High Rhulain

32

As the fortress doors swung open, a catguard came staggering along the hallway, coughing and gasping for breath as he caught up to the warlord. “Sire, there is a fire in the upper floors!”

The wildcat seized him by the neck and shook him. “I know that, fool! We will deal with it later! Where has Scaut got to with those slaves?”

He flung the guard to the floor. Rubbing at his neck, the cat whined hoarsely, “Lord, we cannot get into the slave compound. Strange warriors have taken it. Weilmark Scaut sent me to tell you!”

The warlord tore off his helmet, throwing it at the guard. “What do you mean, strange warriors?”

The catguard scrambled backward, out of Felis’s reach. “Tall ones, rabbits I think. They shout ‘alaylee,’ and fight like madbeasts. They are fearsome creatures!”

The wildcat stared at him in disbelief. “Tall rabbits? What are you telling me, blatherbrain?”

Loud shouting and cheering came from the lake and banks beyond the pier. Puzzled and seething with wrath, Riggu Felis shouted to the guards gathered in the hallway, “Forward, follow me!”

He marched out onto the pier, followed by his guards, who were relieved to be out of the smoky fortress. Otterclans were packing both sides of the shore and, though the raft was still some distance away, the warlord could see the creatures upon it. They were looking up toward the tower and pointing. Ignoring the enemy facing him, he, too, turned and peered upward.

Leatho Shellhound blinked against the billowing smoke which poured from the window. He could feel his fur beginning to curl and scorch in the constant blasts of heat. Hungry, flaming tongues were threatening to envelop him.

Then two great shapes swooped overhead, and he heard the hawk calling, “Karrraaaak! Seize onto our legs and hold tight!”

Pandion and Brantalis descended upon him in a noisy flapping of wings. Leatho, needing no second invitation, grabbed the hawk just above its talons, and the goose above its webbed pads. With the acrid reek of burning feathers in his nostrils, he cried out, “I’ve got ye, friends!”

They pulled away, dipping because of the otter’s weight. It was very difficult, owing to the different flight methods of both birds, but Brantalis and Pandion flapped bravely outward. They could not keep a level path, immediately going into a descent, though they were still heading for the lake.

Riggu Felis was shouting like a beast demented as he hastened, facing backward, along the pier. It was not essentially Leatho’s escape which caught the wildcat’s attention, however; it was the sight of Pandion Piketalon.

“The hawk! It’s the hawk! I’d know it anywhere!”

He raced ahead, reaching the pier end ahead of the trio’s descent. The catguards stopped halfway along the pier, watching as the wildcat stood to intercept the two birds, who were fast losing height with Shellhound hanging from their legs.

As he whirled his single-bladed war axe, Riggu Felis was bellowing, “Go to Hellgates, bird!”

The osprey, within three spearlengths of the warlord when he hurled the axe, could not be missed. A cry of horror went up from the otters on the raft. They were still too far off to do anything that would prevent the fatal throw. Without thinking, Tiria began whirling her sling. Round and round it sped until it was a thrumming blur. Automatically, the old Abbey warcry ripped from her mouth. “Redwaaaaaaaaallllll!”

Never before or since had anybeast witnessed a slinging of that magnitude. The barbed iron star whistled through the hot morning air like a thunderbolt, covering the long distance in the speed of a lightning flash. Both Leatho and the two birds hit the water beyond the pier end. The warlord knew that his axe had struck home. He turned to see the hawk splash limply down. Facing the open lake, Riggu Felis laughed aloud. But no sound came from him as he stood in frozen silence for a brief moment. Then he toppled headfirst into the lake, with a hole between both eyes and an iron star embedded in his brain. Thus ended the reign of Riggu Felis, Wildcat Warlord of Green Isle, slain by a humble Abbeymaid who was now High Queen of the Otterclans.

Leatho and Brantalis reached the raft, still holding on to Pandion’s body. Willing paws helped them aboard. Tiria bowed with the weight of the slain osprey as she hugged his body tearfully.

Leatho gently disengaged her from the dead hawk. “Time for grievin’ later on, marm. We’ve got a war t’fight!”

Banya stared grimly at the pier. “Aye, an’ we’re goin’ t’miss it if’n this thing doesn’t move any faster. Lookit that!”

Before the otters on the shores could even mount the pier, the air was rent with a perilous roar. “Eulaliiiiiaaaaa!” Straight through the smokebound hallway, having entered the fortress from the rear, they burst forth onto the landing: the Long Patrol warriors, backed by a horde of yelling otterslaves whom they had freed.

Colour Sergeant O’Cragg’s stentorian tones rang out over the bewildered catguards huddled on the pier. “Forward the buffs! Give ’em blood’n’vinegar! Eulaliiiaaa!”

Leatho waved the pole he was paddling the raft along with. “Let’s cheer ’em on, mates! Ee aye eeeeeeeee!”

Some catguards fled; others tried to fight. But the day of reckoning had arrived. They were no match for the hares, and more especially for the freed slaves they had tyrannised and abused for long seasons. Before the day was much older, there was not a living cat left in sight. They were, as Corporal Drubblewick put it, “either bloomin’ well dead or flippin’ well fled, wot!”

Cuthbert had now reverted to his role as Regimental Major Frunk. He strode smartly aboard the raft, throwing a brisk salute. “All present an’ correct, wot! Queen Tiria, please accept me ’pologies, marm. We must look a confounded sight!”

He wagged an ear at the two subalterns. “You chaps, get the uniforms an’ dish ’em out, sharpish! My buckoes look like they’ve just escaped from a ragged robin’s roundelay. Give Sergeant O’Cragg me compliments, an’ tell him I want the Long Patrol on parade, soon as poss, washed, brushed, combed an’ curried. Jump to it!”

Tiria stood gazing at the fortress, which was now an inferno. The upper storeys had burned through, collapsing into the lower ones. Tongues of flame were now crackling along the pier. She shook her head regretfully.

“It would have made a fine castle for the Clans and me.”

Leatho took her to one side, speaking low. “No otter would willin’ly live there, marm. The place stunk of cats. There’s too many generations o’ bad memories within its walls. It’s better off as a heap of ole ashes, to stay as a warnin’ to foebeasts.”

Tiria bowed to the outlaw’s superior knowledge. “You’re right, of course. It seems I have a lot to learn.”

Leatho bowed gallantly. “Don’t worry, yore Majesty. I’m here to help ye, all ye have t’do is ask.”

Taking his advice literally, Tiria asked, “Tell me, what’s this Holt Summerdell place like?”

Banya was the one who answered. “ ’Tis a place fit for a queen. It’s like the nicest spot ye’ve ever dreamed of but never believed ye’d ever see!”

That night, by the light of the burning fortress, the bodies of the slain were put to rest. Carcasses of catguards, along with that of Riggu Felis, were consigned to the flames of their stronghold. Otters who had fallen, along with the osprey Pandion Piketalon, were placed upon the flower-decked raft and floated out onto the lake’s centre, where the raft was sunk, following an ancient Green Isle tradition. The clans stood on the shore, chanting a dirge in some bygone language which Tiria could not understand. She enquired of Leatho as to its meaning. He translated it for her.

“Thy memory stays midst friends,

’neath water thy body lies,

thy spirit lives, a warrior star,

set high in darkened skies.

I’ll look for thee when day is done,

thou jewel in night’s crown,

a fearless legend, burning brave,

forever shining down.”

A hefty paw touched Tiria’s shoulder. Colour Sergeant O’Cragg whispered in her ear, “We’ve ’eard that afore, h’ain’t we, miss?”

Big Kolun Galedeep and his brother Lorgo, with lots of willing help, had managed to save loads of supplies from the catguards’ barracks. Kolun waved his oar aloft, proclaiming to everybeast, “Tonight’s Victory Feast Night. Sleep in late tomorrow, then we takes our queen back to Holt Summerdell. Do I hear any arguments?”

Nobeast ever argued with Kolun, with the exception of his missus. Besides, they were all more than willing to go along with his excellent plan. Temporarily shunning her role as queen, Tiria joined Corporal Drubblewick and a host of ottermums who had never seen such an array of food to cook with. They used burning pier boards as a fire and set up barrels of drink on the lakeshore sand. The otterclans were highly amused with the antics of the hares, who were always hungry and in high good humour after a battle. Little otterbabes chuckled uproariously as the hares sang barrack-room ballads.

“There’s goin’ to be a mutinee,

mate, I’m a-tellin’ you,

if there ain’t skilly’n’duff for tea,

to feed this big fat crew.

Don’t dish ’em up no salad leaves,

or no burrgooly stew,

if there ain’t skilly’n’duff for tea,

they might eat me’n’you!

Whoa! Skilly’n’duff, that’s the stuff,

for my ole crew t’chew,

it’s hot’n’thick so take your pick,

it’ll do the trick if you feel sick.

So fill yore tum, by gum ole chum,

don’t pant’n’wheeze’n’puff,

you’ll run like a hare an’ fight like a bear,

on good ole skilly’n’duff.

So don’t stand lookin’ silly, feed me lots o’ skilly

. . . an’ duff!”

They sang it twice more, each time speeding up the words. Tiria sang along with the bits she could catch; though, like the otterbabes, she mostly whooped and thumped the ground with her rudder. It was all such good fun! She looked at the happy faces around the fire, sniffed at the savoury aromas from the cooking and thanked her good fortune that the day had ended so well. The rule of the cats was finished; she had slain Riggu Felis, the tyrant. The thought of killing another creature did not sit easy on her mind, but when the ottermaid saw all the freed slaves, she felt thoroughly justified by her swift action in the heat of battle.

The food, when it arrived, was a real victory feast. Tiria sat sampling the various dishes with Brantalis, Colour Sergeant O’Cragg, Banya, Leatho and her two subalterns. There was an unending supply of shrimp’n’hotroot soup for the otters, plenty of skilly’n’duff for the hares, trifles and tarts for the little ones and so many different pasties that it was hard to choose which one to try next.

Big Kolun passed a dish to the barnacle goose. “Get yore ole beak around that, mate. It’s leek an’ roasted parsnip in hazelnut sauce!”

Brantalis clacked his beak happily. “I am thinking this will taste as good as it looks!”

Tiria patted her friend’s long neck. “I’m sure it will, mate. I wish our Redwallers were here to join in with all this. My dad, Brink and those three rascals Brinty, Tribsy and Girry.”

Brantalis looked up from the dish he was about to sample. “I am thinking I should have mentioned your friend, the mouse named Brinty.”

Tiria chuckled. “Why, what’s that rogue been up to?”

The barnacle goose shook his head mournfully. “Alas, the young mouse is dead.”

Tiria stared at him blankly. “Dead? Surely you’re mistaken, Brinty can’t be dead!”

Leatho placed his paw over hers, murmuring, “Hear him out, Lady. Wot happened to him, mate?”

Brantalis explained about the slaying of Brinty at the Abbey gate by the rat called Groffgut. Then he apologised. “I am sorry, but in all the excitement since I came here, I am thinking I forgot to mention this sad news.”

No longer able to enjoy the feast, Tiria wandered off alone and sat weeping by the lakeside. After a while, Leatho came to comfort her.

“Brinty must have been a very good friend to ye, Lady. I have seen many of my mates slain. It’s a hard thing to bear, more so when yore far away in a strange place an’ there ain’t a thing ye can do about it.”

The ottermaid nodded. “Aye, poor Brinty, and he did so want to become a warrior someday.”

Leatho peered out at the lake, whilst Tiria dried her eyes. “Well, from wot the goose told us, he got his wish. Brinty went out fightin’ like a real warrior. Do ye know, I think we should honour him like we did those others today. Let’s do it, just me’n’you, eh?”

He pressed something in Tiria’s paw, explaining, “It’s a little wooden figure, Banya gave it t’me. Us clanbeasts often use it if’n the warrior gets lost in battle. It’s an otter, see. But Banya carved the rudder down thin, so that it looks like a mouse.”

Tiria gazed at the small object. “I see what you mean. So this is my Brinty! What do we do with him now?”

The outlaw explained. “Well, we ties him to a stone, with a few flowers bound around. Then we puts him in the lake with the others who fell today. That way he’s in good company amid warriors like himself, Lady.”

They gathered some meadowsweet and spearwort blossoms and bound them to a paw-sized pebble along with the figure. Together they waded out into the lake until the water was at waist height. Tiria took the package in her sling and threw it, up and out. The few golden blossoms were lost in the night sky. Then they heard a splash. Leatho watched the ripples drifting back at them.

“Yore friend Brinty is at rest now.”

They held paws as the outlaw recited the verse which Tiria had heard the clanbeasts saying earlier in ancient otter tongue. Heaving a great gusty sigh, Tiria straightened her back.

“Thank you, Mr. Shellhound. I feel much better now!”

The outlaw grinned roguishly. “Aye, an’ I’m still hungry. Let’s get back to the vittles, Lady!”

As he turned to wade shoreward, Tiria pulled him back. “I don’t think I could bear you calling me lady, queen or majesty for the rest of my life. So from now on it’s Tiria to you, sir!”

She waded past him, but this time it was he who pulled her back. “Fair enough, as long as ye never calls me sir or Mr. Shellhound. Let’s call each other ‘mate.’ ”

Tiria laughed at this. “Righto, mate. Mate it is!”

Pitru stood on the highest point of the vast crater, congratulating himself. His scheme was successful: Soon he would be Ruler of Green Isle. The young cat had pitched his camp right across the narrow path which ran over the crater’s rim. Behind him his followers had erected a barricade of rocks. Now nobeast could come over by this way, since he held the pass. Balur and Hinso, his confederates, listened as he outlined his plan. Pitru gazed off into the clear morning distance.

“See, the last of the smoke, I saw the glow from afar last night. The fortress has fallen. Are you not glad you came with me, eh?”

Balur bowed respectfully. “You saved our lives, Sire!”

Hinso placed a paw over her heart, affirming loyalty. “We were with ye from the first, commander.”

Pitru drew himself up, leaning on his broad scimitar proudly. “Henceforth you will call me Warlord of Green Isle!”

Balur and Hinso glanced at each other, not daring to ask the question. It was Pitru who answered it for them.

“You will soon learn that Riggu Felis is dead. Look, down there in the foothills, here come the runaways.”

Threading its way up the lower path, a band of catguards could be seen. Pitru smiled smugly. “That’s Scaut leading the group. Take my guards and surround that lot, disarm them and bring them to me.”

The mission was accomplished swiftly. By midmorning, Pitru had a dispirited bunch of catguards, refugees from the defeat of the fortress, sitting on the ground in front of him. His first act was to place his scimitar at Scaut’s throat.

“Ah, the mighty weilmark, eh? You were ever my enemy, Scaut. So tell me, why should I not slay you right now?”

The weilmark gulped as the blade pressing against his throat bobbed slightly. “Spare me an’ I will serve ye faithfully. I give ye my oath, Commander Pitru!”

Hinso sprang forward and kicked Scaut. “Our leader is Warlord of Green Isle now, an’ ye will address him so!”

Pitru smiled thinly, enjoying his triumph. “That is, unless Riggu Felis still lives. Is he dead, Scaut? Did you see him die? How did it happen?”

Still with the blade threatening his throat, Scaut answered, “Lord, I was not there to see it, but some of these guards say that Riggu Felis was slain by an ottermaid with a sling, down on the pier.”

Pitru shook his head in mock pity. “The great wildcat ruler, killed by an ottermaid. How sad! But you ran off and left him to his fate. What sort of a weilmark would you call yourself now, Scaut?”

Trying to bend his neck back from the pressure of the heavy blade, Scaut managed to gasp, “I am wot ye say I am, Lord!”

Pitru withdrew the blade, suddenly kicking Scaut flat. He grabbed the long whip, which had once been the weilmark’s favourite weapon, and began beating his helpless victim with it, yelling at him, “You are no weilmark at all! From now on you will be my lackey—fetching, carrying and licking the dust from my paws!”

Breathing heavily, the young warlord turned upon the bunch of catguards who had followed Scaut. “And you, who do you serve now? A dead wildcat, or me?”

The subdued guards were only too ready to go over to Pitru. They bowed before him as he tossed the whip to Hinso. “Give them back their weapons and let them join my guards.”

When this was done, he addressed his reinforced ranks. “The otters will come this way. They have a secret hideout somewhere around, but they have to pass here to get to it. I can see by the signs that they have passed here more than once. I can defeat them! Now you will see how a real warlord makes his plans, not some half-faced old fool who was served by idiots like Scaut. I hold the high ground. The way forward is barricaded. To one side I have Deeplough. In front of me is a high hillside my enemies would have to scale to reach us. They have to get past me to reach their families, but they will die on the slopes below me. Then I will seek out those families and have slaves to build me a fortress of stone that will not burn, up here on the heights!”