Loamhedge

16

Late that same afternoon, the vermin gang had been keeping to the woodlands. On Badredd’s orders they followed the path. Stopping for a breather, the little fox sighted Redwall Abbey in the distance, showing above the trees. He scurried out onto the path, pointing and yelling.

“Aharr, there ’tis, mates, the Abbey place! I told ye I’d find it, ’twas me who saw it first!”

As he ran forward, the cutlass, which he had pushed into his belt, tangled in his footpaws, causing him to trip. He lay sprawled on the path, still shouting. “Wait’ll I gets me paws on that magic sword!”

Halfchop sneered. “Look at ’im, willyer, the flamin’ fool. I swear, Flinky, dat stoopid oaf’ll get us all killed!”

The crafty stoat chuckled. “Ah, sure enough, he’s a grand, brave beast. I’d sooner serve under Badredd than Burrad or Skrodd. Those two would have made us march in front, an’ led from the rear. Let the fearless chief run an’ meet the foe. Us pore ould pawsloggers will just keep our heads down an’ follow from a safe distance.”

Crinktail was in agreement with her mate. “Aye, whoever’s inside o’ that place will prob’ly see us comin’ from their walltops. Wot was it that Burrad said, that those Abbey creatures was all peaceable Woodlanders? So we may as well put on a show o’ force. The sight of a vermin gang might make ’em open up those gates to us—providin’ they knows wot’s good for ’em!”

The crew strolled out onto the path, deliberately setting a slow pace, keeping Badredd well ahead of them. Flinky sang a quiet ditty as a warning to his mates. The little fox could not quite hear the words, but he assumed it was some sort of song for marching into battle. He swaggered along, a good half-spearthrow in front, waving the unwieldy cutlass with regained dignity, feeling every inch the great Badredd, commander of a vermin crew. The others followed at a safe distance, sniggering at the words of Flinky’s song.

“When the clouds of arrows fly,

keep yore heads down.

Let the brave ones charge on by,

keep yore heads down.

When the heroes’ blood runs red,

an’ yore scared to raise yore head,

just be glad that you ain’t dead,

keep yore heads down!

Ye won’t win no medals here,

keep yore heads down.

Don’t be fools who know no fear,

keep yore heads down.

We can all lay low an’ sing,

duckin’ spears an’ stones from sling.

Let ’em chuck most anything,

but keep yore heads down!”

Amid smothered giggles and hoots, Slipback and Juppa made disparaging remarks behind their leader’s back.

“Haw haw, lookit the way ’is bottom waggles when ’e puts on a swagger. Looks like two sour apples in a sack!”

“Aye, an’ if’n ’e don’t stop wavin’ that blade around, ’e’ll chop ’is own tail off. Wot d’ye reckon, mate, does that liddle smidge look like a vermin warrior who’d terrify those Abbeybeasts?”

“Maybe they’ll laugh theirselves to death at the sight of ’im. Heeheeheee!”

Flinky gazed up in awe as the impressive red sandstone Abbey loomed closer. He muttered to Rogg and Floggo. “Huh, if Badredd gives the order to charge that place, well, I’ll be chargin’, shore enough. I’ll be runnin’ the other way, like a duck wid its tail on fire!”

The weasel brothers were not much given to merriment, but Flinky’s remark tickled them so much that they guffawed loudly.

Badredd came running back brandishing his cutlass. “Wot’s so funny, eh, can I share the joke?”

Flinky shrugged disarmingly. “Ah now, we wasn’t laughin’ at ye at all. ’Twas just that we’re ’appy for ye. Yore a good chief, an’ soon the magic sword’ll be yores. Ye deserve it fer bein’ a grand ould leader, so ye do. Ain’t that right, mates? Badredd’s the best boss we’ve ever ’ad!”

Half believing Flinky’s flattery, Badredd eyed the gang and nodded approvingly. “Lissen, mates, we could be a good crew if’n we tried. Now wipe the grins offa yore gobs an’ form up in twos. We’ll march straight up to that Abbey an’ put the fear o’ Hellgates into those peaceable bumpkins. Try t’look more like a gang o’ killers. Wave yore weapons about an’ snarl loud, as if yore ready t’do murder!”

Flinky glanced up at the high battlements. Already he saw heads poking up over them in the gathering gloom. Thinking quickly, the stoat slid down into the ditch on the path’s opposite side. He beckoned Badredd. “A nighttime charge might go wrong, Chief. D’ye not think we oughta figger out some kind of ould plan, afore we go rushin’ at a buildin’ that size?”

The little fox turned his attention to the walltops. Lots of heads were beginning to appear there. He climbed down into the ditch, alongside Flinky, knowing that what the stoat said made sense. “Aye, let’s, er, make up a scheme. . . . Everybeast down ’ere!”

The remaining gang members obeyed promptly. Flinky patted Badredd’s back. “Sure, that’s wot I likes about ye, Chief, yore a true fox, a born slayer, but a grand an’ crafty ould planner. Hoho, those creatures in there’ll get the shock o’ their lives when we turns up outside their doorstep tomorrer!”

Badredd was puzzled. “Tomorrer?”

Crinktail caught on, knowing her mate was trying to put off invading Redwall for as long as possible. She backed Flinky up. “Haharr, clever move, Chief. Tomorrer’s the best time t’do it!”

Beyond a straight charge, Badredd had no real plan. He decided to hear Flinky out, knowing the stoat was no fool.

Flinky explained eagerly. “ ’Tis dark now, y’see, an’ we’re in strange territory. The gang can get a good night’s rest down ’ere. When you’ve thought up yore scheme, we’ll be ready fer a fresh start, an’ catch ’em nappin’ at dawn! Now that’s wot I calls a smart move, thought up by a smart fox!”

Unaccustomed to compliments, Badredd enjoyed the feeling of having everybeast waiting on their leader’s word. Flicking his tail round slowly, he stroked it as foxes do when they are pleased. “Right, we rest ’ere, gang, that’s my orders!”

He missed the nudge exchanged between Crinktail and Flinky as they lay down and closed their eyes. Flinky murmured but loud enough to be heard by all. “Ain’t we the lucky ones, havin’ a gangleader like Badredd.”

Starlit darkness had fallen as Abbot Carrul made his way up the north wallsteps onto the ramparts. A frown creased his brow when he saw the throng of Redwallers crowding the parapet.

“Friends, listen to me, please. There’s no need for all of you up here. With vermin about, it’s not safe to stand looking over the battlements. Anybeast who is not required up here, please go down now. Sister Setiva, Sister Portula, will you see those Dibbuns down the stairs, it’s time they were in their beds anyhow.”

Toran and Junty, who had already joined Foremole Dwurl and Brother Weld, were at the northwest wall corner. Carrul hastened to join them. “Is there really a vermin band out there? Where are they now?”

Toran answered reassuringly. “There’s no great army o’ them, Father, I only counted about eight. Might be more to come, but I ain’t spotted ’em yet.”

Junty made way for the Abbot to look between the battlements as Toran pointed. “Look, they’ve lit a small fire, in the ditch, just further up the path there. Wonder wot they’re up to?” A red-gold glow showed from the ditch, where Toran was pointing.

Foremole blinked. “Oi aspeck they’m cooken ee supper.”

The Abbot looked to Toran. “What do you think?”

Thumping his rudder thoughtfully against the wallside, the ottercook speculated. “Well, there’s no way a crew that size could attack Redwall. I think we’d best do nothin’ for the present, Father. But let’s watch every move they make. We’ll post sentries on the walls, just a few who can watch ’em, while keepin’ low. Who can tell—maybe they’re only passin’ by this way. Per’aps they’re bound someplace else. I wish Bragoon an’ Saro would’ve stayed a day or two longer—we could really do with ’em right now!”

Foremole smote the wall with a heavy digging claw. “Boi ’okey we’m cudd, they’m udd know wot to do abowt ee varmints. But thurr bee’s h’only us’n’s, yurr!”

Toran could sense that the Abbot was waiting for him to take charge. He waved down to Martha, waiting in her chair on the lawn, then spoke. “Father, maybe ye an’ Martha could get a few helpers an’ search around for anythin’ that would be useful as a weapon. I’ve got a feelin’ they won’t make a move ’til tomorrow. We should be ready for ’em by then, though it prob’ly won’t come to that. I’ll stay up here with Junty, Weld an’ Foremole on watch.”

The Abbot went down to the lawn and pushed Martha back to the Abbey, explaining what was happening and what he had seen. The young haremaid could tell by Abbot Carrul’s face that he was very worried.

Wirga was long past her best seasons, a wrinkled, toothless old Searat, yet Raga Bol kept her with his crew. She was useless as a fighter or a forager, but she possessed other skills. There was little that Wirga did not know about wounds and the treatment of injuries. Her powers as a healer and her knowledge of herbs, nostrums and remedies made the old vermin invaluable to the ignorant crewrats. But there was yet another art Wirga practiced—that of a Seer. Raga Bol, as captain, was the only one she allowed to consult her, and then only in times of crisis.

Wirga crouched by the fire, watching Bol. They were camped among some wooded hills where the red sandstone rocks of Mossflower jutted out in shelflike formation. It was twilight. The Searat crew had slain a small colony of woodmice, and were leisurely plundering their shattered dwellings. Raga Bol and Wirga sat on a hilltop, isolated from the noisy rabble below.

The old Searat knew that her captain wished to consult her. He had given her half a roasted dove and a goblet of his personal grog—this was always a sign that she was needed. Wirga took out her pouch of charms and selected half a large musselshell. It was edged with yellow on the inside, glistening grey at the centre, with three partially grown purple mussel’s pearls protruding from its broad end.

Filling the shell with water, she gazed into it. “Thy appetite is not good of late?”

Raga Bol licked the sharp tip of his silver pawhook in silence as Wirga continued.

“Sleep eludes thee, thou are weary. None can rest easy in thy presence. Even I fear to speak of certain things—aye, things that trouble thee.”

With a curt nod, the Searat captain dismissed the four guards who attended him from twilight to dawn. When they had gone off to join the others, he took a furtive glance over his shoulder.

Drawing close to the Seer, Raga Bol dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Fear not, speak openly to me, ye won’t be harmed.”

Keeping her eyes on the water-filled shell, the old Seer proceeded, her voice now a sibilant hiss. “If thine enemy lives, he must die. Only then can Raga Bol find peace of mind. Thy foe’s death will release thee.”

The Searat captain’s eyes shone feverishly. “Does the stripedog still live? Tell me!”

Wirga turned away from the shell, confronting him. “When did thou last see this stripedog?”

Bol’s red-rimmed eyes stared back at her. “This very noon, aye, in full sunlight. ’Twas when we stopped to rest. I was so tired that I dozed off awhile. The sun beat through my closed lids, makin’ everythin’ go red. That’s when I saw the stripedog. Gettin’ off a strange craft he was, where that broadstream from the nor’east bends away from the trees an’ woodlands. Ye recall the spot, ’twas where we slayed those two shrews. The stripedog pointed to the bodies an’ looked straight at me. ‘They will be avenged, I am coming for ye, Raga Bol!’ Those were his very words.”

Wirga went back to contemplating the water in the shell, then continued. “Thee told him to go away and join the deadbeasts at Hellgates, because he was already slain by thee. But the giant stripedog kept coming. He was frightening to look upon, with his face cleaved wide, but scarred an’ stitched together by somebeast. Do I not speak truly?”

Raga Bol gasped, in awe of the Seer and her powers. “Aye, true, but how did ye know? Did ye see the beast, too?”

She smiled. “Wirga sees many things unknown to others.”

What she did not say was that she had been observing her captain for days—listening, watching, taking all in. Every nightmare, every time Raga Bol called out, in the brief times he did sleep, were memorised by Wirga. She had a complete picture of it all—from the moment Raga Bol had struck the badger to every event since.

The Searat captain brought his face even closer to the Seer. His breath was hot on her jaw, his voice half threat and half plea. “I can’t fight a dream, so I’m waitin’ on yore word. Tell me wot t’do, I must be rid of the stripedog!”

Wirga replied. “Knowest thou my three sons?”

Bol knew the ones she spoke of, though not too well. They were a furtive trio, a bit undersized for Searats, always last to fight but first to grab the plunder. He was not impressed with them, and saw the three as background vermin who never put themselves forward or appeared bold, like proper Searats often do.

The captain shrugged. “Aye, I know ’em, they ain’t no great shakes as fighters. That big stripedog could eat the three of ’em!”

Wirga rocked back and forth on her haunches, chuckling. “Heehee, well said. But give ’em a skilled tracker, one who could lead ’em to the place of thy dream, an’ my sons will make an end of thy stripedog, believe me!”

Raga Bol drew his scimitar, allowing the firelight to gleam across its lethal blade. “If’n’ I never finished the bigbeast with a blow o’ this, how could three runts like that do the job?”

Wirga drew from her pouch a section of bamboo, cut off near the joint and sealed at one end with beeswax. Carefully, she broke away the wax and upended the cylinder. Six long thorns spilled out, each one tipped with crimson dye and plumed with the short feathers of some exotic bird. She stayed Raga Bol’s paw as he reached to pick one up.

“Keep away from such things. They can kill ten times more swiftly than the most venomous snake!”

The Searat captain pulled back his paw. “Poison?”

Using her long pawnails, the Seer divided the thorns into three groups of two. “Once one of these little beauties pricks the skin, even the greatest warrior cannot stand. Poison, from far isles across the southern seas. My three sons know how to use these darts. Warriors they may not be, but assassins they surely are. Give ’em a tracker to lead ’em to the streambend. They will seek out thy stripedog an’ slay ’im.”

Raga Bol stood abruptly, peering over the hilltop rocks at his crew below until he saw the one he required. “Ahoy, Jibsnout!”

A big, competent-looking Searat saluted. “Cap’n?”

Raga Bol called back to him. “Bring Wirga’s three sons up ’ere. I’ve got a task for the four of ye.”

Night had fallen as the sons of Wirga left the hilltop, following Jibsnout. The tracker had a blanket with some food rolled into it thrown over his shoulder, and a well-honed dagger dangling from a cord around his neck.

Once they were off the hill and bound back along the trail, Jibsnout halted and glared contemptuously at the three smaller rats. It was obvious he did not enjoy their company. He pointed the dagger at each of them in turn.

“Lissen t’me, slimesnouts. I don’t like yew three one liddle bit. But I gotta do the job wot Cap’n Bol gave me—to take ye back to where the broadstream bends at the edge o’ this forest. Wot ye do then is carry out the cap’n’s orders. ’Tis up to ye how y’do that, an’ nought t’do wid me. But get this straight: Ye do yore job an’ I’ll do mine. So stay outta my way an’ mind yore manners around me. Step on my paws or look the wrong way at me an’ I’ll gut all three o’ ye wid this blade o’ mine! Unnerstood?”

The sons of Wirga never answered; they merely looked at one another and exchanged sly leers. This did not improve Jibsnout’s opinion of them. Turning on his paw, he set off at a rapid pace into the dark woodlands, growling back to the odd trio.

“Move yoreselves! We’ll be marchin’ night’n’day, an’ only stoppin’ for a bite or a nap when I says so. If’n ye don’t keep up, I’ll leave ye behind. Hah, try explainin’ yoreselves to Raga Bol when ye get back then, I dare ye!”