Mossflower (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Martin put down his bowl. ‘Then you’ve seen Salamandastron?’

  ‘Oh aye, passed it a few times when I was in the galleys,’ Log-a-Log agreed. ‘Big mountain, fiery at night. Sea rats don’t like it, though.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about the sea rats. My father went off to fight them up north. He was never heard of again. Tell me, Log-a-Log, do you know the way to Salamandastron?’

  The shrew pointed with a ladle. ‘Over those mountains and due west.’

  Dinny was stroking Grubwhacker. ‘Hurr, can ’ee go thurr by stream, Gloglog?’

  The shrew paced the cave with his lips pursed. Silently they watched him. Finally he stopped alongside Dinny and the beetle. Taking a loaf and a piece of cooked fish, he placed them upon Grubwhacker’s back, where they could be carried without falling off. Log-a-Log patted his pet affectionately.

  ‘Go on Grubwhacker,’ he told him. ‘Back to your missus and the little uns.’

  The beetle trundled off obediently.

  The shrew turned to Martin and his friends. ‘Right. Load the boat up with supplies. I’ll get the mast and sail ready to rig up.’

  Gonff stood up. ‘Why, matey, what are we supposed to be doing?’

  Log-a-Log grunted as he heaved a heavy mast timber from the back of the cave. ‘We’re going to see if that old stream will take us under the mountain. That’s the shortest route to Salamandastron. I wouldn’t chance it on my own, but now that I’ve got a crew. . . .’

  BOOK TWO

  Salamandastron

  27

  SKIPPER HOBBLED INTO the dining room at Brockhall. He sat down with a sigh of relief, rubbing his tail and paws.

  Fortunata and Mask were clearing away the lunchtime dishes. The sly vixen nodded toward Skipper and winked at her companion. Mask looked slightly bemused, but Fortunata winked again as she sauntered over to the otter.

  ‘What seems to be the trouble, sir?’ she asked solicitously. ‘Is it an old injury?’

  Skipper shook his head and continued rubbing. ‘No, it’s these pains I get in me paws and tail. The minute I come out of the water, or even after a rainshower these days, it starts throbbing right into me old bones. Ooh, the pains, matey. It’s agony!’

  Fortunata crouched in front of Skipper. ‘Here, allow me to take a look, sir. I’m a healer of pains.’

  First she stroked the fur on Skipper’s paws, then she probed and tested with her claws. The otter put on a fine display of anguish.

  ‘Ow, ooch,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s it, right there. You touched the very spot.’

  The vixen stroked her whiskers, looking very professional. ‘Hmm, yes, I think you’ve got a touch of the stiffeners,’ she told him.

  Skipper expressed concern. ‘The stiffeners? Float me tail, is that bad?’

  Fortunata shook her head gravely. ‘It will be if you let it get any worse. I’ve seen otters bent double with the stiffeners. Very, very, painful indeed.’

  ‘Can you cure me, Besomtail?’ he asked.

  Fortunata leaned against the table. ‘Feverfew, wormwood, extract of nightshade leaf to stop the pain, that’s what you need. Plus, of course, a few other items that I don’t normally carry with me.’

  ‘But you can get them?’ Skipper asked hopefully.

  Fortunata smiled at Mask. ‘Well, I suppose so. Though I’ll have to go out into the woods to gather them. What d’you say, Patchcoat?’

  Mask had caught on to the scheme. ‘Right, Besomtail,’ he said. ‘We’d better go out into the woodlands and hunt for the stuff. After all they’ve done for us here, it’d be a shame to watch this poor otter suffer when we can help him.’

  Fortunata kept her voice light and casual. ‘Of course we’d need a couple of helpers, creatures that aren’t needed for other duties. What about those two little hedgehogs? I’ll bet they’d love a romp in the woods.’

  Spike and Posy (disguised as Ferdy and Coggs) were eager to help. Goody Stickle wiped their snouts with her apron corner.

  ‘Now mind you don’t go a botherin’ the healers,’ she warned them. ‘Behave yourselves like two liddle gentle’ogs.’

  Fortunata patted them gingerly on their heads. ‘Oh they’ll be just fine with old Patchcoat and me, marm.’

  The healer and her assistant strode off, in the wake of the two small hedgehogs who scampered playfully ahead. Mask hitched the medicine bag around his neck as he trudged along with the vixen.

  ‘Here, Besomtail, what are you up to now?’ he asked. ‘I thought we were supposed to escape back to Kotir and tell this Queen of yours where the woodlanders are hiding out.’

  Fortunata ducked an overhanging branch. ‘That’s exactly what we’re going to do, Patchcoat, but there’s no harm in bringing back a couple of escaped prisoners while we’re about it. You wait and see. It’ll be an extra feather in both our caps, though I’d hate to be one of those young hedgehogs when Tsarmina has them back under her claws.’

  Mask felt a cold hatred for the cruel vixen, but long practice had taught him to keep a straight face.

  Fortunata watched the two little ones tussling happily in the loam. ‘We’ll get the credit for them, eh, mate.’

  ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you today.’ Mask’s voice had sunk to a grim whisper.

  Fortunata only half-heard her strange companion. ‘Eh, what’s that?’

  Mask looked around him. ‘I said, I’m not sure if this is the way.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t tell me we’re lost,’ Fortunata groaned.

  Mask pointed to a fork in the trail. ‘No, wait a moment, it’s one of these two paths. Listen, I’ll take this path to the right and keep an eye on these hedgehogs. You take the one to the left. If it’s the real trail, you’ll come across a fallen beech. Give me a call. If I find the beech on my trail, I’ll give you a yelp.’

  Fortunata parted from them, calling out to the hedgehogs, ‘Be good, little ones. Stay with Uncle Patchcoat. I’ll see you later.’

  When the vixen was gone, Mask sat on a chestnut stump. He gave Spike and Posy a sugared hazelnut each.

  ‘You’re not really our Uncle Patchcoat, are you?’ Posy giggled.

  Mask patted her gently. ‘No, I’m not. And Besomtail isn’t your aunt. But I don’t think we’ll be seeing her again.’

  Spike stared gravely at the otter. ‘Can we call you Mr Mask again?’

  Mask gave them his canteen to drink from. He wiped nut fragments from their faces with his false tail.

  ‘Not until we’re safe back at Brockhall tonight,’ he said firmly. ‘Pretend for now that I really am your Uncle Patchcoat.’

  Posy hugged the false tail to her comfortingly. ‘You’re a nice old Uncle Patchcoat.’

  Beneath his disguise Mask blushed with pleasure.

  Fortunata spotted the fallen beech ahead. She leaned against it with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Phew! Thank the fang this is the right trail,’ she said aloud. ‘Soon as I get my breath back I’ll give Patchcoat a call.’

  ‘You’ve done all the calling you’re going to do, traitor!’ Lady Amber and ten squirrels dropped from the trees and stood blocking the vixen’s path, each with an arrow notched on a drawn bowstring.

  Instinctively Fortunata knew her plans had gone badly astray. She cowered down with drooping ears.

  ‘It was Patchcoat,’ she whined. ‘I wasn’t going to harm the little ones. He forced me to go along with his wicked plans. He said that—’

  ‘Silence, fox!’

  Lady Amber dropped her bushy tail flat along the ground.

  Ten bowstrings strained tighter.

  The squirrel leader pointed an accusing paw at the trapped spy. ‘We knew who you were from the moment you entered these woods,’ she rasped. ‘When you left Brockhall today I was only a treetop away from you. I heard every word that passed between you and Mask.’

  Fortunata crouched low, trying to offer as small a target as possible.

  ‘No, you’ve got it wrong, he’s Patchcoat the mer
cenary,’ she argued. ‘I don’t know any creature called Mask. Wait, yes I do, there’s another fox named Mask. He lives over by Kotir – a real evil creature. He’s the one you want. I’ll take you to him.’

  ‘Spare me your lies, fox.’ Amber’s voice was flat and harsh. ‘You have lived the life of a traitor and earned the reward of treachery. Tell your deceitful tales to whoever meets you at the gates of Dark Forest.’

  Amber’s tail flicked upright like a banner.

  Ten arrows flew straight and true!

  ‘O for the life of a sailormouse,

  It’s better than Kotir gaol,

  A rest for the weary travelling paws,

  With the wind to drive our sail.

  There’s a shrew for skipper

  Two mice for mates,

  And a mole for a cabin boy. When we sight Salamandastron,

  We’ll shout out loud, Ahoy!’

  Mid-afternoon on the waters of the Great South Stream saw the friends learning to handle the boat that Log-a-Log had named Waterwing. Martin was taking a turn at the tiller under the shrew’s guiding paw, while Gonff charged about playfully trying to air his new-found nautical knowledge.

  ‘Keep her downwind, me lads. Steady at the tiller there. Watch your larboard side, Cap’n Log-a-Log. Bring the helm a point to starboard. Steady as she goes!’

  Dinny was definitely not cut out for a sailor’s life. The young mole lay amidships clutching his stomach.

  ‘Burr oo, ’ush ’ee, Gonffen. This yurr pore mole be a-dyen. Yurr, c’n oi goo ashore an’ walk apiece, ’twould stopp ’ee wurld goen round.’

  Log-a-Log produced some herbs for Dinny to chew upon. After a while he felt better, but he kept up a steady stream of comments.

  ‘Oi’d as soon be a gurt burdbag flyen in ’ee sky than sailen on this yurr streamer.’

  Martin watched the stream carefully. The mountains towered right over them now, blocking out the sky ahead.

  ‘Log-a-Log, have you noticed the current? It’s very swift here and getting heavier. We’re moving along a bit too fast for my liking.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve noticed the stream is starting to take a steep downward course, Martin.’ The shrew looked worried yet spoke calmly. ‘Here, Gonff. Let’s see you take the sail in and drop the mast. Better lend a paw, Martin and Dinny. I’ll take the tiller.’

  As they worked, the water began to get very choppy. Crested foamheads began appearing around rocks which stuck up like jagged teeth in the swirling flow. Log-a-Log was stretched to his limit holding the tiller and manoeuvring Waterwing. The little craft began to buck and tilt; water was splashing in heavily over the forard end.

  ‘Leave the mast.’ The shrew’s voice boomed out above the roar of water. ‘As long as the sail’s down, bale her out before we’re swamped. Hurry!’

  Waterwing leapt about like a frenzied salmon. The thunder of the stream rose, echoing from the mouth of a dark tunnel forming overhead. Hanging bushes and vegetation clawed at the small crew, while rocks pounded dangerously at the sides of the boat. Without warning, they were swept deep into the tunnel. The stream became a waterfall.

  In a mad torrent of boiling white water they were hurled over the brink of the chasm. Waterwing hung for a second in space, then plunged into the abyss. The mast struck the mountainside. It snapped with a resounding crack and came crashing down onto them.

  Tsarmina stood in her usual position at the high chamber window, Cludd waiting dutifully at one side.

  ‘Spring vegetables aren’t much use, Cludd. Find out what the birds like to eat, and scatter some of it about. Set some traps and get the archers out. Fat woodpigeons, a juicy thrush or two – that’s the sort of thing we need.’

  ‘Yes, Milady, I’ll see to it right away.’ The weasel Captain trudged off obediently.

  Tsarmina leaned farther out the window, scanning the wood fringe. ‘No, wait!’

  A strange-looking fox emerged from the undergrowth, tugging two little hedgehogs along on a rope. It was plain to see he was in a hurry. Behind the trio, a band of otters and squirrels came dashing in pursuit. Looking backward at his pursuers, the fox tripped over the rope. The woodlanders dashed forward and pounced upon him.

  Tsarmina shoved Cludd to the door. ‘Quick, quick. Get down there and grab the nearest troops. Help the fox. Hurry!’

  The wildcat Queen raced back to the window yelling aloud, ‘Hold on, fox. We’re getting help out to you. Keep hold of those hedgehogs!’

  The stranger put up what appeared to be a good fight. Unfortunately, he was outnumbered. One group of woodlanders kept him busy defending himself, while several squirrels slashed the rope from the captive hedgehogs, bearing them off into the trees, away into thick wooded Mossflower.

  Late again! Tsarmina slammed her paw hard against the windowsill.

  Down below, Cludd and a party of soldiers raced toward the melee. The woodlanders broke off the attack, vanishing like smoke into the undergrowth.

  Tsarmina was standing in the entrance hall as Cludd escorted the newcomer in. She peered closely at the odd-looking stranger.

  Mask panted heavily, slumping down on his haunches. ‘Whew, those squirrels and otters fight like madbeasts!’

  Tsarmina circled him. ‘You didn’t do too badly yourself.’ There was grudging admiration in her voice. ‘What’s your name? How did you come here?’

  Mask looked up at the wildcat. ‘I’m called Patchcoat. You must be Queen Tsarmina of the Thousand Eyes. Fortunata told me about you.’

  ‘So, you’ve met the vixen. Where is Fortunata now?’

  Mask shrugged. ‘Probably lying in the woods, full of squirrel arrows. She was too slow to keep up. I could have beaten those woodlanders to here easily if it hadn’t been for that great dozy lump.’

  Stupidly, Cludd stepped forward. He prodded the strange fox with his spear. ‘You still haven’t told Milady why you’re here, fox.’

  With a deft movement, Mask grabbed the spear, thudded the butt into Cludd’s midriff, bowled him over and was standing on his chest with his dagger pressed against the weasel’s throat.

  ‘Listen, fatguts,’ he growled dangerously. ‘I’ll make you eat that spear if you ever poke it at me again. Remember that. My name’s Patchcoat the mercenary, see. I sell my blade to the highest bidder.’

  Mask stood on Cludd’s nose with one paw and executed a neat turn to teach the weasel a painful lesson. Without even looking to see the result he turned to Tsarmina.

  ‘Ha, you could do with some proper fighters, Queen. Especially if that oaf and Fortunata are a specimen of what you keep around here.’

  Tsarmina showed her great fangs in an approving smile. ‘Well, at last a real warrior. Welcome to Kotir, Patchcoat. I’m sure you’ll do well here. Cludd, get up off the floor and give this fox your Captain’s cloak to wear. From now on you’ll take orders from him.’

  Sullenly Cludd undid his cloak, flinging it to Mask.

  Ashleg stumped in with a band of soldiers. He threw a healer’s bag upon the floor.

  ‘We tried tracking those woodlanders, Milady,’ he reported sadly. ‘But they’re well away. I found Fortunata east of here, full of arrows. Her body is out on the parade ground.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘As a doornail, Milady.’

  ‘Then what do I want with a slain fox?’ Tsarmina asked impatiently. ‘Throw it out in the woods for the eagle.’

  Tsarmina started back up the staircase. ‘Patchcoat, I’ll be up in my chamber. Come up later. I’m sure we have plenty to discuss together.’

  Mask fastened on the cloak of Captaincy. ‘Aye, later, Milady. First I want to inspect these cells Fortunata told me about. Maybe I can discover how two young hedgehogs escaped from them so easily.’

  Tsarmina climbed the stairs pensively. This strange fox was certainly a lucky find.

  28

  TIME STOOD STILL. Martin imagined he was back under the river in Mossflower being towed along by an otter. Everything was pitch-black and ice-cold. A m
illion thoughts rushed through his brain, bringing memories flooding back: his father leaving to fight the sea rats . . . Tsarmina snarling at him . . . the kind face of Bella at Brockhall . . . Dinny chuckling as he wrestled with Gonff. . . . Everything whirled together into one great maelstrom of crashing water, then there was silence.

  Martin felt mossy ground against his wet back.

  ‘Not dead, bring medicine, medicine,’ a sibilant voice was saying somewhere close.

  The warrior mouse felt some vile-tasting liquid being poured between his lips. He opened his eyes.

  He was lying on a broad ledge, which was covered in velvety moss. Soft light cast flickering luminous water patterns around the rock face. A mouse was standing over him, another crouched nearby. Martin took a second look. Surely these creatures could not be mice? They had very little fur, black leathery skin and, oddest of all, wings!

  The one nearest pushed the bowl toward Martin with a black claw.

  Martin smelt the putrid medicine and pushed it away. ‘No more, thank you. I’m all right now. Where am I? Who are you?’

  ‘Lie still, lie still. We are the tribe of Lord Cayvear who is ruler of Bat Mountpit. You will not be harmed, not be harmed,’ the creature assured him.