Salamandastron (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Thrugann placed a protective paw about her shoulders. ‘No, no, ’twas only some ol’ poetry, Sister – nothin’ for you to get upset over. You look tired. Come on, it’s bed for you. In fact, it’s bed for all you young uns too, otherwise you’ll sleep right through Nameday tomorrow an’ miss it!’

  That night Samkim fell immediately into a deep sleep and dreamed a strange dream. In the dream he was walking into Great Hall. He went up to the huge tapestry hanging from the wall. The likeness of Martin the Warrior seemed to stand out from the rest of the skilful weave; he was clad in his armour, holding his sword lightly, and a friendly smile lit up his brave features. Without warning he tossed the sword. It twirled once in the air and sped from the tapestry, burying its point in a crack between the stones at Samkim’s side. The young squirrel felt no fear. Without knowing why, he withdrew the sword from the floor and held it out, offering it back to the Warrior of Redwall. Martin took it. Though his lips did not move, Samkim could hear his voice:

  ‘Squirrel, mouse – it makes no difference, you are a Redwaller, Samkim. Be brave and courageous, true to your friends. One day you will return my sword again and give this Abbey another guardian. Beware the vermin, seek out the White One.’

  Thrugg crept up from the kitchens. Sleep did not come easily to the burly otter, particularly with the knowledge that there was a huge pot of shrimp and bulrush soup, flavoured with watercress and hotroot pepper, simmering gently on the embers of the kitchen fire. Thrugg could not rest until he had sampled it. Slipping down to the kitchen in his voluminous white nightshirt, the big otter cut a curious figure. He consumed two bowls of his favourite soup, smacked his lips, yawned and added more hotroot pepper to the pot before stealing off back to his bed. Crossing Great Hall he was surprised to see Samkim. The young squirrel stood illuminated by a shaft of moonlight in front of the tapestry. Thrugg had seen sleepwalkers before and he knew what to do. Strolling up, he lifted Samkim easily in his strong paws.

  The young squirrel opened his eyes and stared at Thrugg. ‘Are you the White One?’

  Thrugg glanced at his long white nightshirt and grinned. ‘Aye, that’s me matey, the White Un.’

  Samkim snuggled down in Thrugg’s arms murmuring happily. ‘Oh, that’s good. I was seeking you.’ He dosed his eyes and went instantly into a deep sleep.

  Back at the dormitory, Thrugg deposited him gently in his bed. ‘Strike me sails, he ain’t no lightweight. All that carryin’ has set me appetite off again. I’ll just nip back down an’ see if’n that there soup tastes better with the pepper I added.’

  8

  The moon over the dunes made hollows of darkness against the dun-coloured sand, which stood out in stark relief, still radiating warmth from the hot day into the soft summer night.

  At first Feadle thought his eyes were deceiving him, but as he peered into the moon-shadowed dunes he distinguished the smartly dressed figure of Klitch hurrying towards the camp. Filling his lungs with air, Feadle roared at the top of his voice. ‘Master, see, it’s your son Klitch and he’s alone!’

  Roused rudely from his slumbers, the weasel Chieftain hissed upward at the hapless sentry, ‘Wormbrain! Couldn’t you shout any louder to advertise our presence to the entire countryside?’

  Sickear scrabbled for balance, wakened by the sudden shout.

  Feadle steadied him as he whispered back in an exaggerated tone, ‘But, Master, you said to let you know—’

  A well-aimed pebble struck him stingingly on the eartip, followed by Ferahgo’s voice, heavy with contempt: ‘Feadle, you useless toad, get down here. Sickear, you stay up there and keep your wits about you.’

  The Assassin sat with his son, apart from the rest and out of hearing. He nodded his head approvingly as Klitch made his report, then commented, ‘I knew there was something to those tales of a hollow mountain and the badger’s treasure. But you say you didn’t see any of it. How d’you know it’s there, you sly young fiend?’

  Klitch’s blue eyes twinkled in the darkness. ‘Hah! It’s there all right, you old murderer. That badger, Mara, she let slip about it in conversation. She’d know where the treasure of Salamandastron is hidden, mark my words.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Back in the dunes there with her friend, a hare name Pikkle. Goffa’s keeping an eye on them while I’m away. No need to worry, they were sleeping like babies when I left them to come here.’

  ‘Well done, Klitch. Now we know exactly where the mountain is. The next question is how to get in there and grab the treasure.’

  Klitch toyed with the sword that hung by his side. ‘It won’t be easy. I’ve told you, the place is a fortress, beside which there’s more than two score of hares – proper battle-trained fighters, not like the helpless creatures we’re used to. But the main one is that badger, Lord Urthstripe. I’ve never seen a beast so big and fierce. He’s a real warrior. I’d hate to have to go up against him!’

  Ferahgo’s long skinning knife appeared under Klitch’s nose. ‘You leave him to me, I’ve dealt with big badgers before. Oh, they’re fierce fighters, sure enough, but they lack cunning and suffer from silly little things, like honour and conscience. Now you get off back to your new comrades and guide them over this way, to me. There’s more than one way of frying a frog. Off you go, you young backstabber!’

  Klitch vanished amid the night-washed dunes, unaware of the two shadowy forms at the side of a hill. Sergeant Sapwood and Big Oxeye had followed him. Though they had not heard what passed between Klitch and Ferahgo, they were not slow in realizing that the large vermin horde camped in the foothills spelt death and destruction. The young weasel loped past the pair, not knowing they were within a hair’s breadth of him. Oxeye hefted the light throwing lance, feeling its balance as he eyed the receding Klitch.

  ‘D’you know, I could pin the filthy little blighter through his neck from here, even though the blinkin’ light’s bad, wot.’

  The Sergeant restrained his friend’s throwing paw. ‘Steady in the ranks, you’d blow the gaff. Now there’s dirty work apaw, we’ve got ter use our brainboxes. I reckons if one o’ us reports back to Lord Urthstripe, the other c’n follow yonder weasel an’ watch out for new hintelligence. You go back ter the mountain, and I’ll foller the weasel.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Sarge,’ Oxeye chuckled good-humouredly, ‘always ready to vote on a democratic decision, wot?’

  Big Oxeye held up his paws defensively as Sapwood crouched into a sparring position. ‘Pax! I was only jokin’. You’re quite right, of course. I’ll go back an’ sound the jolly old alarm at Salamandastron, and you stick close to young Pikkle an’ Mara. We both know this country like the backs of our paws; shouldn’t be any bother trackin’ one another if we need to make contact. OK?’

  After a silent shake of paws they split up, going their separate ways into the night-shaded dunes.

  An early fly landed on Mara’s eyelid. She shooed it off with a dozy paw as she awakened to peachgold dawn stealing softly over the sleeping dunes. The land lay in a pool of calm serenity; the sand, now still and cool, awaited sun-warmed day. Somewhere a lark began trilling as it fluttered its morning ascent into the airy heights.

  Pikkle opened one eye and swiftly closed it again. ‘It’s no use tryin’ ter wake me up, I’m fast a bally sleep.’

  The badger maid gathered a double pawful of sand and began trickling it on to the tip of her friend’s nose. He sneezed and sat up straight, his long ears springing to attention. ‘Is it that late already, by the fur! My old tummyclock tells me there should be brekkers around. Hope it’s something nice, wot!’

  Goffa pulled himself upright on his spear haft. ‘You ate it all last night, greedyguts!’

  ‘Greedyguts y’self, sir.’ Pikkle brushed sand from his coat. ‘I didn’t notice you stintin’ your belly when it came to puttin’ food in it. Matter o’ fact, I began to think you’d had news of a ten-season famine an’ you were packin’ it away just in case.’

&n
bsp; Goffa scowled nastily, testing his spearpoint. ‘You mind your mouth, you great overgrown rabbit . . .’

  ‘Here, here, what’s all this, friends fighting already?’ As Klitch brushed past Goffa he dug an open claw in his back and shot him an angry glance. Turning to Mara and Pikkle his eyes switched to open blue wonderment. ‘Now then, pals, what’s all the quarrelling about?’

  ‘No quarrel really,’ Pikkle laughed. ‘I merely made enquiries about breakfast. Old Goffa must’ve got out the wrong side of the sandhill this mornin’ – he accused me of scoffin’ all the rations last night. Blinkin’ cheek! Do I look like a scoffer, Klitch? Go on, be honest, don’t spare m’ feelin’s.’

  The blue-eyed weasel upended the empty haversacks. ‘Actually you do, Pikkle, but it’s no use falling out over it. The point is that we’ve run out of food.’

  Mara licked sand grains from her dry lips. ‘Not even an apple and I’ve got a dreadful thirst!’

  She thought for a fleeting moment of the cool dark dining room inside the mountain, the tables laid with plain wholesome food and flagons of cold cider, greensap milk and mint tea. Thrusting the memory from her mind she looked around. ‘Well, I only know the country north and west of here. It’s much the same as this: mountains, foothills, dunes and sandhills running to the shores. We won’t find much food in that direction. What about that way, down south?’

  Klitch shook his head. ‘That’s the way we came up here. There’s a broad stream in the far south, but between that and here there’s a big area of swampland that we had to skirt. The place is overrun with big toads, and it’s a pretty bad bet, I’d say.’

  Pikkle’s stomach made a loud audible growl, he patted it. ‘Yes I know, old lad, but you’ll just have ter wait until we find some tucker. Come on, chaps. Anybeast got an idea which way we should go to relieve the jolly old pangs?’

  Klitch winked at Goffa. ‘I suggest we carry on into the foothills over to the east, what do you think, Goffa?’

  ‘Foothills, yeh, good idea!’ The ferret agreed readily.

  Mara looked east to the distant foothills, with the mountain range rising green and greyish blue behind them. ‘Do you think we’ll find food there, Klitch?’

  The weasel patted her shoulder and started walking east. ‘It’s a good chance. Streams usually run down from mountains and stuff always grows by them – plants, roots, berry bushes.’

  Goffa followed Klitch. ‘He’s good at findin’ food.’

  Pikkle gave Mara a shove in their direction. ‘Then what’re we waitin’ for? Lead us t’ the berrybushes, chums.’

  Food had been passed up to Sickear in the lookout post. It was not much – a pawful of berries, a crust of bread and some water – but he ate it gratefully, saving a little of the water to bathe his clawed shoulder.

  The hot summer morning wore on, Sickear rubbing his eyes to stay awake as he kept watch, whilst below the lookout rock normal camp routine went on. Foraging and hunting parties came and went. Keeping away from Salamandastron, they moved south and stalked the swampland fringes for toads, frogs and birds. When these were not available there were always plants and roots.

  Though everybeast feared Ferahgo, there were one or two who doubted the wisdom of his trek north. Forgrin the fox and Raptail the searat were two such creatures. They carried the breadsack, doling out stale bread to the horde.

  A ferret named Bateye knocked his crust of bread against a rock, muttering complaints under his breath: ‘Lookit this – bread they calls it. More like stone it is!’

  Forgrin rooted about in the breadsack, his voice mocking. ‘Oh dearie me, did yew ’ear that, Raptail? Pore ol’ Bateye’s bread ain’t fresh. ’Ang on a bit, mate, and I’ll see if there’s any cake in ’ere. Now which would yew like, Yer ‘Ighness, the sort wi’ plums in or the cake wi’ cream atop of it?’

  Bateye raised his paw to fling the bread at Forgrin. ‘Yah shaddap yer grinnin’ idjit . . .’

  There was a whirring swish as Ferahgo’s skinning knife zipped between Forgrin and Raptail to pierce the crust held in Bateye’s paw. The blood drained from the ferret’s narrow face as the Assassin strode forward and picked up the knife with the crust fixed to its blade.

  ‘Something wrong with your bread, Bateye?’

  The ferret sat, staring up into the smiling blue eyes, then shook his head in vigorous denial. ‘No, master, norra thing. The bread’s jus’ fine, thank yer!’

  ‘Excellent! Then let’s see you eat it all up now!’ Ferahgo smiled wickedly, holding the bread transfixed upon his knife as Bateye tried to eat it under his gaze.

  Bateye was no longer young, he had teeth missing, and the rock-hard dry crust cut his gums, but he ate on doggedly, too scared to stop.

  Ferahgo watched him intently and commented, ‘What’s that noise? Has one of your teeth broken? Oh look, it’s fallen out. Tut tut, Bateye. You should have taken better care of those molars, and cleaned them with a soft twig every morning. Still, eating that bread will strengthen them. What do you say?’

  Bateye tried to speak around the knife blade and the stale dried bread filling his mouth, but he was only able to produce a strangled noise.

  ‘I understand friend.’ Ferahgo nodded sympathetically. ‘You’d like more. Forgrin, Raptail, give me more bread out that sack. This poor ferret is still hungry.’

  Forgrin’s jaw tightened at the wanton cruelty of Ferahgo, but he obeyed. Just as Raptail was about to pass Ferahgo the bread, a stoat called Dewnose came running up.

  ‘Master, Sickear says to come quick, he’s spotted somethin’ that you should see!’

  Flicking the blade from Bateye’s open mouth, the Assassin ran to the lookout rock and scaled it nimbly. Sickear moved over on the perch to make room, his daw pointing.

  ‘Over there, Master. It’s Klitch an’ Goffa with two others!’

  ‘Yes, I see. Good work, Sickear!’

  ‘But look, can you see, Master, just behind ’em in the hills, there’s a hare followin’ them.’

  ‘Hmm, so there is. I wonder if the badger knows we’re here, or is that just a lone hare spying on us? We’ll soon find out.’

  Pikkle shielded his eyes from the midday glare as he viewed the mountainous country before them. ‘Oh corks! How much further do we go? I’m absolutely whacked!’

  ‘Too much to eat last night, Pikkle, that’s your trouble.’ Klitch shook his head reprovingly. ‘Look, it’s not much further now. Why don’t you and Mara rest here awhile with Goffa, and I’ll go on ahead and scout the land, How does that sound?’

  Pikkle flung himself gratefully on the ground. ‘Absolutely top-hole, old lad. You carry on bein’ the jolly intrepid scout, and we’ll flop down here!’

  Mara did not argue, she was glad of the rest. Goffa merely nodded to Klitch and sat moodily, some distance from Mara and Pikkle. The badger maid rested her back against a rock and closed her eyes.

  Suddenly a voice nearby whispered urgently, ‘Missie, don’t turn round, stay has you are. You an’ Pikkle ’ave got ter get away from ’ere sharpish. It’s a trap!’

  Startled, Mara opened her eyes and leaned around the rock. ‘Sergeant Sapwood, what are you doing here?’

  Goffa sprang up. He came dashing over, spear at the ready. ‘Wot’s goin’ on ’ere? Who are you talki—’

  Sapwood leaped out in front of him, poised for action. With a yell the ferret thrust the spear forward. Sapwood neatly sidestepped, kicking the spear adrift with his long hind legs. Goffa tried to make a grab for it but he was confronted by the champion boxing hare of Salamandastron. In swift succession two neat left pawhooks thudded to the side of his head, followed by a powerful straight right paw, smack dab on his chin. Goffa crumpled to the ground, senseless.

  Pikkle came dashing over, puzzlement and concern on his face. ‘I say, steady on, Sappers ol’ boy . . .’

  Sergeant Sapwood seized him by the ear. ‘Liddle block’eads, there’s a whole harmy of vermin jus’ over yon ‘ill. Yore in a trap. Run for yore lives!’


  A yelling horde of Ferahgo’s creatures came charging over the hill in front of them. Sapwood threw an imploring glance at Mara, then snatched his javelin from behind the rock and thrust it into her paws.

  ‘Too late, missie, but run. Y’might ’ave a chance, both of you. I’ll lead ’em off!’

  9

  The Nameday celebrations at Redwall Abbey were in full swing. Early that morning they had started with the young ones marching round to the orchard, where they were met by Thrugg. As there was no badger to challenge them, the big otter had disguised himself, striping his face black and white and garbing himself with dusty old grey drapes. He shook a ladle at them as if it were a club and called out the challenge,

  ‘What want you here, young beast, young beast,

  What want you here at my feast, my feast?’

  Two young mousemaids, Turzel and Blossom, stood forward. They danced around Thrugg as they chanted,

  ‘O stripedog, great guardian, some food for us all,

  For we are good young ones who live at Redwall!’

  Thrugg appeared fearsome and waved his ladle at them.

  ‘Some food, you say. Nay nay, away,

  Unless our good Abbess says it is Nameday!’

  It fell traditionally to Dumble, being the youngest, to call upon the Abbess to open the feast. He was pushed forward, his head wreathed in a posy of flowers and a willow wand in his paw. Twice he forgot his words as he waved the willow wand, but finally he plucked up confidence and got it right, the Sisters and Brothers laughing and applauding his babyspeech.

  ‘Kind muvva, gudd muvva, er, er, O pleeze tell this beast

  Dat this is our Nameday, an’, an’, an’ we wanna feast!’

  Every creature cheered aloud as Abbess Vale came forward, dressed in her best ceremonial habit, and declaimed loudly: