Saro ate it with relish but could not resist a wry remark. “Mmm, tastes good, but I ain’t even goin’ to ask wot’s in it.”
Horty licked honey from his paws and reached for another scone. “Just as well really, marm. Wild frogs wouldn’t drag the recipe from me. We cooks have our secrets, y’know!”
Toobledum and Bubbub did the lunch full justice. Springald was astounded at the amount the little lizard ate.
The dormouse just laughed at Bubbub’s appetite. “Proper likkle famine face, ain’t he?”
Bragoon began questioning Toobledum, warming to the aim of their quest. “This spot we’re searchin’ for, it’s a grave I think. Lissen to these few lines, mate, an’ see if’n ye can throw any light on ’em.
“Beneath the flower that never grows,
Sylvaticus lies in repose.
My secret is entombed with her,
look and think what you see there.”
“I want ye to pay attention, Toobledum. Do ye know anyplace ’ereabouts that sounds like wot I’ve just said?”
The dormouse pulled down his hat brim, muttering darkly, “That’ll be the dead place. We never goes over there, do we, mate?”
Bubbub snuggled tight against the dormouse and shook his head.
Springald pursued the enquiry. “Whyever not? The dead never hurt anybeast, and I wager those buried there have been dead long before you were born.”
Toobledum shook his head. “Say wot ye likes, miss, but there’s nights when the wind blows an’ I’ve ’eard ’em moanin’.”
Horty took a light view of this sinister statement. “Maybe they get jolly hungry down there. Come on, old scout, up on your hunkers an’ show us where the old graveyard is, wot!”
The dormouse refused flatly. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres near that place, ye can go an’ see it for yoreselves. Walk south across the valley until ye see flat stones. They’re all laid this way an’ that, ye can’t miss ’em. That’s the buryin’ garden. I think it was once inside the ole Abbey. I’ve only been there once, an’ I ain’t goin’ there agin, nohow!”
Leaving the dormouse and his lizard, the five travellers set out, following his directions.
The ancient burying place was quiet and peaceful in the noontide sun. A few bees hummed, and grasshoppers chirruped on the still, warm air.
Saro sat down on one of the flat stones and looked about. “Nice ole spot, ain’t it. Sort of a garden o’ memories.”
Fenna brushed the dust from a lopsided oblong of limestone. “See what this says: Sister Ethnilla, victim of the great sickness, gone to the sunny slopes and silent streams.”
Bragoon traced a paw across the graven words. “Pore creature, there must be a lot of her kind buried ’ere. Sunny slopes an’ quiet streams, eh? I like that.”
Springald and Horty were inspecting the stones further afield.
The young hare’s voice interrupted the otter’s reverie. “I say, you chaps, what was the name we were lookin’ for, Sivvylaticus or somesuch? I think I’ve found it. Yoooohaaaw!”
Bragoon sprang upright as Horty’s yell disturbed the peace. “Wot’s that lop-eared noisebag up to now?”
Springald was shouting. “Over here, quick, Horty’s fallen down a grave!”
They dashed over to where the mousemaid was hopping about agitatedly as she pointed to a yawning dark hole. “Down there, he’s fallen right through. One moment he was standing, pointing to this big stone, then something broke and he vanished!”
The otter pulled her aside. “Stand clear, miss, or ye might be the next one to disappear.” He called down into the pitch-black space. “Horty, are ye alright, mate?”
There was no reply, just a faint echo of his own voice.
40
Raga Bol was at his wit’s end; the Searat crew had begun to desert. He kicked out at Firzin, a rat he had posted on the main gate, screaming, “Wot’n the name o’ thunder d’ye mean, nobeast has got by ye all day? Did ye unlock this gate fer anythin’?”
Firzin cringed against the gate, which he had guarded faithfully on his captain’s orders. “On me oath, Cap’n, I’ve kept the gate tight locked!”
Bol glared this way and that, slashing at the air with his scimitar. “The walltops are too high for ’em to jump, so how’ve they got out? Rinj, wot d’you think?”
Rinj, who had been close to Bol all day, shrugged. “Wot about those liddle gates, Cap’n? There’s one in the middle of each of the three outer walls. Bet they went through them, eh?” The Searat captain’s gold fangs flashed as he snarled. “I told Argubb to post guards on those wallgates this mornin’. Go an’ see if’n they’re still there!”
Rinj sidled out of the scimitar’s range. “They ’ad to stand in plain sight o’ the winders, Cap’n. That big stripedog took the three of ’em out wid his arrers.”
Raga Bol peered around the wall buttress, which was sheltering him and his two crewrats from the Abbey windows. “Get in the gate’ouse, both of ye, quick!”
The three rats crouched, swerving in a dead run around the buttress. They made it into the gatehouse and slammed the door. The timbers shook as an arrow hit the door, its barbed point showing through the wood.
Firzin wailed, “We’re all deadbeasts if’n we stay in this place. There ain’t nowhere to ’ide from the stripedog!”
One icy glare from his captain was sufficient to frighten the Searat into silence. Bol looked from one to the other, his face deadly calm, his voice low. “Wot’s the number o’ crew left d’ye reckon, Rinj?”
The rat thought for a moment. “Just over a score, Cap’n. That’s countin’ us three.”
Since early that day, Raga Bol had been scheming furiously. His back was against the wall, but he was determined that eventually he would triumph. Then it came to his mind in a flash—he knew that he had the answer. All he had to do was convince his crew.
Slumping down in an armchair, he shook his head sadly, acting more like one of the Searat messmates than their captain. “No more’n a score left out o’ fifty, eh? I tell ye, mates, ’tis a sorry day. I suppose every one of ye wants t’see the back o’ this place now. Speak up, I won’t harm ye.”
Firzin summoned up his courage. “Aye, Cap’n, they’re all sayin’ we’re deadbeasts if’n we stays at this Abbey. Ain’t that right, Rinj?”
The other rat nodded. “Aye, mate, gettin’ away from ’ere’s the sensible thing to do, shore enough.”
Raga Bol gave a rueful little smile, as if in agreement. “Mebbe yore right. But just think, mates, if we’d ’ave killed the stripedog an’ won, eh? Redwall woulda been ours! The good life, me buckoes! Everybeast of us’d be livin’ like kings now, wid slaves, loot, vittles an’ a place t’call ’ome fer the winter. Strange ’ow things turn out, ain’t it? Now we got to cut’n’run, all because o’ one stripedog who should’ve been dead now by rights.
“Aye, we’ve got no ship, we’re a season’s march from saltwater an’ I’ve lost near a score an’ a half of the best Searats a cap’n ever ’ad. Now we got nothin’, we’ll ’ave to tramp the land like beggars.”
Rinj and Firzin had never seen their captain like this before. They shuffled their footpaws and tails awkwardly.
Then Bol dropped a single word: “Unless!” Both crewrats were immediately curious.
“Unless wot, Cap’n?”
“Have ye got a plan, Cap’n?”
Raga Bol leaned forward, his eyes gleaming craftily. “Hoho, mates, I got a plan alright. Now ’earken t’me an’ lissen!”
Abbot Carrul and Toran were sitting in the kitchens. They looked up as Martha entered. The ottercook indicated a heap of arrows, lying ready on the table.
“Does ’e want more shafts?”
The haremaid shook her head. “Not at the moment. Granmum Gurvel and I have piled arrows at every windowsill.”
The Abbot poured her a beaker of cold mint tea. “What’s going on out there, Martha? You and old Gurvel are the only ones who can get close to Lonna. What’s he up
to?”
Martha took a sip of the tea. “It’s all quiet at the moment. He’s roaming the upper corridors, watching from the windows. It’s dreadful out there—dead Searats by the pond, on the walls and by the orchard. I think a few of them have deserted, gone through the east wallgate into the woods. Lonna is still prowling about watching the grounds, though he seems to have calmed down a little. It was frightening just to set eyes on him this morning!”
Toran brought out a stool for Martha to sit upon. “Mayhaps the Searats are gettin’ ready to leave, or it might only be the calm afore the storm. Who knows wot Raga Bol’s got in that evil brain—another scheme, per’aps. We’ll just have t’sit an’ wait. Wot d’ye think Martha?”
The haremaid rested her weary footpaws. It had not been an easy day so far, running up and down stairs, keeping the badger supplied with arrows. “I think it’s gone too quiet, Toran. But who knows how things will turn out? Like you say, we’ll have to wait and see.”
Sister Setiva had been listening from the kitchen doorway. “Och, all this waitin’! Everybeasts’s keepin’ busy, ye ken. They’re all doon in Cavern Hole makin’ arrows, even the Dibbuns. Ah’ve come tae make some food for them. Most of us have no taken a bite since breakfast!”
Toran busied himself, glad for something to do. “Leave it t’me, Sister. I’d forgotten about vittles today. Gurvel’s helpin’ Martha. I should’ve realised we ’ad no cook.”
Abbot Carrul climbed down from his stool. “Here, let me help you, Toran. It’s not right that my Redwallers should go hungry, even in times like these!”
Late afternoon slid into evening. Over beyond the west wall the sun set in solitary splendour. A wash of gold and purple suffused the sky, with blood red at its centre.
Lonna stood alone at the front dormitory windows. He rested against a sill, keeping watch on the gatehouse and its buttressed corner by the main gate. Now that there had been a few hours’ lull from any action, the Bloodwrath had receded from him. His massive frame had relaxed. Lonna felt drained and weary, not having slept in almost two days and nights. Gradually night edged in, bringing with it a soft breeze to cool away the day’s heat. Lonna began blinking a lot, nearly causing the bow to slip from his grasp. Rubbing his eyes and shaking himself, the big badger peered into the darkness, trying to keep his vision fixed on the gatehouse area. Then the voice sounded out.
Lonna came instantly alert as he identified Raga Bol’s rasping tones, calling from somewhere over by the buttress where his arrows could not reach.
“Ahoy, stripedog, I see ye! Still hidin’ in there be’ind the Abbot’s skirts, are ye? Does yore wound still pain ye? Haharr, I should’ve gone for the neck an’ chopped yore ’ead off! Don’t worry, stripedog, Raga Bol ain’t goin’ nowhere. I slayed the old stripedog an’ I kin finish ye, too!”
Brother Weld, who had been checking the window barricades in Great Hall, came hurrying into Cavern Hole. “There’s something happening outside. I can hear the Searat captain shouting to the big badger!”
Toran bounded to the stairs. “Sister Setiva, Sister Portula, keep the little ’uns down ’ere! Anybeast who’s able enough, bring a weapon an’ foller me! Does anyone know where Lonna is?”
Martha seized a ladle. “He was going toward the dormitories at the front when I left him.”
The ottercook wielded the big bung mallet, which had once belonged to Junty Cellarhog. “Let’s see if’n he’s there!”
Martha and Toran burst into the dormitory, at the head of a band of Abbeydwellers. The haremaid could see Lonna’s powerful back, silhouetted in the open window frame. He was shaking with rage but silent. Raga Bol was still taunting him from somewhere outside.
“I don’t slay my enemies from a distance with arrers, that ain’t the way a real warrior fights! But keep yore distance if’n yore scared o’ Raga Bol. Come out ’ere, ye coward, an’ I’ll slice the other side of yer face off afore I leaves the birds to pick over yore carcass!”
Lonna leaped up onto the windowsill, roaring, “I’ll fight you any way you like, you murdering scum!”
Toran leapt forward and grabbed Lonna’s footpaw. “Don’t go, mate, ’tis a trap. There’s still plenty o’ Searats out there. Ye’ll be surrounded!”
The badger dealt Toran a kick, knocking him backward. Raga Bol was visible now, standing slightly to the right on the lawn.
Paws on hips, the big Searat laughed mockingly. “Haharrharr! ’Ere I am, scarmuzzle! Come an’ meet me paw’t’claw widout yore bow’n’arrers fer once. Bring the magic sword an’ cross blades wid Raga Bol if ye dare!”
“Eulaliiiiiaaaaaa!” Nothing could stop the giant badger now. Bellowing his warcry, Lonna jumped from the dormitory window. Luckily, the huge hill of rubble blocking the Abbey door had dried out in the sun. He landed upon it and managed to stay upright. Scrambling and rolling, he thundered down toward the ground. Without a moment’s hesitation, Toran went over the sill after him, with Martha and the rest in his wake.
Raga Bol held the glittering scimitar ready to strike, the silver hook on his other pawstump whirling in readiness. He stood awaiting the badger’s charge, about a spear’s throw from the north wall.
Martha caught up with Toran. She pointed to the north walltop. “Quick, up there, that’s where the Searats are!”
The ottercook veered, heading for the steps as he called to Martha. “Split up, take half our beasts down to the east steps. I’ll go up the north stairs. Weld, Gelf, Foremole, you come with me!”
Oblivious of everything except Raga Bol waiting in his path, Lonna rushed straight at his enemy, armed only with his teeth and claws.
Bol, judging the moment when the badger was within three paces of him, dropped down, yelling out, “Spears, now!”
Lonna did not even bother to dodge the flying spears; three missed him, but one struck his left shoulder. He whipped it out and flung it aside, ignoring the wound. The Bloodwrath was upon him, his eyes red as the sunset he had watched a few hours earlier. His teeth shone from his scarred features in a savage snarl as his huge, blunt claws sought the kneeling Searat captain. Bol was halfway up when the badger grabbed his neck and swung him off the ground.
Raga Bol emitted one strangled gurgle. Then four spears, thrown by the captain’s own Searats and intended for the badger, buried their blades in Raga Bol’s back instead. He died, hanging there like a rag doll in the grip of his mighty foe. The last thing he saw was Lonna Bowstripe roaring into his face.
“Go through Hellgates and burn, rat! Eulaliiiiaaaaaa!”
Holding the limp body in front of him, Lonna charged the wall, bulling up the stairs behind Toran like a juggernaut.
The ottercook shouted to his helpers. “Look out, get to the west wall, let the badger pass! Martha, back off! Git those beasts down t’the lawn!”
The haremaid, who saw what was happening, turned swiftly to the Redwallers behind her. “Get out of the way. Downstairs, now!”
Abbot Carrul confronted her, his blood roused. He waved a sweeping broom, yelling fiercely. “Let me at those rats. I’ll drive them from Redwall, the filthy invaders. How dare they attack my Abbey!” He was grabbed by two stout moles and hustled down the wallsteps.
The ramparts became a scene of chaos. Using Raga Bol as a flail, Lonna swept Searats left and right. Some were knocked over the battlements, their broken bodies thudding to the woodland floor outside the walls. Any who were unfortunate enough to fall onto the lawn inside the Abbey grounds were dealt with by a horde of Redwallers, each eager to be mentioned thereafter as a beast who had taken part in the battle to win back their Abbey.
Lonna stood on the empty walkway, his chest heaving like a bellows, blood oozing from a dozen different wounds. The carcass of Raga Bol resembled a grotesque, oversized pincushion, pierced by an array of spears from Searats who had tried to fend off the badger’s advance.
Cautiously, Toran and his helpers approached from the west walltop. They froze as Lonna whirled around to face them, still holding
Raga Bol’s slain body, the spears hanging from it rattling against the battlements. With a powerful heave, the big badger tossed his onetime enemy over the wall, listening to his body clattering through the tree limbs. Smiling like a Dibbun who had just learned a new trick, Lonna Bowstripe sat down, letting his footpaws dangle over the lawn.
“When Martha brought me to Redwall, I hoped I could be of some help to you.”
The ottercook sat down beside him. “Aye, an’ that ye were, mate, that ye were!”
Woodpigeons were startled from their roosts in Mossflower woodlands. They wheeled about in the night air, wondering why the bells of Redwall Abbey were pealing and booming out at such a late hour.
41
Bragoon crouched, staring down into the pit of the open grave where Horty had disappeared. Saro was fashioning a torch from twigs, grass and moss. Fenna lay flat on the edge of the hole, calling down.
“Horty, if you can hear me, then shout out!”
Springald centred the light of her chunk of rock crystal on the torchtop. Magnified sunrays produced a wisp of smoke, which grew into a small flame. Saro wafted it into a fire.
“I’m the climber, let me go first. Spring an’ Fenna, ye stay up ’ere in case we need anythin’. Fetch the rope, Brag.” Lowering herself over the edge, the aging squirrel dropped a bit, then landed on something solid.
“Stone steps, look!”
A dusty flight of narrow steps ran curving downward into the darkness. Bragoon coiled the rope about his shoulders and followed her carefully. “Slow down, mate—we don’t want t’lose you, too!”
Springald and Fenna watched until the light vanished around the curve, down into the gloom.
The mousemaid shuddered as she sat down by the broken covering stone. “I don’t like this place anymore. It looked so peaceful and sunny at first, but now there’s something about it that gives me the shivers. No wonder Toobledum wouldn’t come here. I hope Horty’s alright.”
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