Doomwyte

by Brian Jacques

  The mousemaid winked at him. “Been taught since I was a babe, Da made me practice on raw veggibles, until I could cut through a big turnip. I’ve never had t’use it, but I’ll wager I could take anybeast’s ’ead off at the neck, if’n I had to, Bisky.”

  Nokko commented, “She could, too, my Spingo’s a good liddle daughter, a rare beauty. Now belt up yer gobs an’ get those paws a-runnin’, or we might miss half the fun an’ most o’ the loot!”

  Duggo, who had gone slightly ahead of the main body, halted and waved his lance. “The clearin’s straight ahead, Da, we should be there soon. Wot’s the orders?”

  Nokko held up a double-headed hatchet, which he was carrying. “Halt ’ere! Duggo an’ Twiggo, take a score apiece. Creep round the back o’ the trees, get be’ind those Painty Ones an’ lay low, wait on my warshout. Bisky, Dubble, Bumbo an’ Gobbo, we’ll charge the centre, then spread out into two wings. Righto, buckoes, lay low ’til Duggo an’ Twiggo gets their crews inter position.”

  In the distance, the mocking chants and screeching threats of the Painted Ones grew in volume. Nokko ignored them, laying out the ground rules of Gonfelin warfare for the benefit of Bisky, Dubble and anybeast inclined to listen.

  “Remember, Painty Ones are born cowards, sneaky rats who can’t face up to a good, ould charge. So, youse stampede right in, give the scum a real batterin’ until they squeals mercy. Then loot ’em out of ’ouse an’ ’ome. All booty taken is t’be shared equally, that’s an order!”

  The Gonfelin Pikehead fixed his son with a hard stare. “Lissen t’me, Gobbo, one wrong move, or a word outta place, an’ I’ll come down on yer like a boulder on a butterfly. D’yew ’ear me?”

  Gobbo nodded sullenly, avoiding his da’s gaze.

  Spingo felt her lancetip, whispering in a tremulous voice to Bisky, “Ain’t never been in a battle afore, how ’bout yew?”

  Buoyed up by her innocence, the young mouse pulled a tough face as he lied. “Oh, I’ve done a battle or two in my time. Stick close to me, Spingo, I’ll look out for you, me’n Dubble, that is. Right, mate?”

  The Guosim shrew could see plainly that his friend was putting a brave face on things, so he winked at Spingo. “Aye, stick by us, miss, huh, Painted Ones don’t bother us one liddle bit!” He fitted an arrow to his bowstring, testing its pull.

  Bisky did likewise, just to show what seasoned warriors they were. Unfortunately, the shaft slipped, and the string pinged his nose.

  Spingo suppressed a snort of laughter, but seeing the crestfallen look on her friend’s face, she reached out and squeezed his paw affectionately. “Don’t worry, mate, we’ll get through it somehow, an’ still manage a share o’ the loot!”

  Bisky restrung his shaft. “Oh, y’mean the swipin’s, the pawpurse stuff and the boodiggles?”

  Spingo smiled, hefting her lance lightly. “Now yore learnin’ the Gonfelin way. Hah, we’ll be callin’ ye Bisko soon!”

  From somewhere up ahead, two high-pitched whistles sounded. It was like the distress call of a small bird. Nokko rose, wielding his axe. “That’s Duggo an’ Twiggo, they’ve got their groups in position. Righto, ye thievin’ bunch o’ bloodswipers, up off yer hunkers, ’ere we go! Bisky’n’Dubble, youse take the right wing! Bumbo, take yore gang t’the left. I’m goin’ in by the centre. Gobbo, stay be’ind me, an’ behave yerself!”

  Suddenly they surged forward, roaring, “Gonfeliiiiins! Gonfeliiiins!”

  Knowing that the Abbey beasts might be someplace nearby, Bisky yelled at the top of his lungs, “Redwaaaaaaall! Redwaaaaaaall!”

  Dubble added his own cries, hoping the Guosim could hear them. “LogaLogaLogaLoooooggggg!”

  Skipper was first to see a familiar face amongst the mob of ragged mice that came rushing forward. He bounded up, calling, “Stow the plans, mates, here comes young Bisky, yellin’ Redwall. It’s a charge…. Redwaaaaaaallll!”

  Tugga Bruster saw his son go hurtling by. He stood puzzled, watching. “Wot’n the name o’ fur is a son o’ mine doin’ runnin’ round with a pile o’ raggedy mice?” He got no further—the flat of Martin’s sword caught him smartly on the rump. Bosie roared at the Shrew Chieftain.

  “Ach, ye ungrateful beastie, can ye no see, they’re friends, come tae rescue us. Charge!”

  In the trees, at the far side of the clearing, panic and consternation reigned amidst the Painted Ones. For the first time ever, they found themselves outnumbered. To make matters worse, they were also surrounded. Duggo and Twiggo were cutting off any retreat to the rear. In front, and to both sides, the clearing seethed with Gonfelin, Guosim and Redwall warriors.

  Painted Ones were in truth only cowardly tree rats, whose fighting mainly consisted of ambushing lone creatures, firing darts at them from under cover of the high foliage. Their leader, Chigid, had no stomach for open warfare; this was more than he had bargained for. He raced back and forth amongst the foliaged terraces, seeking any means of escape whilst encouraging his fighters to make a stand. “Yeeeeh! Killem plenty, killem, killem!”

  A flight of arrows buzzed upward, like vengeful hornets. Tree rats fell screaming, transfixed by the deadly shafts. This was followed by volleys of lances and slingstones. In their terror, the Painted Ones abandoned blowpipes and poison needles, even throwing away their stone-weighted ropes.

  Chigid had no place to go but up. He scurried above the high branches, into the lighter twigs and offshoots. After only moments, balancing perilously amidst the fragile network, the inevitable happened. The twigs underpaw snapped. Chigid fell screeching to earth.

  He landed with a sickening thud, which must have fractured many bones. Moaning softly, he sought to rise, holding out one paw as he sobbed, “Mercy…surrender…no kill Chigid….”

  Tugga Bruster brought his iron club crashing down on the Painted Ones’ Chieftain. He was still raining blows on him when Samolus pulled him off the slain beast.

  “What are ye doin’, didn’t ye hear him callin’ for mercy and surrendering?”

  Tugga Bruster tried bulling his way past Samolus, to get at Chigid’s body. He was snarling. “Fool, ya don’t show mercy to these scum. Kill ’em all, an’ good riddance t’bad rubbish I say!”

  Bosie saw what was happening; he bounded up, striking the club from the Guosim shrew’s paws. “Ach, ye cowardly wee beastie, yer nae better than a tree rat yersel’. Look up, can ye no hear that?”

  The Painted Ones had given up any idea of warfare since their Chieftain had fallen. They draped themselves over the high branches, wailing and moaning. Nokko, whom they had already been introduced to, leant on his war hatchet, shaking his head. “Yer can’t fight scrinjin’ beasts like that lot.”

  Tugga Bruster still thought that he was in the right. “Huh, says who? The only good painted rat’s a dead un. I say finish ’em all off!”

  Nokko grinned, winking at the Shrew Chieftain. “Lissen, mate, yew go a-slayin’ all those Painty Ones, an’ all yer’ll get is wotever loot they’ve got on ’em. Wot gain is there in that, eh?”

  Samolus liked the ragged Mousechief. “So, what do ye suggest we do, sir?”

  The Gonfelin leader explained readily, “Well, me ould mate, wot I’d do first is to get ’em down outta those trees. Then I’d make ’em take us to their hideout, that five-topped oak. I’ll wager they’ve got plenty o’ loot stowed there, enuff fer us all to divvy up atween us. ’Ow’s that fer an idea?”

  Bosie nodded. “Sounds like a bonny scheme tae me. But ye still havnae told us what we do wi’ yon bunch.”

  Umfry voiced a sensible suggestion. “H’if you’ll h’excuse me sayin’, I think h’it might be better to march the Painted Ones h’off from their ’ideout, right to the flatlands beyond Redwall.”

  Samolus was beginning to see the merit in the young hedgehog’s idea. “Of course, then we scatter them t’the four winds on the open plains. Without a woodland full o’ trees to hide in, and with no one to lead ’em, the Painted Ones’ll be a threat to nobeast anymore.”


  Skipper chimed in, “Aye, then we can spend the rest o’ the summer at the Abbey, with all our new friends, feastin’ an’ singin’ to our ’earts’ content, mates!”

  Bosie brightened visibly at the mention of Redwall feasting. “Och, now that’s what Ah call a canny scheme. Ah suggest we put it intae practice forthwith!” The Laird of Bowlaynee’s enthusiasm squashed any arguments. Everybeast set up a hearty cheer.

  Spingo latched onto Bisky’s paw, overjoyed at the prospect of visiting Redwall. “Ain’t it excitin’, I’m finally gonna see where me ancestor Gonff came from!”

  Bosie put up his sword, calling up into the trees, “Yore lives will be spared if’n ye come doon here now, wi’out weapons. Do ye surrender?”

  There was no question, the goodbeasts had won the day.

  23

  Dwink had taken off into the trees at the near side of the clearing, with the hope of capturing a Painted One. If the venture were successful, Bosie and his friends could gain valuable information from interrogating the captive. The young squirrel wrapped Samolus’s long sling about his waist, and set off about his task. Launching himself from a sycamore bough, he sailed through the air, landing heavily in the swaying branches of an aspen. Grappling awkwardly amidst the foliage, Dwink quietly reprimanded himself as he regained control of his balance. “Didn’t judge that un very well, did ye mate? Out o’ practice, that’s yore trouble!”

  He perched in the aspen for a moment, letting its swaying boughs settle, hoping nobeast had gotten wind of him. Dwink’s quick eyes detected a movement in a stately elm, several trees from where he was. He moved stealthily, with a swift hop, skip and a jump, landing in the low branches of a spruce. Keeping his gaze trained on the elm foliage, he spotted more twitching in a high fork. Dwink smiled grimly, muttering under his breath, “Hah, that’ll be a scout! Right then, ye painted vermin, let’s see if’n we can’t turn the tables on ye. Stop right there, I’m comin’ for ye!”

  Smooth as a streamripple, the young squirrel threaded his way upward, until he reached the top section of the spruce. He was closer now, though he could not clearly make out his quarry. The telltale rustle of leaves told him the other beast was still there, but beginning to move in a sideways direction. Climbing higher, he dropped neatly down into the outspread limbs of a holm oak. Now he was next door to the elm. Unwinding the sling, he loaded it with a stone from his belt pouch. Some of the elm branches were almost touching the holm oak.

  Scarcely daring to breathe, Dwink crossed from one tree into the other. His paws were trembling slightly, but he carried on upward, telling himself, “I’ll show the blighter how a Redwall warrior operates!” When he was as close as he could get to the spot where he had seen the last movement of his foe, Dwink threw caution to the winds. Whirling his sling, he raced up the final boughs of the upper tree terraces, roaring the warcry: “Redwaaaaall!” He lashed out at the leafy screen with the loaded sling. Whock! Thud! Wallop! Leaves showered about his head as he plunged in. But nobeast was there.

  The sling rebounded, jarring against his paw. “Yowch!” Dwink was wringing his numbed paw, when he caught sight of his enemy, off to the right. It was a Painted One, about the same age as himself. The tree rat snickered scornfully, loping off into the tall trees. Dwink went hurtling after him, blazing with anger that he had been fooled by a Painted One.

  Now the foebeast seemed to be circling back by a roundabout route, not seeking to disguise his track by stealth or silence. Almost bursting with wrath, Dwink charged after him. Ahead he caught sight of a massive five-topped oak, rearing out of the woodlands. The Painted One went straight for it, bounding onto its broad limbs and springing upward. Dwink leapt onto the same branch where his foe had alighted. Whirling his sling, he shouted up into the high foliage, “I’ve got ye! There’s no place to go but up now, is there, ye villain?”

  Suddenly, from far off, a clamour rent the air, warcries, shouts and screams. Dwink halted for one brief moment, wondering why the Redwallers, and Guosim, had engaged with the tree rats. Out of nowhere a thin, tough rope came whipping; the stone attached to its end smashed into the side of Dwink’s head. He collapsed, draped over the bough, senseless.

  Jeg, son of Chigid, clambered down to view his work. He was beside himself with glee. He had finally done something worthy of a Chieftain’s son, captured one of the enemy, single-pawed.

  Snickering and giggling to himself, Jeg bound his captive viciously tight. Having accomplished this, he secured the rope’s end to the bough, looped the remainder around the squirrel’s footpaws and kicked him savagely. Dwink fell from the oak limb and hung, dangling upside down. Jeg climbed to the lower branch, where he stood facing Dwink, on a level with his face. He began swinging his unconscious victim to and fro roughly, sneering triumphantly.

  “Yeeheeheehee! Well now, looka wot Jeg catchered, a shoopid treemouse. Wait’ll Dadda comes back wid the rest an’ sees wot I did. Don’t ya see, daftbeast, dis is our territ’ry. Painted Ones knows every leaf an’ every tree round ’ere. Didya think ye was gonna catcher me?” He struck Dwink’s face with his open paw as he spoke. “Well, didyer, eh, didyer, bonebrains?”

  Dwink gradually recovered his senses, only to find that the world was upside down. He was being jostled roughly, from side to side. He struggled to release his limbs as Jeg’s face confronted him, grinning wickedly.

  “Yeehee, awaked now, have ye?”

  As he swung closer, Dwink acted instinctively, biting at his enemy. Jeg leapt back, avoiding the squirrel’s snapping teeth. “Yaharr, missed me!” He spun Dwink around, jumping on his back and leaning down heavily, jerking him about painfully. “Wanna try agin, do ya? Heeheehee, Jeg’s gonna have have fun wid this un!”

  The added weight caused the young squirrel to gasp. “Ummff! Ye painted little coward, just wait’ll I get loose!”

  Jeg jumped down and faced, his prisoner. “But ya can’t get loosened, can ya! Likkle treemouse, yore all mine, I kin do anythin’ I want wid ya.” Jeg broke off a twig; he began tickling Dwink’s nose none too gently with it. The distant sounds of battle had ceased now. Jeg noticed it, too. He began taunting, “Ya friends are all slayed now.”

  Dwink snarled a reply. “Hah, that’s what you think!”

  Jeg’s tone became almost reasonable. “Chah! My dadda’s Chigid, big Chief, he got lotsa warriors, lotsa, lotsa dem. More’n yore friends got.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “All ya pore mates be dead now, all slayed!”

  Dwink came back stoutly, “Oh, no they won’t, it’ll be your scummy lot who’ll be slain!”

  Jeg struck him with the twig he was holding. He did not like being contradicted; a malicious gleam entered his eyes. “I say yore lot be slayed, not mine. One more word outta yore shoopid mouth an’ I’ll slay ya, treemouse!”

  Aware of the peril he was in, Dwink wisely refrained from replying. But this only served to madden Jeg. He strode around his captive, lashing out with the twig, working himself into a dangerous rage.

  “If I say they all be dead, then they all be dead, see! Heehee, no, yore right, they not all dead, you be still alive…. So?” Dwink smelled the tree rat’s rancid breath as he leant close, speaking slowly and deliberately. “So you gotta get slayed, an’ Jeg’ll slay ya!”

  Dwink felt himself go cold with fright. It must have showed on his face, because Jeg sniggered, and began enlarging upon his evil plan. “Now, wot’s the best way to slay a silly treemouse, eh? Mebbee stick a blade in ya. Or loose der rope, an’ let ya drop right down to the floor on yore ’ead, would ya like dat?”

  Dwink dangled upside down. His ears were starting to ring with pressure; he felt dizzy and breathing was becoming an effort. Owing to the recent blow he had taken, the young squirrel began slipping back into a stupor. Jeg’s voice receded into a distant drone. Jeg was in his element, describing in lurid detail various cruel methods of execution for his victim, each more sadistic than the last.

  Wholly unconscious, Dwink found himself in the midst of a
nightmare. His vision was clouded blood red, inhabited by purple and dark crimson foebeasts. He was still suspended by both footpaws. Painted Ones leant close, leering and grinning evilly as they whispered of the horrible fate that awaited him. Dwink felt close to death, alone amongst enemies, with no friendly face to reassure him.

  Then he spied the light, a warm, golden radiance approaching him. The hideous images of the vermin faded, scurrying off into dark shadows. Suddenly, like a bright summer dawn, Martin the Warrior was with him. The legendary Redwall hero spoke soothingly through Dwink’s fevered dreams.

  “Your time is not yet come, be brave, young one. Friends are near, you must live. The Painted One is cursed to suffer a fate worse than anything he can devise for you. Live long, friend…. Live!”

  Defeated and dejected, the Painted Ones were forced to descend into the clearing. They were disarmed, searched and ordered to be split into groups, each lot to be secured for safe conveyance to the five-topped oak. Samolus took charge of the operation efficiently.

  “Nokko, form your prisoners in one tier. Rope ’em together by their necks, an’ post guards round the villains. Skipper, Tugga, do the same with your groups. I’ll take this last bunch myself!”

  Tugga Bruster put in his objection immediately. “Who put you in command, eh? I ain’t takin’ orders off no ould mouse!”

  Bosie placed a heavy paw, none too gently, on the Guosim Log a Log’s shoulder. “Ye’ll do as yore bid, bonnie lad. Ah’ve taken aboot all Ah’m goin’ tae take from you. Samolus is takin’ his orders from me, an’ Ah’m commandin’ this expedition. So, one more word against mah authority, an’ Ah’ll drop ye in yore tracks. Do ye get mah drift, bucko?”