Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Plumnose grinned. “T’ink nodding ob it.” He turned to Halfchop. “Duh likkel door’s locked, I t’ink.”

  The rat wiped a ribbon of drool from his chin. “Kachunk!”

  Badredd rounded on the pair, hissing viciously. “Shuttup, you two, an’ get back into the trees—go on! Flinky, are ye any good at openin’ locks?”

  The stoat scratched his grimy cheek. “Ah, well, there’s locks an’ locks, if ye get my meanin’, yer ’onour!”

  Badredd whipped out his cutlass and thrust it under Flinky’s nose. “I never asked ye for a lecture about locks! I said, are you any good at openin’ ’em—well, are ye?”

  Flinky heaved a sigh and took the cutlass from his chief’s paw. “Sure an’ I don’t know until I try. Shall I give it an ould go?”

  Badredd waved him to the door impatiently. “Well, put a move on, we haven’t got all night!”

  Flinky wedged the swordblade between the door jamb and the wall. He slid the blade down until it clinked dully against something.

  “Hah, there’s yore problem, Chief, ’tis a bolt. D’ye want me to try an’ chop through it?”

  The fox exhaled irately. “Anythin’, just get on with it!”

  Flinky requested the aid of Floggo and Rogg. “Come over t’this door, buckoes. Now put yore shoulders to it. Push now. That’ll widen the gap so I can get a grand swing at the bolt. Push, put those ould bows down an’ push!”

  The door moved slightly under the pressure, creating a thin space. Flinky took the cutlass in both paws, raising it within the gap. Then he struck, whipping the blade down with all his might.

  Piiing! As it struck the iron bolt, the blade snapped in half.

  Badredd stared in silent horror at the stoat, who—still holding the handle and half a blade—was hopskipping in agony, both paws numbed by the reverberation of metal upon metal.

  The vermin leader’s voice rose to a disbelieving squeak. “Me sword! Me luvly cutlass! Ye’ve ruined it! Idiot!”

  Tears squeezed from the corners of Flinky’s eyes as he flung the half cutlass on the ground. “Aarh, it broke its stupid self. Yore s’posed t’be the chief, why didn’t you have a go?”

  Badredd seized the broken weapon. “Have a go? I’ll have a go at you if ye ain’t careful, idiot! An’ you lot, a fine crew I’ve got, sittin’ round scratchin’ yerselves among the trees. Up on yer paws, doltheads, we’ll have to find someplace else where we can get in. Jump to it!”

  As Badredd strode off in foul mood, Plumnose called to him. “Chief, me an’ Halfchob hab got de door oben!”

  Badredd dashed back to where Plumnose and Halfchop stood in the small doorway. Finding the door still closed, he fumed at them. “Ye blither-brained, wobble-nosed, broken-snouted loafheads! Get goin’, afore I carve cobs off’n ye with what’s left o’ me sword!”

  But then, as Plumnose pushed the wicker door gently, it swung inward. “Duh, hawhawhaw, oben!”

  Halfchop walked through the open door and grinned. “Kachunk!”

  Flinky inspected the wall alongside the door. “Well now, ain’t I the clever beast! I must’ve hit the bolt so hard that it broke through the ould soft sandstone it bolts into. See, there’s a chunk of it missin’. Oh, here’s the rest of yer grand cutlass, Chief.”

  He presented the fox with the other half of the blade. Flinging it from him, Badredd turned on the crew and hissed, “You lot, keep yore mouths shut, not a sound out of ye. Foller me, don’t go cloghoppin’ all over the place. We’re goin’ to take a look around. Next move is t’get inside the big buildin’. Quietly now . . .”

  After taking food out to the west walltop for Toran and Junty, Martha and Sister Setiva returned to the Abbey. Martha stayed in her chair below stairs whilst Setiva went up to the dormitory to check up on the Dibbuns. The shrewnurse was away only for a brief space of time when a dismayed cry reached Martha. Setiva came hurrying back downstairs carrying little Buffle, who was imprisoned in a pillowcase with only his head sticking out.

  The Sister’s voice shook with barely controlled anger. “Och, jist let me get mah paws on those rascals. Ah’ll give ’em somethin’ tae remember me by!”

  Buffle strained against the pillowcase knotted at his neck. “Goourr, ’ascals!”

  A look of fear crossed the haremaid’s face. “What’s happened, Sister?”

  Setiva began trying to release Buffle. “Ooh! Those Dibbuns, Muggum, Shilly an’ Yooch. They’ve gone missing. All the rest o’ the wee ones were fast asleep, except Buffle. D’ye see what they did? Trapped ’im in this auld pillowslip so he couldnae follow ’em. Where in the name of all fur have they got to?”

  Buffle pulled a paw free and pointed out the Abbey door.

  Junty Cellarhog ran his paw around the inside of his bowl and licked it. “Ah, apple’n’blackberry crumble, mate, nothin’ like it!”

  Toran gazed longingly back toward the Abbey. “Aye, pity we’re on wallguard all night. If the Abbot sends out a relief, there might be some left when we get off duty.” Toran’s keen eye suddenly noticed three small, white-clad figures trundling across the lawn in his direction. Two were waving sticks and one swinging a ladle. He peered hard.

  “Look there, mate, that ain’t no relief!”

  It was at that moment when things began happening fast.

  Framed in a shaft of golden light from the Abbey door, Martha and Sister Setiva were pointing to the Dibbuns and calling aloud to them. “Come back here this instant, or you’re in real trouble!”

  The trio split, Muggum running south and the other two hurrying off to the north.

  Toran saw them and chuckled. “Escapin’ Dibbuns, eh? They won’t get far . . .”

  Junty interrupted him roughly. “Look, vermin!”

  Badredd and his crew were sneaking quickly out across the lawn, trying to grab Muggum, who was heading for the pond where he planned on hiding in the reeds. The little mole was completely unaware of the enemy. Sister Setiva had come out onto the Abbey steps. As soon as she saw the vermin crew, she began dashing to save Muggum.

  Junty was already hurtling down the gatehouse wallsteps, calling back to Toran, “Get the other two little ’uns inside!” He shouted at the shrewnurse. “Stay where ye are, Sister. I’ll bring that Dibbun in!”

  With his paws, Toran swept up the giggling Shilly and Yooch—this was all one big game to them—then the ottercook turned and pounded toward the Abbey door.

  Slipback came within a paw’s length of grabbing Muggum, when Junty fetched him a massive whack to the chest, laying the weasel out flat. Then the big Cellarhog seized the molebabe and ran as fast as his footpaws would carry him, with Badredd and the crew hard on his heels. Without stopping, Junty snatched up Sister Setiva from where she had been standing in his path, rigid with fright.

  Thud! Thud!

  Two arrows from the bows of the ferrets buried themselves in the Cellarhog’s broad back. He staggered slightly but kept running. Muggum was screeching, the hedgehog’s sharp spines were sticking in his paws as the molebabe tried to struggle free.

  Toran sped into the Abbey, dropped both of the other Dibbuns into Martha’s lap. “Get ready to slam the door shut!” He panted as he turned and ran back outside to help Junty.

  One arrow grazed Toran’s cheek, another hit Junty in his right shoulder. Toran shot past the Cellarhog, whirled hard, and caught Crinktail across the face with a huge smack of his rudder. He turned and pushed Junty, with both his burdens, up the steps and into the Abbey, roaring, “Bar the door!”

  Redwallers, who had come pouring out of Cavern Hole to see what all the commotion was about, assisted the haremaid in slamming and barring the door in the face of the charging vermin crew. Two more arrows made a hollow sound as they flew into the strong oak timbering. A crash and a tinkle sent Foremole and Brother Weld hurrying to the lower windows.

  Toran urged others along with him. “Get tables an’ benches! Barricade the lower frames before they get in!”

  Badredd waved his brok
en cutlass. “Keep at it there, crew, we’ve got ’em on the run!”

  Flinky watched a dining table blocking a broken window. He muttered out the side of his mouth to Juppa. “Keep slingin’ rocks, but let ’em barricade those windows. They’d eat our liddle gang if’n we got inside. We’d be well outnumbered, mate.”

  Juppa looked puzzled. “Well, if’n we ain’t goin’ in, wot’s the next move?”

  Flinky had served under lots of different vermin chiefs, all a lot smarter than Badredd. He winked confidently at the weasel.

  “Lissen t’me. If’n we ain’t goin’ in, well they ain’t gettin’ out. Did ye see that great orchard we passed as we came through?”

  Badredd came marching around, prodding Flinky with his broken blade. “Wot’s that sling doin’ empty? Keep chuckin’ rocks at those windows until I tell ye to stop. Both of ye!”

  Flinky loaded a large pebble into his sling. “Ah, we’ll be doin’ that, yer ’onour, right away. I was just tellin’ ould Juppa here what a clever move ye made.”

  Badredd was eager to know just what the clever move was. “Aye, well that’s alright. You explain it to ’er, she was never too bright. Go on, tell the long-tailed oaf.” The small fox stood listening to Flinky’s explanation.

  “Hoho, we’ve got the sillybeasts locked up tight now. Prisoners in their own Abbey, ’tis called a siege. There’s only a limited supply o’ food an’ drink in there. Take us now, the chief knows we got the orchard an’ the pond. They’ll either starve t’death in the Abbey or surrender after awhile. Ain’t that right, Chief?”

  Only a moment before, Badredd thought he had lost the encounter, but the realisation of what Flinky had just said made him shudder with delight. So that was what a siege was all about.

  Keeping a straight face, the fox nodded wisely. “Aye, ’tis a siege, sure enough. Now you two keep slingin’.” He swaggered off, shouting orders to the other vermin. Juppa watched him go. “A siege, eh? What a clever idea!”

  Flinky launched another stone but missed. He jumped neatly aside as it bounced back at him. “Ah sure, the ould chief is full o’ clever ideas, especially when some otherbeast thinks ’em up for ’im. Little fool, he couldn’t find his bottom wid both paws!” The weasel and the stoat loaded their slings again, laughing hilariously.

  Martha had pulled herself from her chair. She sat on the floor, both eyes shut tight, clutching Junty’s paw to her cheek as she rocked back and forth. The Cellarhog was lying where he had fallen, face up. Muggum was wailing as Sister Portula pulled spikes from his side and paws.

  Sister Setiva was similarly engaged. “Och, ye’ve got some fine sharp quills on ye, mah guid Cellarhog. Ah’ll be with ye soon as I’ve got them out o’ me. Hauld him still, Martha, how is he?”

  With her eyes still shut, Martha kissed his limp paw. “He’s dead, Sister. Junty is dead!”

  23

  A squabbling flock of starlings, disputing rights to an ants’ nest, woke Jibsnout in the hour following daybreak. With a cavernous yawn, the big Searat heaved himself upright. He cast a jaundiced eye over the three sons of Wirga who were curled up together, sleeping beneath a wych hazel.

  Jibsnout cuffed the trio roughly, stirring them into wakefulness. “Up on yer hunkers, whelps, we’re on the move again!”

  The three smaller rats rose reluctantly, one of them glaring balefully at the Tracker and hissing. “We only lay down an hour afore dawn.”

  Jibsnout smirked. “Aye, ’tis a shame, ain’t it? Move yerself, snotty snout, an’ don’t argue wid me. If’n I say ye march, then ye march, so button yer lip!”

  Quivering with anger, the smaller rat picked up his little spear—each of his brothers carried one, too. Jibsnout had seen them use the deadly weapons, but not as spears. Although they were actually hollow rods, the spearpoints could be removed, transforming them into blowpipes through which poisoned darts could be shot with lethal accuracy. The big Searat stroked his long dagger fondly and moved closer to the sons of Wirga. He fixed the angry one with a cold stare.

  “Go on, mamma’s liddle rat, use it, I dare ye. Think yore brave enough t’slay me, eh?”

  Lashing out swiftly, Jibsnout knocked the spear from the smaller rat’s paws. Whipping out his blade, he menaced the other two. “Just try raisin’ one o’ those things against me, an’ poison or not, I’ll rip yer throats out! Well, come on, ye gutless wonders, who’s ready fer a fight t’the death?”

  The sons of Wirga stood silent, their eyes cast down. Jibsnout curled his lip scornfully, turning his back on them. “Hah, I thought so! There’s more backbone in an egg than in youse three put t’gether. Scringin’ cowards!”

  Each of the three blowpipes was already charged with a poison dart. Silently slipping the head from his spear, the rat whom Jibsnout had insulted placed the hollow rod to his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he prepared to propel the dart.

  Zzzzzzip!

  A long arrow struck the little rat, driving him back a full four paces. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Diving to either side, the remaining two sons of Wirga sought cover. Lonna emerged from out of the trees, fitting another shaft to his bowstring. The badger’s eyes were red with the light of vengeance, the snarl on his scarred, stitched face transforming him into a terrifying apparition. Frightened though he was, Jibsnout, a seasoned fighter, acted swiftly. Wielding his dagger, he dashed forward, hoping to get so close to his adversary that the bow and arrow would be rendered useless.

  Lonna was in a dilemma: he could see one of the Searats glancing around a treetrunk, ready to fire a blowpipe, and Jibsnout thundering toward him. With lightning speed the badger acted. Falling into a crouch, he fired his arrow, but only narrowly missed being shot himself as a poison dart whipped by overhead. Jibsnout roared in pain as the arrow transfixed his paw to the ground. As Lonna rose, taking another shaft from his quiver, the Searat who had fired the dart fled off into the woodlands.

  The remaining son of Wirga came from behind a fir tree, certain that he could not fail to hit a target as big as the badger. As he placed the blowpipe to his mouth, Figalok the squirrel appeared directly in front of him, hanging by her tail from an overhead branch. She grabbed the opposite end of the vermin’s blowpipe and blew hard. Clutching his throat, the horrified rat fell writhing to the ground, choked on his own poison dart.

  Figalok dropped out of the tree, nodding to Lonna. “Chahaah, gotta be plenny quick wirra Searatta!”

  The big badger put up his bow, striving to master the Bloodwrath that was coursing through him. “You saved my life, friend, but I’ll have to thank you some other time. One of the Searats got away. I must hunt him down now while his trail is still fresh.”

  The squirrel gestured at the wounded Jibsnout. “Warra ’bout dissa one, ya goin’ to slay ’im?”

  Jibsnout crouched over, his face creased in agony. The arrow that had pierced his footpaw was buried half its length into the ground. He glanced up at Lonna, expecting no mercy from him.

  “If’n yore gonna finish me off, make it quick, stripedog!”

  The badger strode over and grasped the arrow. With a sharp tug he pulled the arrow out, growling at Jibsnout. “I’m no Searat, I don’t kill defenceless beasts!” Ripping the sleeve from the rat’s frayed tunic, Lonna grabbed a pawful of damp moss and dockleaves.

  The puzzled rat watched his enemy binding the wound up tight. “Ye mean yore lettin’ me live?”

  The badger hauled him upright, slamming him against a tree. “My name is Lonna Bowstripe. Take this message to Raga Bol. Tell him that he and all his crew of murderers are walking deadbeasts. I will find them and slay them, one by one. Even you. Now begone from my sight and deliver my message to your captain. Tell him I am coming, nothing will stop me!”

  Lonna and Figalok watched Jibsnout limping painfully off until he was obscured by the trees, then together, the two friends took a brief meal. The squirrel wielded a blowpipe spear and poison darts taken from the slain Searats.

 
“Chahaah! Me betcha dis keep Ravin away from squirrel. Lonna Bigbeast, ya goin’ after dat Searatta who runned away? Me go witcha, we find ’im afore tomorra.”

  But the badger would not hear of it. “No, my friend, you have your own home and kinbeasts to protect. This is something I must do by myself. I am sworn by my own oath to rid the earth of Raga Bol and all his vermin. But I thank you for saving my life, Figalok!”

  The elderly squirrel took his paw. “Chahaaw, so be’t, Lonna, ya are d’true warrior. Ya saved us fromma Ravin, glad Figalok could save ya, too. Me no ferget ya alla me life, always think of ya!”

  Averting his eyes, Lonna inspected the long dagger he had taken from Jibsnout, pleased that it was a good blade. When he looked up again, Figalok had gone, vanished into the treetops.

  The Searat’s trail had gone off to the southeast. Lonna picked it up and followed the tracks. As he walked, the badger fashioned a holder for his dagger, fitting it to his upper left arm close to the shoulder. By late afternoon, the dense woodlands thinned out into pine groves and sandhills. In the distance, Lonna could make out a dark shape to his left on the horizon. The trail of Wirga’s remaining son was running parallel to the mysterious mass. Just before sunset, the badger crested a rise which afforded a clear view of the country he was travelling through. On the one side, the hills bordered a vast, dusty plain, almost like a desert wasteland. On the other side, the odd dark mass reared up into a towering line of forbidding cliffs. After awhile it grew too dark for tracking. Reaching the cliff face, Lonna sighted what he knew was a cave. He climbed up and made camp there for the night.

  There was no need for a fire. The night was still and warm, with heat waves drifting in from the plain. Knowing he could pick up the Searat’s tracks at dawn, Lonna sat in the cave entrance, eating an apple and some dried fruit. He gazed up at the night sky, where a sliver of moon, resembling a slice of russet apple, was surrounded by myriads of stars twinkling in the firmament. The words of an old song rose unbidden to his mind.