Hardly had he finished speaking, when one of the rafts came skirting the reeds and headed for the logboats. Propelled by six hedgehogs either side with long punting poles, the craft skimmed lightly and fast, belying the awkward nature of its construction.
There was a hut, a proper log cabin with shuttered windows and a door, built at the vessel’s centre, with a smokestack chimney sprouting from its roof. Lines of washing ran from for’ard to aft, strung between mast timbers. Between the rails at the raft’s edges, small hedgehogs, with safety lines tied about them, could be seen playing. It was obvious that several large families were living aboard.
The leader of the Waterhogs was a fearsome sight. Gurgan Spearback wore great floppy seaboots and an immense brass-buckled belt, through which was thrust a hatchet and a scythe-bladed sword. He had long seagull feathers impaled on his headspikes, making him look a head bigger than he actually was. His face was painted white, with scarlet polka dots daubed on.
Gurgan leaned on a long-handled oversized mallet, its head a section of rowan trunk. As the raft closed with the leading logboat the Guosim Chieftain sprang over the rail and hurled himself upon the Waterhog leader. They wrestled around the raft’s deck, pummelling each other playfully while they made their greetings.
‘Thou’rt nowt but an ancient blood pudden, Log a Log Guosim!’
‘Gurgan Spearback! Still lookin’ like a spiky featherbed wid boots on, you great floatin’ pincushion!’
More rafts joined them, sailing out from a creek on the far side. Soon they were joined into a square flotilla, with the logboats tied up to their outer rails. Food was served on the open decks, hogcooks bustling in and out of their huts, carrying pans of thick porridge, flavoured with cut fruit and honey, the staple diet of Waterhogs. This was accompanied by hot floppy cheese flans and mugs of rosehip’n’apple cider.
The little hogs wandered between groups, eating as if they were facing a seven-season famine. Big, wide-girthed fathers and huge, hefty-limbed mothers encouraged them.
‘Tuck in there, Tuggy, th’art nowt but a shadow, get some paddin’ round thy bones, young ’og!’
Log a Log refused a second bowl, patting his stomach to indicate that he had eaten sufficient. ‘Phew! I wouldn’t chance a swim after that liddle lot, mate!’
Gurgan snatched the bowl and dug in with a scallop-shell spoon. ‘So, what brings thee’n’thy tribe around these ’ere parts?’
Log a Log patted a passing young one’s headspikes and winced. ‘I could ask you the same question, messmate, but we’re chartin’ a course close to Redwall Abbey to warn the goodbeasts there. Did y’know there’s Rapscallions on the move?’
Gurgan licked the empty bowl and hiccupped. ‘Aye, that I did. We’ve been four days ahead o’ yon vermin since they burned their fleet on the southeast coast. Damug Warfang has o’er a thousandbeast at his back, too many for us. I was lookin’ to avoid ’em someway.’
Log a Log nodded gravely. ‘Perhaps the answer is to join forces and go after the vermin. We’d have a chance together.’
Gurgan began licking his spoon thoughtfully. ‘Aye, that we would. But hast thou seen the number o’ liddle ’uns we’re rearin’ now? ’Twould not be right to put their lives in danger.’
The shrew sipped pensively at his beaker. ‘Aye, but think on this a moment, Gurgan. Warfang an’ his army are like to sweep the whole land an’ enslave all, ’less they’re stopped. If Mossflower were conquered an’ ruled by Rapscallions, wot kinda country would that be to bring young ’ogs up proper?’
Gurgan’s paw tested the sickle-edged blade at his belt. ‘Thou art right, Log a Log. What’s to be done?’
‘We’ll take yore young ’uns up to the Abbey an’ lodge ’em there. That’ll leave you free to fight!’
Paw met paw; Log a Log winced again as Gurgan’s big mitt crushed his with right good will.
‘Thee’ve an ’ead on thy shoulders, comrade. Thunder’n’snowfire! Ah’ll give yon Warfang an’ his ilk some deathsongs t’sing!’
* * *
33
HALF THE GUOSIM were left on the water meadows with the fighting crews, whilst the old and very young were conveyed towards Redwall in the logboats. Twilight was upon the land as they paddled upstream. Not too far off, Redwall could be seen, framed by Mossflower Wood on its north and east sides.
The logboats lay in a small cove, where the stream took a bend on the heathlands before turning back to the woodlands. Gurgan waddled ashore, leaning on a long puntpole he had brought along. ‘This looks as close as we’ll hove to yon Abbey. Best leave the boats here an’ walk the rest o’ the way. Come hither, young Blodge, an’ quit messin’ about there!’
The young Waterhog Blodge had jumped ashore ahead of the rest and was poking about with a stick at the foot of a hillock by the streambank. Waving the stick, she came scurrying along. ‘Look ye, I finded water comin’ out o’ yonder hill, sir!’
Log a Log and Gurgan went to investigate. Blodge had found a trickle of cold fresh water seeping out of the mound and flowing into the stream. She probed it with her stick until it became a tiny fountain, spurting from the hillside.
Log a Log took a drink. ‘Good water, sweet’n’fresh, cold too. It must be comin’ from some underground stream, runnin’ fairly fast by the look o’ it.’
Gurgan Spearback placed his long pole against the water. It sprayed out either side of the butt. ‘Ah’ve ne’er seen ought like this,’ he said, shaking his great spiky head. ‘Stand aside there, I’ll give it a good prod.’
They stepped out of his way and he pounded the pole home into the hole with several powerful thrusts. Water squirted everywhere from the enlarged aperture, soaking them. A warning rumble from somewhere underground caused Log a Log to grab Blodge and leap back aboard the logboat, yelling, ‘Come away, Gurgan mate! Quick!’
The rest of his warning was lost as the hill burst asunder with the awesome pressure of water building up inside it. Mingled with rocks, soil, pebbles and sand, a mighty geyser of roaring water smashed sideways, demolishing the hillock and immediately swelling the stream to twice its size as it ate up the banks and the land close around.
Skilfully the Guosim oarbeasts rode the flood, turning their boats in midstream and beaching them on the farther side. Shouting and screaming, the young Waterhogs scrambled ashore, away from the danger. Gurgan Spearback was picking himself up and trying to wade upstream, when he was clouted flat by a mud-covered mass, shot from underground like a cannonball. Blowing mud and water from nostrils and mouth, the sturdy Waterhog fought to get the weight off him; it was pinning him down in the shallows, threatening to drown him.
Log a Log and several shrews came rushing to his rescue and grappled with the great muddy object, managing to free Gurgan.
Waist deep in icy water, Log a Log wiped his eyes and gasped, ‘Are you all right, mate? Yore not bad injured, are ye?’
‘Ho don’t fuss now, I’ll be all right when I cough up this mud, matey!’
Gurgan looked at Log a Log. ‘Who said that?’
Skipper of otters staggered to the bank, grunting under the weight of a dead yellow eel whose coils were still wrapped tight around his sodden frame. He collapsed on dry land.
‘I said that! Well, don’t stand there gettin’ wet an’ gogglin’, lend a paw t’get this slimy h’animal off me, mates!’
Log a Log was never one to panic. He took the situation in his stride. Relieving Skipper of Tammo’s dirk he began prising the stiff coils apart, talking to the otter in a matter-of-fact way.
‘Ahoy, Skip, it’s been a season or two since I clapped eyes on ye. So this is what yore wearin’ these days, a serpent fish. What’s the matter, ain’t a tunic good enough for ye any more?’
It was not often that the Abbey bells rang aloud once night had fallen, but Skipper’s return proved the exception. Ginko the Bellringer swung on his bellropes, sending out a joyous clangour across the land until his paws were numbed and reverberations hummed through both
his ears.
The new arrivals were welcomed into Great Hall, whilst the heroic Skipper was carried shoulder high by the hares and his otter crew, down to Cavern Hole. He sat stoically as Sister Viola and Pellit cleaned, stitched and salved his wounds, answering the volley of questions, of which Tammo’s was the first.
‘Did you bring my dirk back, Skip? How was it?’
With some reluctance, the otter returned Tammo’s weapon. ‘I tell you, matey, that piece o’ steel saved my life. ‘Tis a blade t’be proud of an’ I’d give ten seasons o’ me life to be the owner of such a fine thing!’
The young hare polished his dirk hilt proudly before restoring it to his shoulder belt.
Shad poured hot mint tea for his friend. ‘I’ll wager that ole snakefish kept you busy, matey?’
Skipper held his head to one side as the Sister ministered to a muddied slash the eel’s teeth had inflicted. ‘Aye, he did an’ all. A real fighter that beast was, a shame I had t’slay it. The snakefish was lost an’ ’ungry; ’twas only his nature t’seek prey. Yowch! Go easy, marm!’
Sister Viola placed a herbal compress on the wound. ‘I’m sorry. There, that’s done! It was extremely brave of you to act as you did, sir. Little Sloey owes you her life. I don’t often say this to fighting beasts, but it has been an honour to treat your injuries.’
Captain Twayblade pounded the table enthusiastically. ‘Well said, marm, we can’t afford to lose a beast as perilous as the Skipper. I propose y’make him an Honorary Member of the Long Patrol, eh, what d’ye say, Major?’
Amid the roars of approval, Abbess Tansy entered. Smiling through her tears, she clasped the otter’s paw affectionately. ‘So, you old rogue, you came back to us!’
Skipper stood slowly, flexing his brawny limbs experimentally. ‘Of course I did, Abbess marm, an’ I’ll thank ye next time I’m gone that y’don’t cancel the feast in me absence. Beggin’ yore pardon, but y’didn’t finish all the ’otroot soup, did ye?’
Shaking with laughter, Rockjaw Grang strode off to the kitchens, saying over his shoulder, ‘Sithee, riverdog, sit ee there, I’ll fetch ye the whole bloomin’ pot if y’ve a mind to sup it!’
Gurgan Spearback peeped around the door of the spare dormitory where the young Waterhogs had been billeted. ‘Hoho! There they be, fed’n’washed an’ snorin’ respectfully. My thanks to thee, goodbeasts.’
Mother Buscol shuffled out, carrying a lantern, followed by Craklyn, who was holding a paw to her lips. ‘Hush now, sir, we’ve just got the little ’uns to sleep.’
Gurgan carried the lantern for them as they went downstairs. ‘Thy Abbey be full o’ babes – Dibbuns, my Waterhogs, three liddle owls, even a badgerbabe. How came you by him?’
Craklyn kept firm hold of old Mother Buscol’s paw as she negotiated the spiralling steps. ‘That’s our little Russano, he’s very special to us.’
Log a Log interrupted them as they entered Great Hall. ‘Council o’ War’s to be held in Cavern Hole straight away!’
* * *
34
SNEEZEWORT AND LOUSEWORT, like the rest of the Rapscallion horde, were stunned by what they had witnessed. Both rats sat by their cooking fire in the late evening, discussing in hushed tones the terrible retribution Damug Warfang had inflicted on the ten runaway rebels whom Skaup and his hunters had brought back.
Sneezewort shuddered as he added twigs to the flames. ‘Good job you never went with ’em, mate. Nobeast’ll ever think o’ crossin’ the Firstblade after the way ’e dealt with Borumm an’ Vendace an’ the eight who was left!’
Lousewort gazed into the fire, nodding numbly. ‘Er er, that’s true. Though if I ’ad gone wid ’em I’d ’ave sooner been slain fightin’ to escape than . . . Wot was that word Damug used?’
‘Executed, mate, that was wot ’e said an’ that was wot ’e did. Ugh! Imagine bein’ slung inter the water like that, wid a great rock tied around yer neck, screamin’ an’ pleadin’!’
Lousewort ran a paw around his own neck and cringed at the thought. ‘It was cruel, ’ard an’ merciless an’, an’ . . . cruel!’
Sneezewort moved closer to the fire and shrugged. ‘Aye, but that’s ’ow a beast becomes Firstblade, by bein’ a cold-blooded killer. I was watchin’ Damug’s face – that’n was enjoyin’ wot ’e did.’
Damug Warfang was indeed enjoying himself. Everything seemed to be going his way. Not only had he brought the escapers to his own harsh justice, but his scouting expedition under the command of the weasel Gaduss had yielded a double result.
Rinkul the ferret, whom he had supposed long dead, was back with news of Redwall Abbey. Damug had never seen Redwall, though he had heard all about the place. What a prize it would be. From there he could really rule. If all he had heard from Rinkul was true, then it would not be too difficult to conquer Redwall, seeing as the entire outer south wall looked like collapsing.
There was also the prisoner that Gaduss had brought in with him, an ancient male squirrel, but big and strong – one of those hermit types living alone in Mossflower.
Damug circled the cage which held the creature, idly clacking his swordblade against the seasoned wood bars. The squirrel lay on his side, all four paws bound, ignoring the Warlord, his eyes shut stubbornly.
Damug leaned close to the bars, his voice low and persuasive. ‘Food and freedom, two wonderful things, my friend, think about them. All you have to do is tell me what is the Abbey’s strength, how many fighters, what sort of creatures? Tell me and you can walk free from here with a full stomach and a supply of food.’
The reply was noncommittal. ‘Don’t know, ’tis no use askin’ me. I’ve never been inside the place. I live alone in the woodlands an’ keep meself to meself!’
The swordblade slid through the bars, prodding the captive. ‘You saw what I did to those creatures earlier on. Keep lying to me and it could happen to you.’
The old squirrel’s eyes opened, and glared scornfully at the Greatrat. ‘If you think that’d do ye any good yore a bigger fool than I took ye t’be. I’ve told you, I know nothin’ about Redwall!’
The swordblade thrust harder at the squirrel’s back. ‘There are ways of making you talk, far slower and more painful than drowning. Has that notion penetrated your thick skull?’
‘Huh! Then try ’em an’ see how far it gets ye, vermin!’
Damug knew his captive spoke the truth. The old squirrel would die out of pure spite and stubbornness rather than talk. Controlling his rising temper, the Firstblade withdrew his sword. ‘A tough nut, eh? Well, we’ll see. After you’ve been lying there a day or two watching the cool fresh streamwater flowing by and sniffing the food on our campfires, I’ll come and have another word with you. Hunger and thirst are the greatest persuaders of all.’
In a circle around a fire on the streambank, the Rapmark Captains squatted, subdued by the memory of Damug’s horrible executions, but eager to know more of the big Abbey whose wall was weakened to the point where it looked like falling. Rinkul sat with them, though he would not say anything until Damug allowed him to.
Damug Warfang strode into the firelight, flame and shadow adding to his barbarous appearance: red-painted features and glittering armour surmounted by a brass helmet which had a grinning skull fixed to its spike. Gathering his long swirling black cloak about him, he sat down, eyes flicking from side to side.
‘Three days! Just three more days, then we march to take the greatest prize any Rapscallion ever dreamed of. The Abbey of Redwall!’
Beating their spearbutts against the ground the Rapmarks growled their approval, until a glance from the Firstblade silenced them.
‘In three days’ time every Rapscallion will be rested, well fed, fully armed, painted for war and ready to do battle. You are my Rapmarks; this is your responsibility. If there is any more desertion or mutiny in this army, one soldier unfit or unwilling to fight and die for his Firstblade, then I will look to you. You saw what happened to Borumm and Vendace today; they were once officers
too. Let me tell you, they got off lightly! Should I have to make any more examples you will all see what I mean! Remember, three days!’
Damug swept off to his tent, leaving behind a circle of Captains staring in silence at the ground.
Mid-morning of the following day found the columns from Salamandastron marching under a high summer sun. Lance Corporal Ellbrig watched young Trowbaggs suspiciously. The youngster was actually skipping along, but still keeping in step with the rest, waggling his ears foolishly and twirling his sword. Ellbrig narrowed one eye as if singling out his quarry.
‘That hare there, Trowbaggs, you lollopin’ specimen, what d’you think you’re up to?’
The Long Patrol recruit chortled in a carefree manner. ‘G’mornin’, Corp, good t’be jolly well alive, wot?’
Ellbrig scratched his chin in bewilderment. ‘I was always a bit doubtful about young Trowbaggs, but now I’m sure. He’s gone doodle ally, completely mad!’
Deodar, who was marching alongside Trowbaggs, reassured the Corporal. ‘He’s all right, Corp, it’s just that he’s learned to march properly and his footpaws aren’t so sore any more. Sort of got his second wind, haven’t you, old lad?’
Trowbaggs gave his sword an extra twirl and sheathed it with a flourish. ‘Exactly! Y’make the old footpaws go left right, ’stead of right left. A good night’s sleep, couple of lullabies from the Sergeant, pinch some other chap’s spoon an’ fork, scoff a bally good breakfast, an’ heigh ho, I’m fit for anything at all, wot!’
Drill Sergeant Clubrush had caught up with Lance Corporal Ellbrig, and had heard all that went on. ‘Very good, young sir, fit fer anythin’ are we?’ he said.
Trowbaggs leapt in the air, performed a pirouette and carried on skipping. ‘Right you are, Sarge, brisk as a bee, bright as a button an’ carefree as crabs on a rock, that’s me!’
The Long Patrol Page 18