Loamhedge

25

Abbot Carrul and Granmum Gurvel were going around Great Hall, distributing beakers of hot barley and leek soup to the defenders. Martha was wakened by a stone pinging off a nearby column. Gurvel ladled soup from a cauldron standing on a trolley. The Abbot served it to Martha. Then Carrul called Toran over and gave him some.

Toran accepted it gratefully. “Well, Father, the windows are barricaded tight now. There’s only the odd stone comin’ through. Let the vermin wear themselves out. Apart from broken panes, there ain’t much damage—unless they try burnin’ the window barricades.”

Carrul tried to remain calm, though he could not help sounding anxious. “Have you a plan in mind, Toran?”

Scratching his rudder, the ottercook stifled a yawn. “I wish I had, but I’m far too tired an’ upset about pore Junty.”

Martha straightened the rug across her lap. “We’d do better if we went upstairs to the dormitories. Perhaps up there we could retaliate against the vermin.”

Abbot Carrul nodded. “Sounds sensible to me, Martha. Carry on.”

Warming to her own idea, the haremaid explained. “We could make slings and throw stones at them. I’ll wager Foremole and his crew could provide us with rubble.”

Gurvel sighted Foremole Dwurl coming up from the cellars. She beckoned him to join them. “Coom over yurr, zurr.”

Dwurl waved a heavy digging claw. “Wutt can oi do furr ee?”

Martha made her request. “Would it be possible to get a load of rubble and pebbles up to the dormitory windows, please?”

The mole nodded his velvety head. “Surpintly, miz! Oi take ett ee bee’s goin’ t’give yon varmints a gudd peltin’, hurr hurr!”

Immensely fond of Foremole Dwurl, Martha took his work-lined paw in hers. “Great minds think alike, my friend. We need lots of stones, and some rubble, to tip on the vermin if they start lighting fires. Water is too precious to waste in our present position.”

Toran looked at his young friend with a new respect. “Hear that, Carrul? Our Martha certainly has a wise head on her shoulders, eh?”

Martha turned to the ottercook, her eyes shining fiercely. “Aye, and I don’t intend to lose it to a band of murdering vermin. It was vermin who slew my family when I was a babe and too young to do anything about it. This time ’tis going to be different. No matter what happens, those evil scum are not going to take Redwall Abbey from us. We’ll defeat them!”

They all clasped paws on the arm of the haremaid’s chair. Her resolution ran like wildfire through them all.

Father Abbot Carrul’s voice echoed around Great Hall. “Everybeast upstairs to the front dormitories. We’re going to fight them. Redwaaaaaaalll!”

A great cheer went up as Martha had united them in a common cause: taking the attack to the foebeast. The Redwallers thundered upstairs, shouting and roaring.

“We’ll teach ’em a lesson they won’t forget!”

“Aye, they’ll regret the day they came to our Abbey!”

“No vermin’s goin’ to bully us!”

“Blood’n’vinegar, that’s what they’ll get!”

Sister Setiva was minding the Dibbuns as the dormitory door was flung open wide. Redwallers crowded in, still shouting. The Abbeybabes did not quite know what was going on, but they joined in lustily, issuing dire threats against the enemy.

“Cutta tails off wiv rusty knifes!”

“Boil ee varmints in roasted baffwater!”

“Gurr, smack ee bottoms wi’ gurt sticks!”

Little Buffle stuck out his stomach and bellowed, “Yukkumbumgur!”

Setiva was becoming able to translate Buffle’s baby language. She raised her eyebrows in horror. “Och, ye wee scallywag, I’ll wash your mouth out wi’ soap if ye even think o’ sayin’ that again!”

Martha was carried up, chair and all, by Brother Weld, Toran and several stout moles. Immediately she related her plan to all the Abbeybeasts.

“Sisters Setiva and Portula, could you set about making lots of slings? Good, strong braided ones. Brothers Gelf and Weld, I want you to check the downstairs barricades as often as you can. Make sure they’re still holding firm, and report back to me each time. Foremole, sir, can you bring up as much stone and rubble as you can lay your paws on?”

Dwurl saluted. “We’m got loads o’ rubble an’ rock frum our diggin’s in ee basement, miz. Oi’ll bring et roight aways.”

The haremaid nodded to Toran. “Can you search about, friend, to find anything we can use as weapons? Anything!”

Muggum and the Dibbuns clung to the chairarms, pleading, “Uz ’elp ee, Miz Marth’, give us’n’s summ jobs!”

Sister Setiva turned in the dormitory doorway, shaking her blackthorn stick and berating the Abbeybabes. “Och! Ah’ll give ye jobs. Get straight intae yon beds an’ stay oot o’ Miss Martha’s way, this verra instant!”

Martha saw the sad little faces on the Dibbuns and interceded on their behalf to the strict Infirmary Keeper. “Please, Sister, they only want to help. Let me find a job for them. Granmum Gurvel, have you any sieves or riddles? We’ll need them to sift out slingstones from Foremole’s rubble when it arrives up here. Could you find some?”

Muggum brightened up. “Oi’ll tell ee a riggle, Miz Marth’.”

Gurvel took the molebabe’s paw. “Gurr, liddle pudden ’ead, that bee’s ee wrong sort o’ riggle. Cumm to ee kitchens, an’ oi’ll foind ee sum proper riggles.”

Everybeast hurried to their tasks, while Martha tried to keep some organisation amid the ensuing chaos.

Molecrews trundled in and out of the dormitory, bearing stretcherloads of rubble. Sister Portula and some elders ripped old fabric into strips and began weaving slings. Redwallers on kitchen duty came scurrying up with drinks and meals. Martha wheeled her chair about, giving directions, calling encouragement and keeping the constant traffic moving back and forth.

“Don’t block the doorway, please. Bring that stretcher right in and empty it there, by the window.” She seemed to be everywhere at once. “Oh, that’s a nice strong sling, put it over there with the others. Don’t leave that cordial and soup by the rubble, it’ll get dust all over it. Shut it inside that wardrobe for the present.”

Badredd soon grew tired of slinging stones. His paws were aching: more than once, a stone had stayed in the sling, causing it to wrap around his paw and strike it sharply. That, plus the fact that he was an abominable shot, made him toss the sling away angrily.

“Blood’n’skulls, I’ve got better things t’do than stand here chuckin’ stones all day. Where’s the rest o’ this lazy lot, eh? Stuffin’ vittles or layin’ about sleepin’, I bet. Well, I’ll soon liven their ideas up, the dirty layabouts!” He stalked off in high dudgeon.

Plumnose and Halfchop dropped their slings and trailed after him. The little fox turned on them furiously. “Where are you two deadbrains goin’? Did I tell ye t’stop slingin’? Get back there afore I flay ye both!” The pair went back wearily and continued slinging.

Plumnose complained resentfully to his companion. “Huh, he’d inna bad mood, iddent he?”

Halfchop nodded in agreement. “Kachunk!”

Martha kept track of Badredd from her position at the front dormitory windows. “I wonder where he’s off to now.”

Toran stood behind her chair. “Who knows, miss. He’s up t’no good, though, an’ jumpin’ mad by the look o’ him.”

Foremole gestured at the considerable mound of earth and stone piled up close to the windowsills. “Hurr, ee vurmint can jump all ee looikes, we’m ready for ’im!”

Granmum Gurvel staggered in, dragging a bulging sack. “Yurr, lookit oi finded, ee gurt sack uv ’otroot pepper. Ee ’ hotters leaved it yurr afore they’m go’d off. Oi’m b’aint a keepen it in moi kitchens, no zurr, orful sneezy stuff!” Gurvel dumped it next to Martha’s chair. The haremaid quickly pulled out her kerchief as dust rose from the sack. “Kerchoo! Aah . . . Aah . . . Achoo! Beg your pardon, dearie me!”

Baby Buffle stared down at the sack from the top of the rubble mound. “Sumakivalikkasaccasaccavurgimchoochoo!”

Martha dabbed at her nose with the kerchief. “What’s he chunnering on about now, Sister?”

Setiva translated the shrewbabe’s language. “Och, pay no heed tae the rascal. He says we should throw et at yon vermin. ’Tis a silly idea—we’d be sneezed tae death doin’ a thing like that. The breeze’d carry et right back in ’ere.”

Gurvel spoke up. “Nay, marm, not if us’n’s makes ee likle sacks uv pepper, boi ’okey. We’m cudd frow slingers at ee varmints.”

Martha clapped her paws delightedly. “What a great plan! Thank you, Buffle and Gurvel. Let’s try it!”

The ancient molecook took charge of the operation. Soon, she and several Dibbuns donned bandannas of wet cloth to protect their noses and mouths against the fiery hotroot pepper. Carefully, they ladled measured portions of the pepper onto flimsy squares of thin, birch-bark parchment. Each of these was fashioned into a tiny bundle, tied at the top with thread. Toran weighed one in his paw. “Just right for throwin’. Hoho, these’ll cause a few sneezes if they land on some scummy noses!”

Yooch the molebabe had scrambled up onto a windowsill. Jumping up and down, he waved his tiny paws and squealed, “Look out, look out, d’vermints bee’s cummin’!”

Badredd kept a paw on the broken cutlass in his belt, not drawing the weapon lest they see it was only a half-bladed thing. Behind him stood the rest of the available vermin crew—Halfchop, Floggo, Rogg, Slipback, Plumnose and Juppa.

The little fox shouted boldly. “Where’s yore chief? I wanna talk!”

Abbot Carrul showed himself at the dormitory window. “Say what you have got to say, fox!”

Badredd puffed out his narrow chest. “Lissen, we’ve got ye well boxed in up there. You ain’t warriors, ye can’t fight back or hurt us. So I’ll tell ye what I’ll do. Open yore doors, we won’t attack. Just let me’n one o’ my crew come in. When we’ve found yore magic sword, an’ other bits o’ loot that we fancy, we’ll leave ye in peace an’ go.”

The Abbot shook his head firmly. “Never! You’ll not set paw in Redwall Abbey, none of you!”

Badredd passed a paw signal to Rogg from behind his back. The weasel casually notched an arrow to his bowstring.

Keeping his temper in check, the fox replied, “Never? We’ll see about that. Wot ye got to unnerstand is that yore under siege—we could starve ye out or keep attackin’ until one by one yore all slain. Oh, I’ve got lots o’ bright ideas, mouse, take yore pick. Either that or just do as I command. ’Twill save ye a lot o’ grief.”

Carrul stood his ground. “No matter what you say, you will not enter this Abbey. Now, let me make a suggestion. Take your vermin, plus all the fruit you have stolen from our orchard, and leave here. If you do this, you will save yourself a lot of grief. Take my word for it!”

Badredd shrugged. “Ain’t no use of talkin’ to ye, mouse.”

As the vermin leader stepped aside, Rogg hurried forward and let fly. Inside the dormitory, some of the pepper dust had got to the Abbot, causing him to sneeze. “Yaachooo!”

As Carrul’s head went down with the force of the sneeze, the arrow tipped his headfur, ending up quivering in the dormitory ceiling.

Cursing inwardly, Badredd forced himself to stay nonchalantly calm, even to smile. “Saved by a sneeze, eh? Yore a lucky mouse!”

Suddenly Toran appeared at the window, a pepper bomb in each paw. “You won’t be so lucky. Sneeze on this, snottynose!”

In quick succession, two bags of pepper struck Badredd’s face. Then the dormitory windows were packed with Redwallers, hurling their new weapons and shouting.

“Try a sniff of this, uglychops!”

“Yurr, stuff this’n oop ee nose, zurr vurmint!”

“Och, take a whiff o’ this, ye wicked rabble!”

“Sorry we ain’t got no salt, so here’s a little more pepper for ye!”

Literally peppered by bags of the stuff, the vermin crew fled—spitting, sneezing and rubbing at their burning eyes as the fierce hotroot pepper did its work. Between sneezes, they bumped blindly into one another, wailing and screeching.

Martha held up a paw. “Stop now, no use wasting pepper. They’ve learned their lesson, a good hot one!”

A rousing cheer went forth from the Abbeybeasts. “Redwaaaaaallll!”

Martha hugged Toran’s waist from her chair. “We did it, friend, we defeated the vermin!”

The ottercook stood watching the vermin as they hurled themselves into the Abbey pond. He stroked the haremaid’s head absently. “Aye, beauty, we did it for now. But they’ll be back, an’ next time they do, those vermin will try to slay us all.”

Sister Portula was in agreement with him. “Right, Toran, so what’ll we do then?”

Martha surprised herself by shaking a clenched paw. “We’ll just have to give back as good as we get. Don’t forget, there’s more of us than them. I’d risk my life willingly any day if it meant defeating those scum!”

Growls of agreement rang out, even from the Dibbuns. Abbot Carrul was taken aback by the warlike mood of the Redwallers, and even more so by Martha’s fighting spirit. He held up his paws until order was restored.

“You are right, of course, my friends, but let us not do anything haphazard. There has to be a proper plan to rid our Abbey of these vermin!”

Flinky and Crinktail were in no special hurry to run about seeking recruits for Badredd’s gang. The pair wandered deep into Mossflower, glad to be away from the bickering and squabbling of the small vermin gang. They rambled onward, consenting with each other to desert their fellow vermin and find a new life together, far away from it all.

Unfortunately, they walked right into trouble and ambled straight into the camp of Raga Bol. A huge, fat Searat with one milky, sightless eye grabbed the luckless pair by the scruffs of their necks. Both their stomachs churned in fear at the sight of the savage Searat crew. For the first time in his life, Flinky was rendered speechless as he beheld a real Searat captain.

Raga Bol was the complete picture of a barbarian chieftain—from his hooped brass earrings and tawdry silk finery, to his silver hook, gold teeth, curved scimitar and the lethal stiletto he was using to pick at a roasted pike. He spat a fishbone into the fire and picked at his teeth with the hook. Looking both stoats up and down, Raga Bol consulted the fat rat.

“Who are these two barnacles, Glimbo?”

Flinky began stammering out an answer. “If it please, yore ’onour, we was just . . .”

Splat! Raga Bol leaned forward and struck Flinky a slap across his mouth with the pike. “Did I speak to ye, stoat?”

The hook shot out, catching Flinky’s jerkin. He was yanked forward, under the cold glare of the wickedest eyes he had ever looked into.

He felt the Searat’s hot breath on his face as the rasping voice growled out, “Guard yore tongue, mudbrain, or I’ll carve it out an’ feed it to ye. Speak now, wot’s in those sacks?”

Flinky’s throat bobbed as he gasped out, “F . . . f . . . fruit, sir!”

Raga Bol stuck his stiletto in the sack Flinky was holding. He booted the stoat backward, causing the blade to rip through the sack. Flinky went sprawling amid the fruit which spilled out onto the ground.

The Searat scowled. “Fruit? Is that all ye brought? No booty, weapons, not even a brace o’ birds or a decent fish. Just fruit!”

Glimbo wrenched the sack from Crinktail. He emptied it over Flinky, who lay cringing on the ground. “Sink me! This ’un’s brought fruit as well, Cap’n. They must be both stoopid in d’brain!”

Gripping hold of Crinktail, Glimbo shook her until her teeth rattled, bellowing in the hapless stoat’s face. “Yore stoopid in d’brain, wot are ye?”

Crinktail gabbled out something that sounded like “Stooballainnabrab!”

The Searats crowded round laughing. They tore the jerkins from both stoats, and robbed them of their belts and knives.

Stripped to the fur, Flinky and Crinktail huddled together, eyes wide with terror as the Searats licked their knifeblades and winked wickedly at them.

Raga stroked under his chin, with the polished curve of his pawhook. “The woodlands round here are packed with fruit, an’ ye bring me two sacks o’ the stuff? Right then, me beauties, I’ll tell ye what we’ll do. What’d ye like, an apple or a pear?”

Crinktail spoke, her voice quivery with terror. “Apples, sir.”

Raga smiled, showing several gold-capped fangs. “Haharr, apples it is then. Ferron, jam an apple apiece in their gobs, ’twill stop ’em singin’ out while they’re roastin’!”

Ferron, a tall, gaunt-faced rat, sorted through the fruit until he came up with two large, rosy apples. He strode over to the two victims, but before he could start, Flinky yelled, “Loot! Treasure! Booty an’ magic swords!”

Raga’s long blade rasped out of its scabbard. Resting the point against Flinky’s nose, the captain spoke just one word—“Where?”

The stoat answered speedily, knowing his life depended on it. “Sure, ’tis at the Abbey o’ Redwall, sir, only a good ould march from here. All the plunder yore ’eart could desire!”

The swordtip lifted as Raga looked around the ugly faces of his leering crew. “Give ’em back their stuff. Come ’ither, mates. Sit ’ere by me, where I can carve cobs off’n ye if yore tellin’ me fibs. I can’t abide fibbers, can you, messmate?”

Flinky shook his head vigourously. “Sure those fibbers are the worst ould kind of beasts ever born, ain’t that right?”

Crinktail hastened to agree with him. “Fibbers are villains!”

Raga Bol narrowed his frightening eyes and glared at his prisoners, who sat as if hypnotised. Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Aharrharrharrharr! That’s wot I like to ’ear, me liddle fishes. Avast there, Blowfly, bring grog fer our messmates!”

Blowfly, a malodourous, greasy-looking rat, brought three gigantic pottery jars and a keg of grog, which he rolled along by kicking it. He filled the jars brimful, issuing one to each of them. Both stoats quailed at the sight of the fearsome-smelling brew. Bol drained half of his at one huge swig, smacked his lips and winked broadly at them. “Good ’ole seaweed’n’fish’ead grog, ain’ nothin’ like it! Aharr, Raga Bol can’t abide prissy liddle creatures wot don’t like grog. Drink ’earty now!”

Gagging and spluttering, Flinky and Crinktail tried to sup the fiery liquor. The Searat crew gathered round, grinning and guffawing as they watched the stoats trying to cope with the grog. Finishing his swiftly, Raga observed his victims closely. “Cummon, buckoes, no shilly-shallyin’ there, bottoms up, an’ don’t ye leave none for the fishes!”

Grog was dribbling down Flinky’s chest fur by the time he finished. Something odd was happening to his eyes. In front of him sat three Raga Bols. His head was whirling, and his tongue felt as though it belonged to someone else. He hiccupped. “Heeheehee, hic! Sure, that was a prime ould, hic, droppa grog, hic hic! Ain’t that right, hic, eh, Crinky, hic!”

Crinktail gazed woozily at her empty jar and giggled. “Sh’marvelloush! Makesh y’feel like a battlin’ badger, heehee, whoops!”

She was knocked flat on her back. Raga, who had kicked her over, stood glaring down at the stoat, his sabre drawn. “Badger, wot badger? Is there a badger ’ereabouts? Have ye sighted a great giant of a stripedog? Tell me!”

Crinktail attempted to rise, but fell flat. She looked up at the Searat captain with owlish solemnity. “Wot badgersh? Heehee, we ain’t seen no shtripedogs around ’ere. Don’ worry, Bragger Roll, we’ll fight ’em all for ye, me’n Shlinky!”

She giggled again, then passed out, senseless. A fleeting glimpse of relief crossed the Searat’s face. He turned his attention to Flinky, who was swaying from side to side, and blinking drunkenly. “Ahoy, buckoe, let’s talk, me’n you. I’ll ask the questions, an’ ye give me all the answers. The right ones if’n ye value yore skin! This Abbey o’ Redwall, tell me everythin’ about it. An’ worrabout yore crew, ’ow many strong are they, who’s yore leader, wot’s ’e like? No lies, now, c’mon!”

Raga Bol’s crew listened avidly as Flinky related the entire sorry tale to their captain. The stoat was drunk, but not so drunk that he didn’t know what would please the murderous Raga Bol. A good portion of his story was outright lies. He told of witless Abbeybeasts, and a fabulous treasure, laying great emphasis on the magic sword. Flinky was good at what he did, having spent most of his life lying and pleasing others. The captain and his crew believed the yarn. There followed much winking, nudging, whispering and gleeful rubbing of paws, even from Raga Bol. This was going to be a picnic, an orgy of looting and slaughter. A real Searat’s dream come true!

The Searat crew made ready to march. Raga Bol delayed moving, since there was one thing still bothering the captain’s mind—the fate of the giant stripedog. Giving orders for the crew to stand ready, he marched back along their trail alone, looking for signs of his assassin’s return.

After an hour or so, Raga Bol glanced up at the sky. Dark rolling clouds, coupled with the distant rumble of thunder, presaged the arrival of a sizeable storm. He turned his gaze to the path ahead, where the foliage was swaying in the hot wind. The Searat’s keen eyes and ears missed nothing. He saw the shrubbery moving the wrong way at one point and heard the moans and laboured gasping of somebeast coming slowly up the trail toward him.

It was Jibsnout, leaning heavily on an impromptu crutch he had fashioned from a branch. Raga Bol hastened to intercept him, frowning with false concern. “Jibsnout, matey, are ye wounded? Have ye news of the stripedog? Where are those sons of Wirga, ’ave they deserted ye?”

The stolid Searat slumped wearily down, his tongue licking the first fat drops of rain that fell through the woodland canopy. He looked up at Raga Bol kneeling at his side.

“Cap’n, we stood no chance! That stripedog ’ad a squirrel wid ’im, they ambushed us! Two of Wirga’s sons were slayed. The other one ran away, though ’e wouldn’t’a got far, I wager. I was shot through the footpaw by the stripedog, then ’e took my blade. I thought ’e was gonna kill me, but ’e tended to the wound an’ sent me back to ye wid a message, Cap’n. The stripedog sez to tell ye that ’is name is Lonna Bowstripe, an’ that ’e’s comin’ after ye, Cap’n Bol. Aye, yoreself an’ all the crew, me too. We’re all deadbeasts, d’ye hear me, walkin’ deadbeasts! That big Lonna beast is goin’ to slay us one by one, every ratjack of us! Take me word fer it, Cap’n, ’e’s a mighty warrior but a real madbeast! I saw it in ’is eyes, they was red as fire. The stripedog’ll finish us, all of us, I believe wot ’e said!”

A jagged lightning flash lit up the gloomy woodlands; thunder rattled closer and the rain came in earnest. Raga Bol held Jibsnout close to him, murmuring softly. “Hush now, mate, no stripedog’s goin’ to harm ye. This storm’ll wash out all our tracks, nobeast’ll find us then. Besides, we’ll be snug inside of a big stone fortress, wid vittles to spare an’ more loot than ye’ve ever clapped eyes on. Hahaarr, ’ow’ll that suit ye matey, eh?”

Jibsnout blinked rain from his eyes. “That’ll suit me good, Cap’n.”

Bol held him closer, whispering in his ear, “Ye won’t breathe a word about no stripedog to the crew now, will ye, me ole mate?”

Jibsnout smiled at his captain. “You know me, Cap’n Bol. None of ’em will ’ear a word from my mouth!”

Raga Bol smiled back at Jibsnout. “So they won’t, mate, yore right.”

He slew Jibsnout with a single thrust of his stiletto. Shoving the body into the bushes, Raga Bol sloshed back through the battering downpour, muttering to himself. “They all talks sooner or later, but you was right, Jibsnout. Nobeast’ll ’ear a word from yore mouth.”