Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Brother Weld exchanged glances with his friend Brother Gelf. “Well, you heard them say they’d attack us when it got dark. Don’t let that little decoy by the gatehouse fool you, Abbot, they’ll be coming shortly.”

  Carrul poised his ladle over the soup cauldron. “You’ll excuse me saying, but we don’t look exactly ready to stand off an attack, with everybeast sitting about on the beds and the floor. How will you know if the Searats are stealing up on us under cover of darkness?”

  Brother Gelf chuckled. “Oh, we’ll know sure enough, Father.”

  From out on the lawn, shrieks and curses rent the air, together with the clatter of falling wood. Martha said calmly, “That’ll be them now. Right, friends, all to the windows and take up your positions.”

  The Abbot ducked to avoid a hooked window pole that Foremole Dwurl was carrying. “Will somebeast pray tell me what is going on out there?”

  Martha patted the paws of the two brothers beside her. “It was their idea. We knew Raga Bol and his Searats would come once night fell. So Brother Weld and Brother Gelf had the bright idea of throwing broken glass, from the windows of Great Hall, out onto the lawn. Then, if the Searats tried to sneak up in the dark, they’d naturally let us know. It worked rather well, Father. Just listen to them!”

  Raga Bol lurched about on the darkened lawn. He grabbed one of his crewrats, cuffing him about his ears. “Silence, ye fool, wot’s all the yowlin’ about?”

  The Searat limped this way and that, trying to dodge the blows. “Somethin’ sharp is stickin’ right into me footpaw. I couldn’t ’elp it, Cap’n, I swear!”

  Bol shoved him away scornfully. “Somethin’ sharp, eh? I’ll give ye somethin’ sharp if’n ye don’t shuttup. Any chance we ’ad of a surprise ambush is long gone now. Never mind yore footpaws, get some fire in yore bellies an’ try t’be like real Searats. Avast there crew . . . Charge!”

  Keeping his voice low as he heard the captain bellowing, Toran the ottercook gave his own orders. “Up t’the winders, mates, let go the water!”

  Sturdy moles trundled forward to the windows. They hurled out the contents of bowls, pails, pots, pans, cauldrons and buckets. Water cascaded over the rubble heap, which piled outward, protecting the Abbey door.

  The first ranks of Searats flung tree limbs, planks and long branches against the heap. Raga Bol dashed about, shouting encouragement. “The fools won’t stop us wid a drop o’ water! Up ye go, buckoes. Board the place like it was a ship an’ slay ’em all!”

  Crewrats began scaling up the timbers. Unfortunately for them, the wood started sinking into the rubble, which had turned into a big mudheap, owing to the water drenching it. However, three of the longest planks spanned the mess, their ends resting on the sandstone lintel above the door.

  When Raga Bol saw this, he waved his scimitar about wildly. “Ferron, Hangclaw, Rinj, gerrup those long bits. Come on, all paws t’the planks. Get through those winders, look sharp!”

  Clenching blades in their fangs, the Searats clambered skilfully up the wooden lengths. The planks bellied under their combined weight but held.

  Raga Bol laughed like a madbeast. “Haharr, keep goin’. We’ll make it, mates!”

  But they never quite made it. Hotroot pepper bombs burst on the heads of the lead climbers. Vermin wobbled on the planktops, trying to hold on whilst fending off the searing packages that pelted them.

  Toran and the Redwall defenders appeared at the window spaces bringing their long, hooked window poles into play. The ottercook and four others latched on to a centre plank and heaved it out from the wall.

  “Push, friends! Put yore backs into it an’ shove!”

  Under the concerted effort of the Abbeybeasts, the plank was forced outward. Searats clung shrieking to it, as the pole moved it away. With nothing to support it, the plank teetered for a moment, then toppled over backwards with vermin clinging to its underside.

  Willing paws plied more window poles. Sister Setiva, Sister Portula and a crowd of elders pushed the left plank. Brothers Weld and Gelf, assisted by Gurvel, Foremole and three of his crew, pushed the one to the right. They strained and grunted, leaning their weight against the bending window poles.

  Martha gripped the arms of her chair, lifting her body forward. She could hear herself roaring. “Push hard as you can. Push!”

  The planks fell, one to either side of the windows. Wood scraped against stone as they plunged sideways. Wailing Searats threw themselves clear—some going headlong into the mudheap, others thudding on the paving stones below.

  The defenders fell in a heap on the dormitory floor, yelling out a great victorious cry. “Redwaaaaalllllll!”

  Martha was about to drop back into her chair when an awful sight froze the breath in her throat. The Searat Ferron was crouching before her, framed in the window. He had leaped from the first plank before it had begun its backward journey. Latching on to the sill, Ferron had hauled himself up onto the windowledge. Now he perched there, snarling, a long dagger in one paw, ready to kill. In front of him, the Abbot had risen from the jumble on the floor and was standing with both paws raised wide, joining in the joyous shout of Redwall, with his back to the window.

  Time stood still, Martha’s voice had deserted her. She was holding herself up, with her paws still gripping the chair arms. In front of her, Abbot Carrul stood, smiling at the haremaid and cheering lustily. Behind him, the Searat raised his dagger, preparing to stab at the Abbot’s unprotected back. Alarm bells were clanging furiously in Martha’s brain, coupled with the voice of Martin the Warrior, thundering at her, “Save your Abbot!”

  It was over in a flash! Martha stood upright. Charging past Carrul and pushing him to one side, she hit the Searat, knocking him right out of the dormitory window.

  Toran came bulling forward. He grasped the haremaid’s waist, pulling her back into the room. “You walked, Martha! You walked! You walked! You walked!”

  32

  Down on the lawn, Raga Bol turned and strode away from the scene of his defeat. The Searat Rojin limped up to him. “Cap’n, there’s no way we kin get at ’em. Those beasts ain’t as simple as they look.”

  Bol carried on walking without even looking back at Rojin. “Have ye only just realised that? Call the crew off. There’s got t’be a way into that Abbey, an’ I’ll find it. Ye can take my oath on it, ’cos I ain’t movin’ from Redwall. ’Tis mine, d’ye hear me? Mine!”

  Somewhere southeast, deep along a woodland trail in Mossflower Wood, Flinky stopped running. Breathless and shaking, he collapsed to the ground. The little gang of escaped vermin flopped down beside him. Badredd slunk at the back of the group, with nobeast paying him the slightest attention. Gone were his days as gangleader. Now all the vermin looked to the stoat, Flinky, as their saviour. He had taken them out of the Searats’ clutches.

  Panting hard, Crinktail clutched her mate’s paw gratefully. “We did it, we got away!”

  Halfchop grinned fondly at Flinky, his new hero. “Kachunk!”

  Understanding what his pal meant, Plumnose nodded in agreement. “Wodd duh we doo’s now, Flink?”

  The triumphant stoat was never stuck for words, despite trying to regain his breath. “Ah well, Plum, we can’t run anymore tonight. Let’s just stow ourselves under those bushes an’ take a good ould rest while we lay low there an’ ’ide. Tomorrer we’ll ’ead south, where nobeast will ever find us agin. Sure, we’ll find a comfy spot where there’s plenny o’ vittles growin’, clean water an’ grand weather. That’ll do fer us, a good plan, eh?”

  Juppa’s voice was full of admiration. “Aye, that it is. We’re with ye all the way, Chief!”

  Rolling beneath the bushes, Slipback settled down amid the leaf mold. The rest joined him, with Flinky still chattering on.

  “Ah, sure, we musta bin mad, lettin’ greedy ould fools an’ oafs lead us. Ferget all the magic swords, sieges an’ great abbeys. Wot more could a body want than layin’ round in the sun all day, fillin’ yore stummick wid vittle
s an’ never an argument twixt the lot of us anymore. After wot we bin through, I reckon we deserves a taste o’ the good life, mates!”

  Owing to the size of his nose, Plumnose was gifted with a keen sense of smell. His voice carried a note of disgust as he called out in the darkness beneath the bushes. “Duh, sumthink smells h’awful round ’ere!”

  Juppa gave vent to a horrified gurgle. “Yurgh, wot’s this?” She shot out of the bushes on to the other side of the trail. Wringing her paws, the weasel performed an anguished little dance.

  “There’s a deadbeast in there! Yukk, I put me paw on its face. Creepy crawlies were all over its eyes!”

  A mad scramble ensued as the gang ran out from beneath the bushes, shuddering and dusting themselves down.

  Flinky was the first to express an urgent desire. “Let’s get outta ’ere, run mates! We’ll keep goin’ ’til it’s light, then I’ll pick a better spot. Keep goin’, don’t stop fer nothin’!”

  Their sounds receded south into the distant woodlands, until everything was still and silent once more. The only things that moved were the insects crawling over the lifeless carcass of Jibsnout—lying stretched beneath the bushes where Raga Bol had flung his slain body.

  Around the midnight hour, two others came along that same path. The Searats, Glimbo and Blowfly. It was the latter who searched the ground closely for signs of the fugitives.

  Sceptical of ever finding them, one-eyed Glimbo complained volubly. “Wot’n the name o’ Hellgates do ye expect to find in this forest at night? We ain’t even got a lantern!”

  Blowfly wheezed as he heaved his bulk upright. “I got good blinkers, don’t need no lantern. I’ve tracked ’em this far, an’ I’ll keep on ’til I lays paws on dat scurvy liddle crew!”

  He unwound a long whip from about his flabby waist and cracked it. “I’ll teach ’em t’run away. They’ll be lucky to ’ave a hide to their backs by the time they git back to the Abbey!”

  Glimbo watched him track on a piece, then come to a halt. Blowfly inspected the ground carefully, going back and forth over the same piece, muttering and cursing.

  Glimbo relaxed, leaning against a tree. He scoffed sarcastically, “Ye’ve lost our liddle pals, I thought ye would. Nobeast kin track anythin’ at night through ’ere. Give up, mate, let’s git back t’the crew. They’re prob’ly inside that Abbey now, grabbin’ the loot an’ plunderin’ the place. Yore wastin’ time out in a forest when we could be back there snatchin’ our share.”

  Blowfly gave him a surly glare. “Huh, ’tis alright fer you, I’m the one t’blame for lettin’ them escape. ’Tis me who Cap’n Bol will take it out on. I can’t go back empty-pawed!”

  His companion did not agree. “Aw c’mon, Bol won’t be frettin’ over a few runaway fools. The cap’n ’as other things t’think about. A kick in the tail an’ a few ’ard words is the most we’ll get. Huh, we’ve ’ad plenny o’ those afore now. Belay there, shipmate, wot are ye doin’?”

  Blowfly looked up from his task of striking flint to steel. “Wot I shoulda done awhile back, makin’ a torch. I’ll find these runaways, just ye wait’n’see!”

  Glimbo seated himself with his back against the tree trunk. “Well, ye can find ’em on yer own, ’cos I ain’t goin’ anywheres. When ye come back this way widout ’em, gimme a shake. I’ll be right ’ere, takin’ a nap.”

  Blowfly held up the burning torch he had fashioned. Silent and stubborn, he trudged off alone into the night.

  Lonna Bowstripe saw the glow from between the trees where he sat resting. It appeared like a small floating island of light in the darkness. Silent as a wraith he arose, becoming one with the forest as he stood motionless against the elm trunk. Blowfly walked by within a paw’s reach of the big badger. Staring at the ground, the Searat mumbled bloodthirsty curses as to the fate of the lost fugitives. Lonna saw his face in the torchlight, and a trigger went off in his mind. He recalled brief flashes of the night he had been attacked by the Searats. Blowfly’s coarse, ugly features were instantly identifiable. Swiftly, the badger strung his bow and stole up behind the unsuspecting Searat.

  Blowfly was jerked back as the tightly strung bow trapped his neck between wood and twine. The big badger managed to catch the torch before it fell.

  Craning his head around painfully, the Searat caught a glimpse of his captor and spoke almost indignantly.

  “Yore dead!”

  Lonna drew him in until they were face-to-face. Only the pressure on the bow held the Searat upright, his limbs having turned to jelly.

  With torchlight flickering over his scarred features and the light glinting in his vengeful eyes, the giant badger resembled some beast straight out of a nightmare.

  Blowfly’s tongue suddenly ran away with him. “It was Bol . . . it wasn’t me . . . I wasn’t nowhere near ye. I swear me oath on it, I never did nothin’ . . . Gurgg!”

  A sharp tug on the bowstring silenced him. Lonna’s voice left the Searat in no doubt that lies would not save him. “So you never did anything, you were nowhere near, it all had nought to do with you, you are innocent of everything?

  “How many times has that same excuse been made? Think of every bully, cheat, plunderer or murderer before you who has lied with those same words. Once a villain is caught with no pack around him, then everybeast is to blame, except himself, of course. He will lie, betray and cheat to save his hide. But sometimes there is justice in the world, and fate catches up with him. So speak truly to me, or you will die slowly. You have my word on it—and I never lie.”

  Blowfly sighed with relief. He told Lonna all he needed to know, and he spoke truly. The big badger kept his word: the Searat did not die slowly. A single, mighty jerk of the bow, and Blowfly died quicker than he had ever expected to.

  Awakened by flaring torchlight, Glimbo yawned and stretched his paws. “Betcha never caught ’em, I told ye afore y . . . Ukkk!” The Searat’s paw shot to his neck. Blowfly’s long whip was tied around it, holding him fast to the tree he was sitting against.

  A deep, forbidding voice warned him, “Be still, vermin!”

  Automatically he raised his other paw, trying to free his neck. There was a hissing sound, like an angry wasp. An arrow of awesome length buried its point deep in the tree trunk, a hairbreadth from his neck. Glimbo froze.

  Lonna revealed his face in the torchlight, laid another shaft on his bowstring and unhurriedly explained his purpose to the petrified Searat. “You will take me to the Abbey of Redwall. I am going to release you, but play me false, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Is that understood? Speak!”

  Glimbo’s good eye rolled about alarmingly in its socket—he was completely terrified. “Unnerstood!”

  The badger drew a long knife from his arm sheath and severed the whipcoils with a swift stroke. The Searat shot off like a hare at top speed. Lonna drew back the bowstring, homing in on the fleeing figure.

  “Never mind, I’ll find my own way.”

  33

  Fenna lowered her head quickly. More thin, sharp reed lances whipped viciously by. “Don’t they ever run short of those things?”

  Without raising himself, Bragoon hurled off a slingstone. “There’s always reeds aplenty on riverbanks. They just cut ’em an’ point one end—it makes a good throwin’ lance, sharp an’ dangerous. I’ve used ’em meself in the past.”

  Saro suddenly rolled in beside Springald. “Aye, but ye weren’t much good with lances, too ’eavy pawed.”

  The otter scratched his rudder. “Where did you come from, mate?”

  Saro smiled, secretly enjoying the surprise she had in store. “I found a bend in the river down that way, an’ guess wot else I found?”

  She signalled with her paw. Suddenly Springald found herself being jostled by a score of shrews who had crept out from behind trees and bushes to join them in the shelter of the log.

  The otter uttered a delighted growl. “Guoraf shrews . . . Great!”

  Saro pointed to Jigger. “Aye, Guoraf shrews, an’ who
does this ’un remind ye of, Brag?”

  The otter inspected Jigger’s face, noting the beard he was starting to cultivate. “Wait, don’t tell me, are ye a kinbeast to Log a Log Briggy, young ’un?”

  Jigger expertly caught a reed lance as it flew by. As he cast it back downhill, he was rewarded by a reptile’s scream. “Briggy’s me old daddy. You must be Bragoon, the mad otter. Daddy’s tole me about you. Pleased t’meetcha!”

  Fenna whispered to Saro. “What’s a Guoraf shrew?”

  The squirrel explained, “That’s just the first letters of their tribename. Guerilla Union of Roving and Fighting Shrews. They’re good friends an’ fearsome warriors. Sometimes I think that they do all their far rangin’ just lookin’ for fights. Me’n Brag have battled alongside of ’em once or twice through past seasons.”

  When everyone was acquainted, Jigger outlined the plan. “We’ve got to ’old on, ’til me dad an’ the others get set on the far bank. Then when we ’ears the signal, we charge an’ cut loose at those reptiles on our side.”

  Bragoon mulled it over. “Sounds like good sense t’me, mate. This crowd down below ain’t goin’ anyplace. They’re tryin’ to outwait us, an’ slay us all when we makes a move t’leave.”

  Jigger peered over the log and ducked a few lances. He thudded the ground with his club, chortling eagerly, “Reptiles’ll stan’ about waitin’ fer ages in the sun. Well, I ’ope they enjoys their sunbath, ’cos we’ll be givin’ ’em a different kind o’ tannin’. Hahaha!”

  Saro spotted slight movements in the bushes on the far hillside. “Looks like ole Briggy’s gettin’ the lads into position. Won’t be long now.”

  Without any prior warning, Horty came skipping blithely out from beneath the overhang. He ran by the log, speeding downhill and calling back to them, “Shrews, eh? Where’d ye meet that flippin’ lot? I feel much better now, chaps. Who’s for a jolly old paddle in the shallows, wot?”