Mossflower (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Martin nodded, fearing to speak lest his voice did the same.

  Boar smiled, patting the mouse warrior lightly. ‘You are wise beyond your seasons. Now, do not be surprised by what I am going to show you. This is for our eyes alone, Martin – we two warriors.’

  The badger went to the left wall between the entrance and the window, where there was a long deep crack that appeared to be a natural seam in the rock. Setting his great blunt claws deep into the fissure, he began to pull.

  Martin stood in awe at the frightening brute strength of Boar the Fighter. Steely sinews and giant muscles bulged and strained as the badger pulled, grunting quietly deep in his chest. Froth appeared on his jaws with the exertion; still he pulled with might and main, platelike back paws set flat on the rock floor, ponderous claws gouging at the bare stone. With a low rumble the entire wall started to swing outward.

  Martin watched wide-eyed, paws and jaws clenched tight, willing the silver badger to perform this great feat of strength. Boar set his shoulders against one side and his paws against the other. He pushed hard, and the secret doorway stood wide open. Without a word they walked inside.

  It was a narrow hall. One side of the wall was covered in minute carvings, the other was smooth, whilst the far end was a rounded alcove. What Martin saw there stopped him in his tracks so fast that Boar stumbled on him.

  A badger in full armour was seated on a throne in the alcove! Martin felt Boar’s paw upon his back. ‘No need to be afraid, little friend.’ The badger’s voice was calm. ‘This is my father, Old Lord Brocktree.’

  Boar padded silently forward. He touched the armoured badger reverently.

  ‘I went questing for Salamandastron, just as my father did,’ he explained. ‘When I found this place, he was still alive and well. He ruled here, and we were happy together for many seasons. In the end he was called to the gates of Dark Forest because of his great age. Now he is part of the legend of the mountain, as he wished to be. I did this for him; this is his tomb.’ Boar gave the armour a gentle rub; it glowed dimly. Walking back to the entrance, he called Martin over.

  ‘Let us start at the beginning. See here?’ Boar indicated a carved line of badger figures. ‘Our kind have come here since creatures first felt the sun. Only warriors, the brave of heart and strong of will, are listed here. See: Urthrun the Gripper, Spearlady Gorse, Bluestripe the Wild, Ceteruler . . . the list goes on and on. Look, here is my father, Lord Brocktree; here I am, next to him. There are the spaces for those to come after us. I see you wish to ask me a question. Carry on, Martin. I release you from your silence.’

  Martin did not need to speak; he pointed at a block of picture carvings set apart from the others.

  ‘They are good likenesses of you, I think,’ Boar whispered.

  The scene was a small frieze depicting the activities of four creatures. Three were intentionally small, but the fourth was unmistakably Martin, even to the broken sword about his neck. Boar looked at Martin with a strange expression on his face. ‘Friend, believe me, I did not carve these pictures here, nor did my father. How long they have been here, I do not know. I accept it as part of the legend of Salamandastron; you must, too. You are the largest figure, and here are your friends. See, here you are leading them to toward the mountain. Here is Salamandastron, and here are you again, emerging from it with your friends. You no longer carry the broken sword about your neck; you are holding a bright new sword. As for the rest, well, your guess is as good as mine.’

  Martin studied the picture closely. ‘Here is the sea, there is a ship. . . . Over here looks very faint. It could be a group of trees, a wood or a forest. This looks like a whip and an arrow. What does that mean, Boar?’

  ‘Your eyes are far better than mine, Martin. The whip is the scourge of the sea rats, a sign of evil. As for the arrow, which way does it point?’

  ‘Down the hall to where your father sits.’

  Boar indicated the room of echoes. ‘Martin, you must go out there and wait for me.’

  Without question, Martin went, glancing backward once, to see Boar stooping in the alcove behind Lord Brocktree’s throne. He was studying something carved low down on the wall.

  Sometime later the badger emerged. He seemed older and tired-looking, and Martin felt concern for his friend.

  ‘Are you all right, Boar? What was written there?’

  The great silver badger whirled upon Martin, his face a mask of tragedy.

  ‘Silence! Only Boar the Fighter must know that!’

  The sudden shout caused a thousand echoes to boom and bounce off the walls with startling intensity. The sound was deafening. Martin threw himself to the floor, covering both ears with his paws as he fought against the flooding crescendo of noise, Boar’s voice reverberated like a thousand cathedral bells. Sorrow and contrition creased the big badger’s face; he swept Martin up with a single paw, bearing him swiftly from the room.

  When the warrior mouse recovered, he was lying back in the badger’s cave. Boar was bathing his brow with cool water.

  ‘Martin, forgive me. I forgot to keep my voice down. Are you hurt?’

  Martin stuck a paw in his ear, wiggling it about.

  ‘No I’m all right. Honestly I am. You mustn’t blame yourself. It was my fault.’

  Boar shook his head in admiration. ‘Spoken like a true warrior. Rise up, Martin, and follow me. Now I will give you the means to fight like one.’

  Trubbs, Wother and Ffring met them at the forge. There was lots of giggling and winking between the hares.

  ‘Well, does he know about you-know-what, eh, Boar?’

  ‘I say, let’s show it to him now, Boar. Be a sport.’

  ‘Yes, otherwise the poor old bean might keel over with suspense.’

  There was a twinkle in Boar’s eye as he turned to Lupin, the wife of Buffheart.

  ‘What d’you think, Lupin? Is he ready for this?’

  Lupin waggled her long ears humorously as hares do.

  ‘Oh, I suppose so. Anyhow, we’ll soon find out.’

  Boar had moved to the edge of the forge and was toying with something wrapped in soft barkcloth.

  ‘While you slept last night, my hares and I worked until after dawn had broken,’ he said at last. ‘I have made something for you, Martin.’

  The warrior mouse felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He gulped with excitement as Boar continued.

  ‘One night while out on patrol, our Lupin here saw a star fall from the sky. She found the spot where it landed. A lump of hot metal was buried deep in the sand. When it cooled she dug it out and brought it back to me. Last night I put sea coal and charcoal in my forge; more than ever before, I made Salamandastron glow so hot that it could be seen in lands far across the sea. I had to – half the night had gone before the metal became soft. I hammered it out, oiled it, folded it many times against itself on my anvil, all the time reciting the names of every great warrio. I had known or could think of. I spoke your name on the final hammer blow. Here, Martin. This is yours.’

  Everyone gathered round, including the three travellers, who were back from their tour of the mountain. They held their breath as Martin carefully unwrapped the barkcloth, layer by layer.

  It was the sword!

  Double-edged, keener than a razor, it lay glittering and twinkling, a myriad of steely lights. Its tip was pointed like a mountain peak in midwinter, the deadly blade had a three-quarter blood channel. It was perfectly balanced against the hilt, which had been restrapped with hard black leather and finished with a ruby-red pommel stone and curving scrolled crosspiece where it joined the marvellous blade.

  Never in his wildest dreams had Martin imagined such a thing. Since they left Mossflower on the quest, he had more or less forgotten the broken hilt that hung about his neck. Caught up in the adventures and perils they had been through, he had used whatever he had to – a sling, a piece of wood as a stave – never expecting to see his father’s sword restored to a newness which far outshone its hu
mble beginnings. Now, suddenly, he felt the warlike blood of his ancestors rising at the sight of a fighting weapon few were chosen to look upon, let alone own. The feeling of destiny lay strong upon him as he picked up the fascinating weapon in one paw. His hackles rose and the blood gorged in his face, flashing across his eyes. Now he was the Warrior!

  Everyone moved back to the walls as the warrior mouse took his sword in both paws. He held it straight out, letting the point rise slightly to feel the heft of the weapon. Suddenly Martin began sweeping it in circles, up down and around. The steel blade whooshed and sang eerily on its own wind, the bystanders followed its every move as if hypnotized. Martin leapt onto Boar’s anvil, still swinging his sword. There was an audible ping as he sliced the tip from the anvil horn. It ricocheted off the rock walls. They ducked instinctively as it hummed past like an angry wasp, leaving the singing blade unmarked.

  ‘Tsarmina, can you hear me?’ Martin roared out above the voice of the howling blade. ‘I am Martin the Warrior. I am coming back to Mossflowerrrrrrrrrr!’

  38

  AN HOUR BEFORE dawn, Brogg was rubbing sleep from his eyes. He flopped his Thousand Eye Captain’s cloak about him and stumbled into the main billet with Ratflank. They kicked at prostrate forms, pulling tattered blankets from sleeping soldiers.

  ‘Come on, you lot,’ they ordered. ‘Up on your paws. It’s invasion time again.’

  Grumbling and protesting, the troops sat up, scratching at their fur, wiping paws across eyes.

  ‘Gaw! I was havin’ a lovely dream there.’

  ‘Huh, me too. I dreamt we were getting a proper hot breakfast.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky, bucko. Bread and water, and be glad of it.’

  ‘Where’s this fat of the land we’re all supposed to be living off? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Ratflank kicked out at a huddled form wrapped in sacking. A rawboned fox wearing brass earrings leapt up.

  ‘Keep your stupid paws off me, lumphead,’ he snarled. ‘I’m not one of your dimwit soldiers. We only take orders from Bane.’

  Ratflank hurried away, narrowly dodging the bared yellow fangs.

  Bane and Tsarmina paced restlessly about in the entrance hall. The fox banged his paw against a doorpost.

  ‘What’s keeping them?’ he asked impatiently. ‘It’ll be noon by the time we get going at this rate.’

  Tsarmina gritted her teeth, turning she screeched toward the barracks, ‘Brogg, Ratflank, get them out here double quick, or I’ll come in there and move you myself!’

  The first bunch came tumbling out, adjusting tunics, clattering shields on spears.

  ‘Here’s mine. Where’s your crew, Bane?’ Tsarmina smirked.

  Moments later, Bane’s mercenaries strolled casually out in the rear of the uniformed soldiers. The fox commander struck his curved sword against a shield until he got order.

  ‘Right, you lot. Same drill as yesterday – skirmish line, comb the woods, keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you. When we find them, remember: no mercy!’

  The horde moved out toward the parade ground in the courtyard. As the first half-dozen soldiers passed through the doorway into the open, there was a harsh shout from the woodland fringe.

  ‘Fire!’

  A hiss of vicious weaponry cut the air. The six soldiers fell in their tracks, cut down by arrows and javelins.

  ‘Retreat, retreat, get back inside, quick!’ Bane ordered hastily.

  There was panic as the back ranks coming forward stumbled into the front ranks retreating. More troops fell, transfixed by flying death.

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ Tsarmina yelled at Bane.

  Bane stood panting with his back to the wall.

  ‘They’ve got us bottled up in here. Wait a moment. Badtail!’

  The rawboned fox came trotting up. ‘Here Bane.’

  ‘See what the position is out there. Pinpoint where they are and report back to me.’

  Badtail lay flat upon his belly. Sliding around the doorposts, he scrambled out onto the parade ground, tacking and weaving. Halfway across the courtyard he bobbed up and down, checking the trees and scanning the low bushes through the open main gates.

  ‘What d’you see?’ Bane’s voice rang across the open space.

  Still lying flat, Badtail raised his head as he shouted back, ‘Squirrels and otters. They’ve got the main gates open and they’re shooting from the tr—’

  An otter javelin closed his mouth forever.

  Bane poked his head around the doorpost. An arrow hummed its way viciously into the woodwork. He pulled back swiftly as two more buried their points in the doorpost where his head had been.

  Skipper crouched behind a bush and signalled to Lady Amber, who was perched on the low branches of an oak.

  ‘Eleven down and plenty more to go,’ he reported.

  Amber drew back her bowstring and let an arrow fly.

  ‘Make it the round dozen, Skip!’

  Grim-faced and determined, the crews of both leaders tightened paws on bowstrings, slings and javelins, waiting for the next head to show around the doorposts of Kotir fortress.

  Inside the building, confusion followed the panic of the initial attack. Tsarmina dashed upstairs to her chamber, dashing back down again when a fusillade of arrows greeted her through the open window. Bane sat at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Fortunes of war,’ he said philosophically.

  ‘Oh, burn them out, come down hard on them, I’ve seen it all before,’ Tsarmina sneered. ‘Well, fox, what’s your next move?’

  ‘Is there another way out of here?’

  ‘There’s the scullery and larder entrance on the north side, but it’s only a small door.’

  ‘It’ll have to do. Let’s give it a try.’

  At the scullery and larder entrance the door was shut tight with rusted bolts which took some considerable time to move. When it was finally opened, the troops hung about reluctantly. Nobody seemed very keen on dashing out to do battle. Bane prodded a Kotir soldier with his sword.

  ‘Come on. You lot have got shields. Get out there!’

  The stoat turned sullenly to Brogg. ‘He’s not giving me orders. I’ve got six seasons’ service here. Him and his lot only arrived yesterday.’

  Tsarmina rushed up the corridor, thrusting creatures aside. ‘Get out there, you and you,’ she ordered. ‘Form a barrier of shields the way you’ve been trained to do!’

  Her word was final; there was no arguing with the Queen of the Thousand Eyes.

  Three soldiers pushed their way out into the open, shields held up in front. A slingstone cracked the middle ferret on his paw. He yelped with pain, automatically dropping the shield. Arrows hissed in once more, reducing the ranks by a further three.

  High in a sycamore, Barklad fired off an arrow as he remarked to his companion, ‘How long d’you think we can keep this up, Pear?’

  Pear rubbed beeswax on her bowstring before answering.

  ‘Lady Amber says until noon, then it’ll be too late for them to go invading Mossflower. Personally, I think we should encourage them to come out at noon, then we could follow them back and pick them off in the evening.’

  Another squirrel swung in through the branches. ‘Are you two all right for arrows,’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Here’s another quiver full. Give a call if you’re running low.’

  He swung off to the next tree with his supplies.

  Bane tried every possible move, but at each new turn he was frustrated by the deadly accuracy of the woodlanders. Every exit tried, be it window or door, resulted in further loss of troops. The summer morning wore on, the high sun above impervious to the dead that littered the courtyard.

  Tsarmina came up with the most sensible suggestion to date. ‘Why don’t we just shut the doors and ignore them? With nothing to shoot at, they’ll have to leave.’

  Bane was glad of the solution. He would have mentioned it earlier had Tsarmina not been in such a towering rage.

&nb
sp; Skipper was no mean climber. He stood on a low bough with Lady Amber. Together they considered the problem of the doors which were slammed shut and the bolted, wooden tables which had been placed across the open windows.

  ‘Looks like a stalemate, Amber. Still, we managed to knock off a few of them this morning.’

  Lady Amber thwacked off an arrow at the closed door. ‘Cowards! They’re very brave attacking defenceless woodlanders and killing unarmed creatures, but they can’t face real warriors when it comes to a battle.’

  Skipper looked up at the clear blue sky. ‘Ah well, second day of summer and all’s well, me old branchjumper. Come on. Let’s withdraw and get back to Brockhall.’

  A mischievous smile spread across the squirrel’s face. ‘Right you are, Skip. But not before I’ve left them with a small token of our regard.’

  Tsarmina sat eating woodpigeon with Bane in an inner room with no windows. There was a tap on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ she called.

  It was Ratflank.

  ‘Milady, Brogg says to tell you that the woodlanders are setting fire to us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Er, yes, Milady. Fire arrows. They’re shooting them into the doors and window shutters. Brogg says it’ll be all right, though, ’cos it’s a stone building and they’ll only burn the woodwork.’

  Tsarmina sprang up knocking the table sideways. ‘My chamber! Bane, see if you can do something quickly. Organize a bucket chain. Put those fires out. If they’ve touched my room I’ll, I’ll . . . oooooohhh!’

  She dashed from the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

  The wall hangings were smouldering ruins and the door still blazed merrily – Amber’s archers had given it special attention.