Loamhedge

by Brian Jacques

  The otter let the firelight play along the blade. “Aye, ’tis so, though it don’t belong t’me. Abbot Carrul of Redwall loaned it t’me the day we left. I think he did it not just for our protection, but as a sort o’ good-luck charm for the journey. This sword belongs at the Abbey. ’Twas owned in the far olden seasons by a mouse. His name was Martin the Warrior, one o’ the founders of Redwall. I was told stories of Martin an’ his sword when I was nought but a Dibbun. They say it was forged an’ made by a great badger lord, a warrior himself, an’ a very skilled swordsmith, as ye can see. He made it from a lump of ore that fell from the sky, a piece of a star, I was told. This badger, he was Lord of Salamandastron, a mountain fortress. Did ye ever hear of that place, Lonna?”

  The dark eyes of the giant flashed. “Every badger knows the name of Salamandastron. I will go there myself someday. I feel my days will end there—but only when my score with Raga Bol is settled.”

  Bragoon sat up with a start, realising that he had dropped off to sleep during the night, something he would never have done in his younger seasons. Dawnlight was filtering into the cave, and Lonna Bowstripe was gone. As Saro was rekindling the fire from its embers, the three young ones were just waking.

  She gave Bragoon a beaker of hot mint tea. “Mornin’, matey. Well, our bigbeast left while it was still dark. I saw ’im go, y’know.”

  Fenna poured tea for herself. “Lonna’s gone?”

  Saro nodded. “Aye, you lot were all asleep. Horty’s snorin’ woke me, sounded like a tribe o’ stuffed-up frogs.”

  The young hare huffed indignantly at her, but Saro carried on. “I was lyin’ there wide awake, watchin’ Lonna in the fireglow. He’d picked up the sword o’ Martin to admire it. Well, next thing that badger went stiff as a frozen pike, sittin’ there starin’ at the blade as if it was speakin’ to ’im. I watched for a while, then Horty started snorin’ agin. So I gave ’im a good kick an’ settled back to catch a nap.”

  Horty interrupted. “Blinkin’ cadess, kickin’ a chap in mid slumber? Rank bad manners, I’d say. Hmph!”

  The elderly squirrel shrugged. “When I woke up agin, he’d gone.”

  Bragoon slapped his rudder against the rock floor. “I’ll wager ’twas Martin the Warrior, speakin’ to Lonna through the sword. He told the badger where t’find Raga Bol, an’ Lonna took off after the villain!”

  Bragoon wrapped the sword up reverently as Horty chuckled. “I bet old Raggaballoon wotsisname wouldn’t be too pleased with Martin, if he knew. Snitchin’ about him to that bally great hulk. I’d hate to be in his way when he feels peevish. Frazzlin’ frogs, imagine what old Lonna’ll do to that vermin when he catches up with him, wot wot!”

  Bragoon began packing his belongings. “I wouldn’t like to imagine, mate. That’s Lonna’s business, an’ I’m sure he can take care of it well. But we’ve got our own problems to tend. Up an’ on to Loamhedge, mateys!”

  Morning boded bright as they left the cave and began climbing the cliff to its top. It was hard going until the two squirrels, Saro and Fenna, went ahead. Soon they were on top of the cliff. Lowering down a rope, they heaved up all the packs, then secured the rope around a rock, allowing the other three to haul themselves up.

  It was a breathtaking panorama from the plateau. Horty’s keen eyes spotted a small dark smudge, moving across the scrublands in the distance. He pointed. “I say, you chaps, that could be thingummy, er, Lonna!”

  Springald shaded her eyes. “So it could! He’s headed northwest, that’s the direction we came from. Saro, d’you suppose he’s going to Redwall?”

  Sarobando felt they were wasting time sightseeing. “I couldn’t really say, missy, but one thing’s shore, we ain’t goin’ to Redwall. ’Tis Loamhedge we want. So stop lookin’ backwards an’ let’s go for’ard. Quick march!”

  Shimmering flatlands, devoid of vegetation or shade, rolled out before them. Small swirls of dust eddied in spirals on the hot breeze. Sarobando squinted her eyes against the distance.

  “Miss Fenna, yore in charge o’ the drinks, we’ll have t’be stingy with liquid. It might be some time afore we run across water by the look o’ things.”

  Immediately after the squirrel mentioned drinks, Horty began feeling thirsty. “I say, Fenna old gel, pass me that canteen, there’s a good little treebounder. I’m parched!”

  Fenna marched right on past him. “We’ll drink at midday and not before, so forget about it and keep going.”

  The young hare appealed to his comrades. “Wot? Did you chaps hear this heartless curmudgeon?”

  Bragoon grinned pitilessly at Horty. “Aye, loud an’ clear, mate. Wot’s the matter, are ye thirsty already?”

  The incorrigible hare clapped a paw to his throat dramatically. “Me flippin’ mouth’s like a sandpit, an’ the old tongue feels like a bally feather mattress. A drink, for pity’s sake, marm!”

  Saro levelled a paw at him. “Ye drink when Fenna tells ye. Now get a slingstone pebble an’ suck it. That’ll keep the thirst off as y’march, ’tis an old trick.”

  Horty pulled a pebble from his pouch, looked at it in disgust, then put it back. “Permission to sing, sah!”

  The otter waved a paw in the air. “Sing y’self blue in the face for all I care, but forget about drinkin’.”

  Horty had to dig through his store of ballads and ditties, but he soon came up with an appropriate one.

  “I knew a jolly old spider, and she always used t’say,

  she could dive in a bath of cider, an’ swim around all day.

  Oh I would like to be that spider,

  floatin’ round in sparklin’ cider,

  she’d drink an drink, ’til she started to sink,

  there’d be so much cider inside o’ that spider!

  I once knew a friendly flea, to whom I used to chat,

  his favourite drink was ice-cold tea, what d’ye think of that?

  Oh I would like to be that flea,

  sippin’ cups of ice-cold tea,

  all in fine fettle from a rusty kettle,

  ’til I drank as much tea as that flea!

  O cider spider, tea an’ flea,

  ’tis all good manner o’ drinks for me.

  I’m an absolute whizz for strawberry fizz,

  I’ll sup old ale ’til I turn pale,

  I’d never bilk at greensap milk.

  Give this ripsnorter some rosehip water,

  or cordial fine made from dandelion,

  give me a barrel it’s mine all mine,

  just tip me the nod or give me a wink,

  an’ I’ll drink an’ drink an’ drink . . .

  an’ dri . . . hi . . . hi . . . hiiiiiiiink!”

  Saro covered her ears with both paws and roared, “Enough! I can’t stand no more o’ that caterwaulin’, give that hare a drink. Give everybeast a drink!”

  Fenna passed the canteen around, allowing each of the group one good mouthful. Horty was onto his second swig when the otter snatched the canteen from him and stoppered it. “Ye great guzzlin’ gizzard, don’t ye know when t’stop?”

  Horty gave him a hurt look and belched. “Beg pardon, sah. Miserable blinkin’ bangtail, I barely wet me lips, wot!”

  Bragoon grabbed the young hare by his fluffy tailscut and tugged hard. “One more word and ye’ll be wearin’ this as a bobble twixt yore ears. Now belt up an’ march!”

  It was hard, hot and dusty out on the flatlands, but they trekked doggedly onward. Even the breeze was like the heat from an open oven door. With neither shade nor shadow to shelter from the ruthless eye of the blazing sun, it soon became an effort to walk.

  Bragoon licked his dry lips. Dropping his pack, he crouched down on his hunkers. “Phew! I tell ye, mates, I never knew a day could get so hot. We’ll rest here awhile.”

  The aged squirrel set about making things comfortable. She laced their cloaks together and made a lean-to. Weighting one end of the cloaks with their supply packs, she propped up the other end with two travelling staves
. “That’ll give us a bit o’ shade. Get under it, an’ we’ll take another drink. Mebbe we’ll have a nap ’til it gets cooler. Then we can travel in the evenin’.”

  The otter dug a beaker out of his pack. “Good idea, mate. Fenna, pass me the canteen. I’ll measure our drinks out, so nobeast gets any less.” Here he glanced at Horty. “Or more than the others!”

  They were each allowed one half-beaker, which they sipped gratefully.

  Horty quaffed his off in a single gulp. “Bit measly, wot! Where’s the food?” He was the only one who felt like eating; the others stretched out and tried to rest.

  Fenna watched the hare stuff down candied fruits. “That will make you even thirstier. The sweetness will start you wanting to drink more.”

  Horty waggled his ears at her. “Oh pish tush an’ fol de rol, miss, I like eatin’, doncha know!”

  Bragoon opened one eye, remarking ironically, “Ye like eatin’, really? I’d never have known if’n ye hadn’t told me so! Put that haversack back on the cloak ends, or the wind’ll blow our shelter away.”

  Springald dreamt she was back at Redwall, paddling in the Abbey pond. Cool, wet banksand slopped between her footpaws as she splashed happily about. Sister Portula and the Abbot came strolling across the dewy lawn. Although the mousemaid could hear what they were saying, their voices sounded different.

  “All gone! Every flippin’ thing is confounded well gone, wot?” Springald wakened to see the reddish evening light through clouds of dust. Horty was stamping about outside the lean-to entrance, sobbing hoarsely. “Every blinkin’ drop t’drink, an’ every mouthful of scoff. Gone, gone, we’ve been robbed, flamin’ well looted!”

  Bragoon grabbed the hare and shook him. “Stop that bawlin’, calm down an’ tell us wot ’appened.”

  Springald gathered round with Fenna and Sarobando to hear Horty’s woeful tale.

  “Couldn’t sleep, y’know, too bally hot, wot. I was jolly thirsty, too, so I got up an’ went outside t’get the canteen out of the haversacks. Some blighter’s filched the lot. They’ve left rocks in their place. Go an’ see f’y’self!”

  It was true: five rocks sat holding down the rear of the lean-to, where the five packs of food and drink had been stowed.

  Saro held up her paws. “Be still, there may be tracks, pawprints or dragmarks!”

  She went down on all fours, eyes close to the dusty earth, nose twitching as she sniffed. A moment later, she stood up with a look of disgust on her face. “Nothing! Not a single trace. Must’ve been an experienced thief who did it.”

  Bragoon commented wryly. “A beast would have t’be clever to survive in this wasteland. Well, that’s it! No good weepin’ o’er stolen supplies, we’ll just have t’get on with it. While ’tis dark the weather’s cooler, so we’ll travel by night, at the double. Right, Saro?”

  The old squirrel nodded and began issuing guidelines. “Aye, mate. March fast an’ silent, no talkin’. We don’t know wot’s out there in the darkness. ’Tis strange territory, so stick together an’ hold paws. There’ll be no time for restin’.”

  She wagged a stern paw at the young hare. “Listen good, Horty, this ain’t a game anymore, see. If you start yammerin’ on about food’n’drink, or causin’ any upset, ye’ll be riskin’ our lives. Just march, do as yore told an’ shut that great mouth o’ yours, d’ye hear?”

  Horty placed a paw over his own mouth and drew the other paw across his throat in a slitting motion.

  Springald nodded. “I think he’s gotten the idea. Quick march!”

  Off they went into the day’s last crimson-tinged twilight—without food, drink or any hope of rest. The five small figures were dwarfed by the immensity of a dust-blown, trackless desert. Hidden eyes watched their departure, and sinister shapes rose from the earth to follow the questors.

  27

  The storm broke over Redwall at about the same time that Raga Bol killed Jibsnout. Foremole Dwurl gazed gloomily out of the dormitory window at the windswept deluge outside. He blinked as lightning illuminated the room and thunder barraged overhead.

  “B’aint no use a throwen pepper at vurmints in ee gurt rainystorm. Bo urr, nay, zurr!”

  Martha wheeled her chair to the window and peered out. “Hmm, I wonder how the vermin are coping with this downpour.”

  Abbot Carrul sighed. “Who knows? Martha, please keep an eye on them. Right, let’s get on with this Council Meeting.”

  Outside, fat raindrops beat a deafening tattoo on the walls of the Abbey, its lawns nearly underwater. Badredd and his gang had commandeered the gatehouse. They lay about, wrapped in sheets, blankets and window curtains, using the material to dab at their sorely inflamed nostrils. Sneezing had become pure agony, with the membranes of their nostrils and throats red-raw from the bombardment of hotroot pepper.

  Plumnose was having the worst of it. Each time he sniffed, his pendulous nose wobbled and vibrated. Throwing off the bedspread he had been wearing, the suffering ferret made for the gatehouse door.

  “Duh, I’b goin’ oudd inna rain tuh lay dowd an’ ledda rained water clear be node. Id mide wash idd out!”

  Halfchop sneezed painfully as he volunteered to accompany him. “Kachuuub!”

  The Abbey Council had decided on a desperate scheme. Twoscore of the most able-bodied Redwallers would storm the gatehouse and make an end of the vermin. They stood ready to go, each armed with some form of homemade weapon: kitchen knives tied to window poles formed spears, long-handled garden spades, forks and hoes, together with coopering mallets and stave hatchets from the cellars.

  Toran, serving as commander of the group, leaned against the windowsill, going over the scheme for a second time. “Listen, friends, ’tis no use barricadin’ ’em in the gatehouse. We’ve got to make an end to it, invade the place, break in an’ slay every last one o’ them. No half-measures if we want a peaceful life for us an’ the little ’uns. I’ll go through the door first, the rest o’ you follow me. Show no quarter once yore inside! Sister Portula, Foremole Dwurl an’ yore two moles there, Burney’n’Yooler, you stay outside an’ get any who tries to break out an’ run off. Any questions?”

  Muggum saluted with a copper ladle he had brought from the kitchen. “No, zurr, oi’ll do moi dooty, doan’t you’m wurry!”

  Martha lifted him onto her lap and took the ladle. “Your duty is to stay here with the rest of us and guard the Abbey door. This storm has set in for a good while yet. Once it goes dark, Toran and his friends will have the advantage of night cover and rain. The vermin won’t be expecting them to attack. Meanwhile, we’ll guard the door and make sure only Redwallers get back inside. It’s a very important job, Muggum. Can you do it?”

  The molebabe narrowed his eyes, glaring suspiciously at Toran’s attack party. “Ho, oi can do et, Miz Marth’, doan’t ee fret. They’m b’aint a-getten back in yurr iffen they’m b’aint theyselves!”

  Toran shook the molebabe’s paw. “Well said, matey!”

  Abbot Carrul stood up on one of the truckle beds and delivered a homily to his beloved Abbey creatures. Everybeast fell silent, respectfully bowing their heads as he spoke out.

  “Fortune and fates be with you all,

  you who fight for the right,

  some will stand, others fall,

  never to return this night.

  But fear ye not, my loving friends,

  be strong of limb and heart,

  knowing that peace depends on you,

  let courage play its part.

  Tranquillity and calm spread wide,

  through this our dear homeland,

  justice and truth go by your side,

  which evil cannot withstand.”

  Though Martha did not say it, she wished now more than ever that her two friends, Sarobando and Bragoon, had stayed.

  Thunder exploded overhead; jagged forks of lightning tore through the fading light. Raga Bol and his Searats pounded on Redwall Abbey’s main gate. Hearing the noise, Halfchop and Plumnose padded soggil
y to the gate.

  Plumnose placed an ear against it, calling out, “Who’d dat?”

  A sabre was at Flinky’s neck as he answered. “Sure, ’tis only me’n me mate Crinktail. We’re gettin’ drowned out here. Open up an’ let us in, Plummy!”

  The two crewbeasts lifted the wooden bar, allowing the door to swing inward. Flinky and Crinktail were flung in, landing face down in the mud as the Searats poured through. Raga Bol seized the ferret’s nose and twisted it, bringing Plumnose up on his pawtips, squealing in agony.

  “Yeeee! Ledd go!”

  The captain let go and kicked Plumnose flat in the mud. “So yore the big bad warrior wot put this place to siege, eh?”

  He roared with laughter as the ferret held a paw tenderly around his bruised nose and pointed to the gatehouse. “Nodd me. Badredd’s in dere, he did idd!”

  The little fox was half asleep as the gatehouse door crashed off its hinges. He was dumbstruck at the sight that greeted him. Raga Bol strode forcefully in, squinting one eye as he glared ferociously around.

  “Which one of ye is Badredd?”

  The crew, terrified out of their wits by half a hundred Searats leering through the doorway at them, pointed quickly at the fox. Raga’s polished pawhook latched into Badredd’s belt, jerking the fox face-to-face with him. The barbaric captain’s murderous eyes bored into the fox’s numbed gaze. “So then, liddle laddo, yore the mighty Badredd?”

  Speech deserted him, Badredd could only stammer. “Y . . . Y . . . Yu . . . Ya . . . y-y-y-”

  Raga Bol shook him like a rag doll, covering the little fox with spittle as he roared into his face. “Don’t stan’ there makin’ noises like an idjit! Are ye or aren’t ye Badredd, ye runty buffoon?”

  The fox nodded furiously, as he heard his own voice squeak out, “Yis!”

  The sea captain turned to his crew, gold fangs asparkle as he grinned at them. “Well now, ain’t that nice. Say ’ello to our new cap’n, buckoes!”