed his paw down on the open page. “The answer to our problem, friends. Now I know what Corim means, and Althier, too. This has to be it!”

14

There are those in Mossflower who would deny the existence of a Warrior mole. None of these doubters had ever met Axtel Sturnclaw. There was not the slightest doubt that Axtel was a warrior. He was also a loner—bigger, stronger and fiercer than any of his species. In his broad belt, Axtel carried a war hammer, which he mainly used for breaking stones when he was tunnelling. Other than that, the big fellow needed no fancy weaponry. Just one glance at his massive digging claws was enough to warn anybeast. Axtel Sturnclaw was not a mole to be messed with. He led a solitary life, wandering the woodlands, furrowing his own workings and, for the most part, shunning the company of others.

Vermin had never bothered him. The few who had tried never lived to tell the tale. He left their carcasses up in the branches of trees for carrion to dispose of. It was Axtel’s view that he would not sully good soil by burying vermin in it.

In short, Axtel Sturnclaw was a warrior mole who lived quietly but by his own principles. He was a stranger to the Mossflower woodlands, so he was exploring.

This particular day, he was tunnelling near a gigantic old oak, hoping to find a cave beneath the roots. Having dug all day with not much success, Axtel was about to finish and go back up to the woodland surface when something unexpected occurred.

His tunnel collapsed. Not on his head but beneath him. Without warning, he shot downward and was only stopped from falling further by his own prompt action. Feeling the floor going out from under him, the powerful mole grabbed a thick root and hung on. As suddenly as it had started, the subsidence ceased. Axtel hung there in darkness for a moment, puzzled by the turn of events. Then something grabbed him by the footpaw.

The stolid warrior mole did not panic; he was more overcome with curiosity than anything. Reaching down, he grabbed the creature who was clutching him and hauled it up. It was a little molemaid holding a lantern. With a single heave, Axtel lobbed her up into his own tunnel.

Spitting out debris, she nodded. “Hurr, thankee, zurr!” Axtel eyed her suspiciously. “Yurr, missy, wot bee’s you’m doin’ daown thurr?”

Gurchen, for it was she, dispensed with long-winded explanations, informing him, “Us’ns got curlapsed in, thurr bee’s two uthers a-buried asoide oi. Wudd ee be so koind as to diggen ’em owt, big zurr?”

Axtel took the lantern, hanging it on the oak root. He shook a large digging claw at the molemaid. “You’m stay put, yurr—oi’ll gerrum!”

Gurchen leaned over the tunnel edge, shielding her eyes as he shot into the loose soil, like a furry cannonball. Everything was still for a short time, then the ground erupted where Axtel had gone down. Gurchen was forced to move aside as he tossed the limp form of Flib up into the tunnel.

Axtel blew soil from his snout. “Did ee say thurr wurr two?”

A nod sent him burrowing back down. Loose earth moved this way and that, then he emerged with little Guffy clinging to his neck for dear life.

Seizing the root, Axtel passed Gurchen the lantern. He clambered back up into the tunnel. Guffy sprang into Gurchen’s paws, weeping with fright after his underground ordeal. The big mole slung Flib across his back, gesturing upward.

“Goo on with ee, back into ee fresh h’air!”

It was dark night in the woodlands. Gurchen and Guffy breathed deeply, overjoyed even though they were moles to be free of the underground, no longer imprisoned in the cave. They both began to chatter, explaining their plight to their huge new friend, but he silenced them with a snort.

“You’m ’ushed naow, whoilst oi see’s iffen this young un bee’s still aloive!”