Doomwyte

by Brian Jacques

  “A warrior with the responsibility of protecting others should carry the best of weapons. Now I know, Bosie, that you have your fiddlebow thing, with the little metal shafts, but in a confined space, fighting paw to paw, for instance, a sword is more useful, would you agree?”

  The mountain hare nodded, but with no great enthusiasm. “Ah’ll grant ye there’s those who fancy the blades. Ah’ve fought afore now, armed wi’ a claymore. Ach, but they’re unwieldly things, Father. Besides, Ah doubt ye’d own sich a thing.”

  Glisam went to the wall to one side of the tapestry. He took the blade from the silver pins which held it, passing it to Bosie. “This is the sword of Martin the Warrior. Long ago in the mists of bygone times, it was made by a Badger Lord at Salamandastron, from a piece of a star which fell from the sky. You may borrow it, to fight in defence of our Abbey and its creatures.”

  The Laird Bosie McScutta of Bowlaynee took it. Testing its weight and balance, he inspected the sword from the bloodred pommel stone, to the plain, black-bound grip, over the elegant, flaring, crosstree hilt and down the channelled and embossed blade. The entire weapon shone with a radiance of its own, sharp as a midwinter ice storm, pointed like a deadly needle.

  Bosie swung it, revolving the sword in a figure-eight motion. He flipped it back and forth until the blade gave out a high-pitched whine. Whipping it down to floor level, he spun it in a blinding arc of steel, leaping over the blade nimbly. Banging to a sudden halt he thrust the blade at Bisky’s face, stopping it a hairsbreadth from the young mouse’s nose. Whirling about, Bosie charged full-tilt at Umfry, yelling, “Bowlaaaayneeee awaaaaa!”

  The young hedgehog stood frozen, immobile, as Martin’s sword neatly clipped a single spike from between his ears. Bosie halted his performance by holding the sword to his lips and kissing it. “Oh, mah babbies, ’tis a braw blade, an’ Ah think Ah’ve got the hang of et now. By mah sporran, yon Martin didnae have much bother bein’ a warrior wi’ a weapon sich as this beauty!”

  The Abbot was full of admiration for Bosie’s prowess with the sword. “That was superb, but you said that you weren’t one for swords. Unwieldy things, so you said?”

  The Highland hare shrugged. “Aye, true enough, Father, but Ah’d ne’er felt a bonny blade like this afore. Let’s go an’ take a peek at how our friend Samolus is getting on with yon door.”

  They were halfway down the stairs when a loud boom rent the air. Hitching up his habit, Glisam hurried the pace. “What was that? I hope nobeast has been hurt!”

  The door had been knocked flat. Samolus was dusting off his paws; he appeared to have cheered up somewhat. Skipper and Corksnout were busy hauling a barrel back up the little flight of steps.

  Samolus told them how he had solved the problem. “Hah, ’twould’ve taken me more’n a day to move that lock. So I rolled a barrel of October Ale at it. Sometimes there’s nought like brute force to get a result, aye, plus a big drop of good October Ale!”

  Corksnout heaved the barrel upright. “Huh, first time my ale’s been used as a batterin’ ram. Don’t seem any the worse for wear, though, do it?”

  Bisky stood on the fallen door, sniffing the air of the dark, rough corridor that stretched out in front of him. “That’s strange, the air down here seems quite fresh. You’d have thought an old, sealed-up tunnel like this would be smelly, musty and dank.”

  Samolus joined him. “Hmm, yore right. So, what d’you think we should do, stand here sniffin’ the air, or get on with the search for the Eyes o’ the Doomwyte?”

  It was a rough and tortuous tunnel, twisting and dipping unexpectedly. Sometimes the walls were natural rock, but mostly they were earth, with roots of trees protruding downward. In places, the going was wet and sloppy, where stream- or springwater seeped through.

  Bosie and Samolus led the way, with Bisky, Dwink and Umfry following. Skipper Rorgus and Foremole Gullub were rear guard. Holding their lanterns, they pressed onward into the narrow world of looming shadows and hanging roots.

  It was Skipper who posed the question: “Ahoy, mateys, ye don’t mind me askin’, but have we got any clues t’go on?”

  Foremole chuckled gruffly. “Hurhurr, et do sounds loike ee gudd question, zurrs, elsewhoise we’m bees a-wunderin’ willy an’ nilly!”

  Bosie halted at a spot where the passage widened a bit. “Let’s halt here an’ see what we’ve got. You young uns, recite the poem again tae us.”

  Dwink recited the lines, slowly and clearly.

  Samolus scratched his chin. “We’ve been through most o’ that, ’twas all about the door an’ the key, that’s been solved. Give me the last four lines, Dwink, maybe they mean somethin’.”

  The young squirrel recited:

  “That’s a good place to begin.

  What connects a front and back,

  find one, and just three you’ll lack.

  Pompom Pompom, the trail leads on and on.”

  Skipper questioned the leading line. “What connects a front an’ back. What’s that supposed t’mean?”

  Umfry explained, “We h’already solved that, ’twas h’a door, that’s the connection. Front door, back door.”

  The Otter Chieftain continued, “Must be the next bit. ‘Find one and just three you’ll lack.’ Sounds to me like we’re searchin’ for just one o’ the jewels. Then there’s all this Pompom stuff. Where does that leave us?”

  Bisky crouched with his back against the tunnel wall. “Nowhere, I s’pose, it says the trail leads on an’ on, but it doesn’t give any clues on where to search.”

  Foremole wrinkled his button nose. “May’aps that bees wot’n we’m got to do. Go on an’ on, fullowin’ ee trail.”

  Samolus patted the mole’s back. “Yore right, mate, we go on an’ on, to see where it leads us. Who knows, it might take us right to the Doomwyte’s Eye!”

  Bosie had something to add. “Ah ken what ye say, though ’tis mah opinion that we should search this passage for more clues as we go.”

  Bisky sprang upright. “Sounds like good sense t’me. Right quick march, or should I say slow march an’ keep yore eyes peeled!”

  They seemed to have been marching for an age. Dwink stumbled, bruising his footpaw on a piece of flint. He complained, “You’d think whoever built this tunnel, they could have at least put a smoother floor to it.”

  Foremole Gullub answered, “Hurr, ’tworrn’t nobeast builded this un, it bees ee tunnel wot’s allus been yurr, zurr. Could’ve bee’d summ unnerground stream wot dried out longen ago.”

  Samolus, who was slightly ahead of the rest, called out, “Come an’ look at this, mates!”

  The old mouse was standing at a forked junction, where the tunnel divided, going two ways. Samolus began to get peevish again. “So, the trail leads on an’ on, eh? Two bloomin’ ways!”

  Foremole opened one of their supply packs. “Sit ee daown an’ eat, zurrs. Vikkles bees guud furr ee brains, Oi allus says.”

  Bosie plumped himself on the ground. “Och, yore a guid, wise mole, that’s the best suggestion Ah’ve heard t’day!”

  They ate in silence, glancing from one fork to the other, until Bisky spoke. “So, wot’s it t’be, carry on together, or split up?”

  Skipper was in no doubt. “No sense in comin’ this far, an’ havin’ to leave one tunnel unexplored. We’re best splittin’ into two parties, mates. Now, how d’ye split seven up?”

  Foremole Gullub had a suggestion. “Oi’ll stay by yurr, wurr ee tunnels splitten, you’m go three uppen wun way, three uppen t’uther.”

  Bosie shrugged. “Ye cannae argue wi’ that, though maybe auld Gullub should go with one party, an’ I’ll bide here, just tae keep guard on the vittles, ye ken.”

  Samolus shook his head. “You guardin’ vittles? Huh, an’ who’d we leave here t’guard you, my greedy friend? No, you can come with me an’ Dwink. Skip, you take Bisky an’ Umfry with ye. Right, which one do ye fancy, left or right?”

  The otter Chieftain had an idea. “We’ll let Mart
in’s sword choose. Give it a whirl, Bosie.”

  Placing the glistening blade flat on the ground, the Highland hare spun it. The swordpoint stopped spinning, facing to the right tunnel. Foremole gave the verdict.

  “You’m bees ee sword carrier, zurr, so take ee the path et points to.”

  Umfry started off down the left passage. “We’ll h’all report back ’ere later h’on, good luck.” Without further ado they went their separate ways.

  Foremole sat by the ration packs, with one lantern for illumination. He watched the lights of both groups until they were out of sight, hoping none of his friends would come to any harm.

  12

  Korvus Skurr had not been outside his cavern for a full season. However, on this particular day he emerged into the bright sunlight at midmorning. The raven tyrant perched high in the birch tree on the streambank, surrounded by carrion birds. Veeku, the crow leader, shared the same branch with Korvus. It was an altogether odd scene—the black birds, normally rending the air with their cackling and harsh cries, were silent. All eyes were turned north, watching the treetops. Veeku spotted the two magpies first. “Kraah, I see them, Mighty One!”

  Griv and Inchig landed on a lower limb, gazing up at Korvus. Inchig waited quietly, leaving the announcement to Griv.

  “Kayaah! Baliss will be here when the sun is high, Lord!”

  Korvus was not wearing the smoothsnake, Sicariss, draped about him. The reptile had chosen to stay within the underground retreat. The big raven closed his eyes, as if enjoying the day’s pleasant warmth. He spoke to Veeku, ignoring the magpies now that they had told him what he wanted to hear.

  “Kraaak! When the blind one arrives, you will have all your carrion guarding the cave entrance. I think Baliss will not try to get by them, after I have talked with him.”

  Veeku gazed impassively ahead. “Arrah, it shall be as ye command, Lord. I will await your signal!”

  The sun rose to its zenith over the weird tableau below. There was little breeze, hardly a leaf stirred, only a damp rustle in the grass on the streambank. Korvus came alert as he saw the faint movement on the ground. He clacked his beak at Veeku, that was the signal. Immediately the drums from inside the cave entrance began pounding; there was an urgent flapping of birds’ wings. The host of Korvus Skurr blocked the cave mouth completely, barring entrance to anybeast.

  Slowly, majestically, the reptile’s great, spade-shaped head arose from the grass, stretching upward, with its forked tongue sensing the atmosphere. The drumming ceased, everything was silent once more. Seeing the monstrous apparition rising against the birch trunk, Korvus mounted to a higher branch. Baliss spoke.

  “Birdsssss! Sssso many birdsssssss!”

  The raven was distinctly nervous, he chattered, “Yakkarraah! Nobeast can pass into my caves!”

  The giant viper withdrew slightly, coiling at the bottom of the birch, his milky, sightless eyes pointed at the spot where the raven’s voice had issued from. “Why doesss the mighty Sssskurr ssseek Balissssss?”

  The raven regained his composure. “Hayaah! Come, and I will tell you!”

  Launching himself from the tree, Korvus Skurr soared away, flapping noisily, so that the adder could track his movement. When he was sufficiently out of earshot, Korvus swooped down into the fork of an elm, waiting until Baliss arrived. Not wanting to linger with the fearsome snake, he came straight to the point.

  “Arrakaa! Those earthcrawlers in the Redstone house need to fear my name. They must know Baliss is with me, they will learn the meaning of terror. You can do this.”

  The reptile’s head swayed back and forth. “Balisssss knowssss all creaturessss fear him, even the great Ssssskurr. But why do you do me thisss honour, what isss my reward to be?”

  Korvus cocked his head from right to left, as if he feared being overheard. He lowered his voice. “Arrah! When the Eyes of the Doomwyte return to their rightful place, you will be rewarded. I will command my carrion birds to drive out every reptile from my caves. Frogs, toads, lizards, slow worms and grass snakes. They will be yours to treat as you please.”

  Baliss coiled and uncoiled languidly, a sign that he might be pleased with such an arrangement. “Thesssse reptilessss, what are their numberssss?”

  Korvus Skurr spread his wings wide. “Yahaarr! Like the leaves which grow on the trees!”

  The monstrous snake glided slowly off, his final words causing the raven to shudder. “Remember thisss: If you play me falssse, Balissss can make your death lassst half a sssseasssson!”

  Not since the great snake Asmodeus had there been a serpent so feared in all Mossflower. Long seasons had done nothing to affect the huge reptile’s power, speed or venom. Moreover, the blindness that had been visited on Baliss had only served to enhance all the snake’s other sensory skills. In short, it created a creature that was totally fearless and fearsome, with no natural enemies, only victims.

  Korvus Skurr was well satisfied with his plan. He flew off, back to his netherworld of caves, ignorant of one puny smoothsnake. It had lain coiled above his head, disguised by the billowing foliage of the stately elm tree. As soon as Korvus winged away, the little snake began her slithering descent from the elm trunk. Sicariss was no mere head ornament—she, too, had her eyes and ears in the strangest of places.

  Other eyes had also witnessed what took place outside the caverns. High on the hillside, the dark beast saw it all. The mysterious watcher drew a strange sword slowly back and forth over a whetsone slab. Little did Korvus Skurr or his scheming smoothsnake know that they were being observed by a creature who was planning their destruction, no matter how long it took. The double-bladed sword hissed softly as it was drawn over the whetstone, sharp and dangerous as the fangs of any reptile, when held in the paws of the dark avenger.

  Tarul the raven Wyte had stayed concealed in the Belltower of Redwall Abbey. Stubborn determination kept him there; he had sworn to himself not to leave the Redbrick house without taking with him a prisoner. One of the small earthcrawlers they called Dibbun. But things had not gone well from the start.

  First there had been the rain, when hardly anybeast stirred out of doors. His spirits brightened with the arrival of fair weather. However, he soon found himself out of position, isolated in the Belltower, whilst the Dibbuns played, either in the orchard, by the pond or near the Gatehouse. They were generally well watched also.

  This Belltower was not a good place, Tarul thought to himself. At least four times daily he had to cower in the furthest corner, with his head tucked tight beneath one wing. This was because of the burly hedgehog called Spikkle. At set intervals he would come in to ring the twin bells, at midnight, dawn, high noon and sunset. For a long time after each session of peals, the Raven Wyte’s head would resound with bell echoes.

  But that was not all. It was hunger and thirst which beset Tarul most of all. Once he had been about to sample the fruits of the orchard, when he spied the long-eared one strolling in the grounds. Tarul feared him greatly, having seen the damage he could wreak with his strange weapon, which fired sharp, metal sticks.

  So he remained in the Belltower, growing gaunt with starvation, and ill with headaches, but still foolishly obstinate. Thinking of the praise he would gain, from being the most daring of Wytes.

  Then one morning, the burly spikehog did not appear to ring the dawn bells. Tarul stirred his bedraggled feathers hopefully. Believing that his luck was about to change, he posted himself by the upper window of the tower, eagerly awaiting any development. Throughout the golden spring morn he watched the grounds below. The chance came at midday, when most of the Redbrick house dwellers gathered in the orchard to eat lunch. Both his hated foes, the spikehog and longears, accompanied by a party of others, left the orchard, hurrying off indoors.

  Then two of the Dibbuns finished lunch and trolled off across the lawns, totally unwatched by elders. Excitement bubbled in Tarul’s chest when he saw where they were heading. Straight to the belltower! Hopping about eagerly, the Raven W
yte positioned himself slightly above both bells, ready to pounce. Luckily, the door below was ajar and both the little creatures entered with ease. It was Furff the infant squirrel and the very tiny mousebabe. They went straight to the trailing bellropes, seizing one apiece, tugging for all they were worth.

  Tarul decided quickly. He could only manage one captive, in his weakend state; so, he would swoop down, slay the squirrel and capture the mousebabe. Being the smaller it would prove far less difficult. The raven stifled his cackles, listening to the pair below.

  “A lunchertime be gone now, worra use us ringin’ bells?”

  The very tiny mousebabe tugged even harder, still with no result. “A case anyone doesn’t not knows it lunchertime. Cummon, lazytail, pull ’arder willya!”

  “I are pullin’ ’arder, but no bells aren’t ringin’!”

  Then the unexpected happened. Sister Violet had seen the Dibbuns leave the orchard. She went after them. Tarul had missed seeing her, through hopping about in delight. The plump, jolly hedgehog tippawed up, surprising both Dibbuns.

  Furff gritted her little teeth, still heaving on the bellrope. “Grrr, us ringin’ a bells fer lunch, Sissy Vi!”

  The hedgehog Sister reached above their paws, taking a firm grip on both ropes as she assisted the Dibbuns. “Oh well, you’ll need to be a few seasons older, and eat all yore veggibles, just like me. C’mon now, all together. One…two…pullll!”

  Babongbongggg!

  The brazen rims of the Matthias and the Methusaleh bells (named after two long-gone heroes) struck the Raven Wyte either side of his head. Tarul died with the echo of the joint peals ringing through his skull. He toppled from the beam he had been perched upon, like a dark bundle of tattered rags plunging from the top of the Belltower. Sister Violet had the presence of mind to glance upward. She saw the falling object, and pushed both Dibbuns back against the wall.