Salamandastron (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Map

  Book One: Questors and Runaways

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Book Two: Warriors and Monsters

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Book Three: Destinies and Homecomers

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Redwall slumbers in the summer sun, unaware that the mountain stronghold of Salamandastron lies besieged by the weasel army of Ferahgo the Assassin. Or that danger is also creeping towards the Abbey in the form of the deadly Dryditch Fever . . .

  BRIAN JACQUES

  A TALE OF REDWALL

  SALAMANDASTRON

  Illustrated by Gary Chalk

  The dormouse was a jolly plump old fellow, clad in a rust-coloured jerkin, his white beard curled and trimmed neatly. An infant mole, who could not sleep because of the onset of spring, sat beside him on a mossy beechlog in the orchard. Together they shared an early breakfast of oatcakes, hot from the kitchens, and two of last autumn’s russet apples. Dawn was touching the earth with its rosy paws, promising sunny spring days as a compensation for the long winter Redwall Abbey had endured. Soft white clouds with golden underbellies hung on the still air, dewdrops glistened on new green grass, budding narcissus and snowdrop awaited the coming of the sun-warmed day.

  The dormouse nodded sagely. ‘Soon be pickin’ a Nameday for this good season, aye, soon.’

  The small mole chewed slowly at his oatcake, wrinkling a black button snout as he gazed up at the elder.

  ‘You’m said you’m tell oi a story, zurr.’

  The dormouse polished an apple on his jerkin. ‘D’you like my stories, Burrem?’

  The little fellow smiled. ‘Burr aye, oi serpintly do, zurr!’

  His friend settled down comfortably on the grass, propping his back against the log.

  ‘Right then, it’s a good long one. We’ll have to break off for lunch and tea, supper too maybe. Ah well, here goes. Once upon a time . . .’

  Colder than the winter wind howling its dirge through the Southwest Forest.

  Colder than the snow blanketing tree, rock and earth in its silent shroud.

  Colder than ice that lay on water and hung in shards from branches and bushes.

  Colder than these was the smile of Ferahgo the Assassin! Ferahgo was still young, but as the seasons passed his evil and infamy would grow, and everybeast would come to fear the name of the blue-eyed weasel.

  His band searched the wrecked badgers’ den, scavenging and snarling over winter food and the few pitiful possessions strewn among the debris. Smiling pitilessly, Ferahgo stepped over the bodies of the slain badger Urthound and his wife Urthrun, the last two brave creatures to stand against him. Stealth and deceit, reinforced by a crew of backstabbers, were the Assassin’s trademark. He had tricked the badgers into thinking this would be a peace conference. Fools!

  Migroo the stoat pulled aside a heap of dried moss. ‘Chief, look!’

  Two badger babes lay huddled together, mewling and shivering as they stuck their heads up, lips pursed in a plea for mother’s milk.

  Migroo laughed. ‘That one looks like his father, but this other one, Chief, it’s white. I thought all badgers had stripes.’

  Ferahgo tickled their nose tips with his knifepoint. ‘They’re both males. One is a proper badger, the other is an albino. They might not be orphans today if their parents had not resisted me.’

  Migroo watched the point of Ferahgo’s knife. ‘What’re yeh goin’t’ do with ’em?’

  The Assassin shrugged and sheathed his blade. ‘Nothing. The winter will take care of Urthound’s whelps.’

  Fondling the round gold medallion he had taken from the neck of Urthound, Ferahgo gave one last glance around.

  ‘Now nobeast in the Southwest is left to oppose me. Come on, my Corpsemakers!’

  The weasel swept out into the wintering forestlands with his band, a smile still fixed in his beautiful light blue eyes.

  Behind him in the ruins of the den the two badger babes, one striped, the other pure white, snuggled against the cold body of their mother. They made pitiful little noises, waiting for her to wake and comfort them. Outside the snowflakes blew gustily between tree and bush, chased by the soughing wind.

  It was cold.

  But not as cold as the smile on the face of Ferahgo the Assassin.

  BOOK ONE

  Questors and Runaways

  1

  Many and many a long season had come and gone since that fateful midwinter day in the Southwest Lands.

  The only sound disturbing the stillness of a high summer noontide was that of seabirds plaintively calling as they wheeled and circled overhead. The vastness of the sea lay becalmed, without blemish of wave or white-crested roller, still as a millpond, mirroring the faded blue of a cloudless sky. Obscured in its own heat haze, the sun blushed forth a radiant golden wash, tinting sand and rock with a soft amber glow.

  Above the tideline stood the great citadel of Salamandastron, the mountainous shell that had once been a volcano when the world was young. Through countless ages it had been ruled by the mysterious badger Lords and their friends the hares of the Long Patrol. The entire rock was a towering fortress, riven through with caves, passages and halls, standing guard to protect the shores and all the sprawling country of West Mossflower.

  From Salamandastron’s main entrance a solitary set of pawprints led through the sand to a limpet-crusted outcrop by the sea. Perched on the stone, chin in paw, Lord Urthstripe the Strong gazed seaward, clad in his stout forge apron, devoid of armour or sword. At one with earth, sea and sky, the badger Lord sat alone with his thoughts. Mara had not been home for two nights, and he was worried. Had he done the right thing, adopting a young female badger? She was one of the few badger maids ever to live at the mountain; traditionally it was the preserve of single male badgers. Five seasons ago his hares had found her among the dunes, a tiny whimpering babe, lost and alone. Urthstripe was overjoyed when they had brought her to him. He cherished her as the daughter he had never had. But that was when she was an infant. He was a badger Lord, with many things to attend to, and as she grew up, so they had drifted apart.

  Life presented various obstacles to Mara. She had come to resent the strict ways and regimented existence at Salamandastron. Urthstripe became awkward and severe in
his dealings with her, and Mara in her turn was rebellious of his heavy-pawed authority. Against Urthstripe’s wishes she had gone off two days ago, with her close friend Pikkle Ffolger, a young hare.

  The badger Lord scowled. Pikkle was far too wild and erratic; Mara would never grow up to be a proper badger Lady running about with the like of that mischief-maker. But that was the way of things between them now – if he lectured her or threatened penalties he felt like an ogre. So they avoided each other, she going her own way, and he unhappily having to go his.

  Sergeant Sapwood loped slowly across to the rock. He bobbed about, shadow-boxing until Urthstripe noticed him. Sidestepping, the strong lanky hare tucked in his chin and hooked out a left paw.

  ‘Haint much t’ do out ’ere, sir. You a-comin’ in for summat to eat? There’s wild oatcakes, bilberry tart an’ cold cider. You haint touched vittles since yesterday morn.’

  Urthstripe climbed slowly down from the rock and growled anxiously at the hare, ‘Any sign of Mara yet, Sergeant?’

  ‘Nah, not so far. But don’t you fret y’self, sir. She’ll come trottin’ back wi’ young Pikkle, soon as they’re hungered enough. D’you want me to send the missie t’ you when she does arrive back?’

  ‘No, but let me know the moment she’s back home. See she gets a good meal, and then . . . then send her to me!’

  Sapwood ducked and feinted as they made their way across the shore, swaying lightly on his paws as he circled Urthstripe.

  ‘C’mon, sir. Let’s see you try t’ put one on me button!’

  The badger Lord tried to ignore his pugnacious friend, but Sapwood persisted.

  ‘Go on, sir, try the old one-two, eh?’

  Urthstripe halted, blinking as the hare bobbed and dodged under his nose.

  ‘Really, Sapwood, I’m in no mood for sport.’

  The Sergeant dabbed a swift paw at Urthstripe’s jaw. ‘Oh, ’ave a go, sir. Try yer luck!’

  For all his great bulk the badger was surprisingly swift. He spun sideways, clipping Sapwood under the chin with what he judged to be a light tap. The Sergeant was bowled over, knocked flat on his back. Instantly the badger Lord was at his friend’s side, his huge striped face showing concern.

  ‘Sap, are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  Sapwood sat up. Uncrossing his eyes and rubbing his chin, he chuckled ruefully. ‘Bless your ’eart, sir, I’m as right as rain, never saw that’n comin’, though. Good job you never punched your weight, or you’d ’ave knocked me block clean off!’

  With their paws about each other the two friends entered Salamandastron, chatting and chuckling about old fights and bygone battles.

  Before he entered the mountain, Urthstripe could not resist casting a final longing glance to the open country. Disappointed that he could not see Mara arriving home he heaved a lonely sigh and followed Sapwood inside.

  A massive ridge of mountains created a high spine down the land east of Salamandastron. In the foothills to the south they gave way to swamplands, which in their turn led to the dunes sweeping in from the west. The early noon sun was causing grasshoppers to chirrup and rustle in the rock-strewn foothills.

  Ferahgo the Assassin sighted his skinning knife at one insect which was about to leap. He flicked the knife expertly. His aim was good: the keen-edged blade sliced the grasshopper in two. The knifepoint was still quivering in the ground as Ferahgo pulled it free and wiped it clean on the grass.

  ‘That’s one grasshopper won’t jump any more,’ he chuckled. ‘Am I not right, Migroo?’

  The stoat nodded vigorously. ‘Aye, Chief, ’twas a grand throw!’

  Ferahgo sheathed the weapon in the crossbelts he wore diagonally across his chest. Two other knives were encased there, each as sharp and deadly as the one he had thrown. Smiling, he rested his paws on the broad belt supporting his short kilt of skins. He had grown taller and more sinewy than other weasels. The seasons seemed to lend an extra sparkle to his eyes, which were light brilliant blue like a fresh spring sky; beautiful almond-shaped eyes, with deep laughter creases etching their corners. Many a stranger had met death through the deceit and vicious cruelty which lay behind those innocently smiling eyes. Every weasel, stoat, rat, ferret or fox in his army of Corpsemakers knew that the more Ferahgo the Assassin smiled, the more evil and brutal he became. His reign of terror had spread and flourished in the Southwest Lands until the whole country trembled with fear at his name. Ferahgo!

  This summer he had decided to push further north. None of his army dared question the odd decision, though they speculated in secret as to his reason for such a long trek. The horde lounged in the dunes and the foothills – some stretched on the sun-scorched sand and grass, others seeking the shade of rocks – apparently idle, but ever vigilant for their leader’s commands. Disobedience to Ferahgo meant death.

  The Assassin stretched luxuriously upon the dry curling grass and closed his eyes, enjoying the still warmth of summer. One eye suddenly snapped open as he called to a weasel stationed in the rocks higher up.

  ‘Feadle, keep your eyes peeled for my son and Goffa. Don’t go to sleep up there.’

  Feadle made a show of scouring the terrain north and west before shouting back down, ‘I’ll let you know as soon as Klitch and Goffa show up, Master. Don’t you worry!’

  Ferahgo’s reply gave the lookout good reason to stay awake. ‘Oh, I’m not worried, Feadle – but you should be, because if you miss them I’ll skin you alive with my knives. Keep those eyes open now, there’s a good weasel.’

  It was a plain-spoken, matter-of-fact statement, but everybeast within hearing knew that the Assassin was not joking. Ferahgo seldom joked, even though he did smile a lot.

  Dethbrush the fox and his six tracker rats loped in from the south. He heard Feadle announce their sighting from his high perch: ‘Dethbrush an’ the trackers coming in, Master!’

  The fox stood by as Ferahgo, still lying down with his eyes closed, questioned him.

  ‘You have not brought Dingeye and Thura back with you?’

  Dethbrush was weary, but he did not dare sit or relax. ‘No, Master. We tracked them for two moons. They have gone east, into the flatlands on the other side of these mountains.’

  Ferahgo’s paw strayed to the handle of his favourite knife. ‘It does not please me when my orders are not carried out.’

  Dethbrush tried hard to stop his limbs trembling, he swallowed hard, licking at dry lips.

  ‘Master, we searched night and day without rest. They must have found a way to cross the south stream – that is where I lost their tracks. I thought it would be better to report back to you, rather than get lost in strange country.’

  Ferahgo opened his eyes. He was not smiling. ‘You did right, Dethbrush. Rest and eat until tomorrow. Then you will go tracking again with your rats. But remember, I want Dingeye and Thura, or their heads, brought back here to me. It is bad for the morale of my Corpsemakers if they realize that deserters can escape my punishment and roam free. Do you understand?’

  Dethbrush gave a sigh of relief and nodded. ‘I understand, Ferahgo. This time I won’t fail you.’

  Ferahgo closed his eyes. ‘Make sure you don’t, my friend.’ He smiled slightly and waved a paw in dismissal.

  Dethbrush went to look for water, his mouth dry with fear.

  2

  Redwall Abbey slumbered peacefully under the noontide sun. A song-thrush trilled sweetly from the surrounding greenery of Mossflower Woods, its melodious tune echoing from the dusty red sandstone walls of the main building to the outer ramparts. Somewhere in the Abbey pool a trout half leaped at a passing gnat, missed it and flopped back lazily into the water. Two moles lugging a trolley laden with vegetables for the kitchen turned at the sound, commenting in their quaint mole-speech.

  ‘Ee be a gurt noisy trowt that un, eh, Burrley.’

  Burrley, the smaller of the two, wrinkled his button nose. ‘Hurr, you’m doant say. Oi’d be gurt ’n’ lazy iffen oi dwelled inna pond w
i’ nothen t’ do. Ho urr!’

  They trundled into the Abbey, speculating on the easy life style of trouts who lived in ponds.

  Mrs Faith Spinney was picking fruit in the orchard. The good hedgehog lady muttered quietly to herself as she checked the contents of her basket.

  ‘Early plums, gooseberries, small pears . . . dearie me, they are liddle uns too. No mind, they’ll make tasty cordial. Damsons aren’t near ready yet – pity, I do like a good damson pudden. Now let me see, what have I forgotten?’

  The sight of a tree jogged her memory.

  ‘Apples, of course! Those big green uns be just right for bakin’ pies.’

  Standing on tip-paw she reached for a large green apple hanging from a low bough.

  Zzzzip! Splott!

  An arrow sped by, a hair’s-breadth from Mrs Spinney’s paw. It pierced the juicy apple, sending it spinning from the bough on to the grass. The hedgehog dropped her basket and dashed off, ducking low and shielding her head with both paws as she whooped out in terror. ‘Ooowhoo, help, murder! We’re bein’ attacked by scallawagians!’

  Help appeared swiftly in the form of a brawny male otter.

  ‘Sink me! What’s all the to-do about, marm?’

  Faith Spinney was hiding behind a gooseberry bush with her apron over her head. She peeped out at the otter. ‘Hoohoo! Do ’urry an’ sound the alarm bell, Mr Thrugg. Just lookit that apple lyin’ in yonder grass!’

  Striding boldly over, Thrugg retrieved the apple. Pulling the arrow from it he looked about, nodding grimly. ‘There there now, marm. Don’t get yore prickles in an uproar. Everything’s shipshape. I didn’t clap eyes on the villain who shot that arrer, but I’ll stake me rudder I know who it is that did!’

  Thrugg filled the basket with the fruit that had spilled out, adding the apple. Placing a paw gingerly about Mrs Spinney’s bristling shoulders, he led her off toward the Abbey, carrying the basket for her.