Maudie took another glance at the rats, who were getting closer by the moment. “It is indeed, I take it you know of him, wot?”
Rangval twitched his nose in the horde’s direction. “Shure an’ who doesn’t know o’ that ’un around here. I’ve been crossin’ swords wid that boyo since he first showed his snotty nose in these parts. D’ye need my help now, Maudie, just say the word, me darlin’, an’ ’tis meself that’ll put a spoke in his wheel!”
Osbil interrupted. “Wot could one squirrel do agin that lot?” Before he could speak further, the Guosim spotter was flat on his back with Rangval’s dagger tickling his throat.
The roguish squirrel tweaked Osbil’s snout. “When I want yore opinion, me ould son, I’ll ask for it! Ah, shure but yore only a spiky rivermouse, what would ye know about anythin’ or a hatful o’ hazelnuts?” Rangval put up his blade and dismissed Osbil. “Now then, Maudie me darlin’, tell yer friends to push on upstream an’ don’t hang about. When ye come to a tidy liddle cover with a sandstone overhang an’ some pines nearby, wait for me there. Oh, an’ when ye pass by Owch Mansions, hold y’breath an’ keep yer head down, an’ make no sudden movements.”
Barbowla poked his head over the prow. “Owch Mansions, I’ve never heard o’ that place.”
Rangval grinned at the big otter. “Barbowla from the falls, isn’t it? You don’t know me, but I’ve watched you many a time, good, big family y’have. Shure, let’s do the introductions later, I’d best be about me business now. I’ll see ye later, so I will!” Rangval shot upward into the foliaged terraces and was gone.
Maudie turned to Barbowla. “I say we trust Rangval, he looks like a bit of a blinkin’ laddo, but I’ll bet he knows his bloomin’ way round, wot!”
The otter slid back into the water. “Ain’t much else we can do but trust him, miz. I’ll pass the word along to Luglug, t’keep watch for the cove.”
Smiling sheepishly, Osbil felt his neck, where Rangval’s blade had been a moment ago. “I wonder wot Owch Mansions are, miz?”
Maudie shrugged as the logboat began making better way. “I expect we’ll find out soon enough, old lad.”
18
Abbot Daucus woke shortly after dawn. The skies were uniformly cloudy and dull, it was humid, and the dawn chorus of birdsong was absent. The good mouse wandered down to the kitchens, where Friar Chondrus was supervising breakfast preparations. Young ones on kitchen duty were scurrying around as the squirrel Friar issued orders.
“Don’t put any hot bread or pastries to cool on the open windowsills, it’s started drizzling. Folura, help me with this oatmeal, please.”
Daucus took hold of the cauldron handle, his paw protected by a wrapping of sleeve folds. “Here, let me get that, friend, clear the table there!”
Chondrus made room for the cauldron as Daucus swung it quickly onto the tabletop. “Good morning, Father Abbot, have you been to the walltops yet, any news of the Sea Raider vermin?”
Daucus began adding ingredients to the oatmeal. “None yet, Friar. Skipper Rorc, Benjo Tipps, Foremole and Orkwil have been up there all night. I’ll take them some breakfast and hear what they have to report. Then I’ll have to organise a relief guard, they can’t stay up there indefinitely. Have you heard from Sister Atrata, as to our badger, Gorath?”
Friar Chondrus bent to pull a tray of fruit rolls from the oven. “The sister will be here shortly, to collect breakfast for the sickbay. I’ll let you know the moment she tells me about Gorath. Folura, Glingal, load up a trolley of vittles, and help Father Abbot up the ramparts with it, please.”
Skipper’s two fine daughters obliged cheerfully.
“Pore ole Daddy, he must be wet’n’starved.”
“Never mind, we’ll put a smile on his whiskers!”
Between them, the two ottermaids and the Abbot loaded up a trolley of hearty breakfast food, and headed off to the walltops. Benjo Tipps hurried down, to help them up the wallsteps with the trolley.
Orkwil rubbed a sleepy paw across his eyes, cheered up by the sight of breakfast. He was bone weary, but would not admit it. Abbot Daucus watched as the young hedgehog’s snout drooped, almost dipping into his oatmeal bowl. Daucus tweaked Orkwil’s ear gently.
“Wake up, mate, oatmeal’s for eating, not sleeping in.”
Orkwil protested. “I’m not a bit sleepy Father Abbot, honest I’m not!”
Skipper spoke through a mouthful of warm fruit roll. “Ho yes ye are, young Prink, but it ain’t anythin’ t’be ashamed of, ye did a good night’s work on guard here!”
Abbot Daucus smiled at them through the thickening curtain of drizzle. “You all did a splendid night’s work, and I thank you very much. But now you can go and have a good sleep, inside where it’s dry and warm. Folura and Glingol will keep watch up here, whilst I go and organise some relief sentries. No arguments, off you go, please!”
Orkwil went straight up to the sickbay, where he was confronted by Sister Atrata. “And where pray do you think you are off to, sir?”
The young hedgehog tottered slightly and yawned. “Beg y’pardon, Sister, but I came to see how my pal Gorath is. I’d like to visit him if’n I may.” Orkwil leaned up against the door, eyes drooping.
The good Sister shook her head pityingly. “My, my, just look at yourself, Master Prink, almost snoring on your paws. A sound sleep wouldn’t harm you, I’m thinking. I had to put your friend in the little side room, since word got round the Abbey that we have a badger visiting us. I couldn’t leave him lying on the floor of Great Hall in full view, because the whole population of Redwall wants to see Gorath. So I’ve hidden him in my private side room. There’s an extra bed in there that you can use.”
Orkwil was about to protest, but the Sister ushered him into the little room.
“There, that’s better than sleeping in wine cellar barrels. Take these warm towels and dry the rain off. Hush now, your friend’s still asleep, you can speak to him later, when you’ve had your rest.”
Sister Atrata left quietly. Orkwil blinked in the dimly lit room. He opened one window shutter as he dried himself on the warm, soft towels he had been given. Gorath lay on the big bed, motionless, it was hard to tell whether he was sleeping or unconscious.
Orkwil snuggled beneath the counterpane on the small bed, staring across at his friend. The young badger seemed even more gigantic, stretched out there, though he looked haggard and ill from his shocking ordeal at the paws of Vizka Longtooth and his crew. His face was drawn, and hollow-cheeked, with the huge, red scar on his brow appearing like an angry, scarlet flame. On the bed beside him, still gripped in one paw, was Tung, his pitchfork. Even though he knew Gorath could not hear him, Orkwil murmured reassuringly to his sleeping friend.
“Rest easy, mate, yore safe inside Redwall Abbey now, an’ I’m here to see you come to no harm. Guess what, they’ve made me an officer of the wall guard. I spent all night out on the battlements, watchin’ for that fox and his scurvy crew. Hah, they didn’t show a whisker. As soon as I’ve had a little rest I’ll be back up on that wall with Skipper, Foremole and Mister Tipps. Father Abbot ordered us to take a break, y’see, there’s a relief guard on at the moment. At least, I hope there is.”
The young hedgehog turned away from Gorath, gazing out into the still drizzling morn. From the window he had a clear view of the northwest wall corner, it was well guarded by relief sentries. Beyond the ramparts, Orkwil could see some flatlands, the ditch running alongside the path and a portion of Mossflower woodland. He lay watching for any movement outside the Abbey, talking softly to himself.
“I know yore out there, fox, aye, an’ you’d best stay out there if ye know what’s good for you. Redwall isn’t an easy nut to crack, it’s made of stone, an’ guarded by brave-beasts….” The young hedgehog’s voice trailed off, hiseyelids dropped, sleep had overcome his weariness.
A piece of sailcloth had been erected to form a small shelter in the ditch. Vizka Longtooth and Magger sat beneath it, blinking in the smoke of a little
fire, which had been lit to keep the numerous winged insects at bay. The rest of the Bludgullet’s crew either sought any cover they could find, or crouched there, suffering the persistent drizzle. Vizka stared bleakly at the closest group. “I don’t s’pose youse thought ter bring any vikkles frum der ship wid ya?”
They avoided their captain’s eyes and kept silent.
Vizka spat in the muddy ditchbed. “Oh no, I’m der one who has ta thinka dat!”
A voice from the huddled throng piped up swiftly. “But Cap’n, yew said dere was plenny o’ vikkles in dat Abbey.”
“Who said dat?” Vizka asked the question, knowing that nobeast was foolish enough to own up. The golden fox was no fool either, he knew the value of keeping a loyal crew about him. Thinking quickly, he explained their position, as if confiding in his followers.
“Right, I did say dere was plenny o’ vikkles in de Abbey. But we ain’t gonna get ’em chargin’ inter battle. Huh, wot sorta idjit does dat, eh?”
There was immediate agreement all round. Redwall looked too solid and forbidding to be attacked head-on.
Magger nodded eagerly. “So wot’s der plan, Cap’n?”
Vizka’s mind was racing as he spoke. “Er, this’s wot ya do. First, we needs vikkles t’day. Magger, take der crew back up dis ditch, until yer outta sight. Den go inta der forest an’ load up wid vikkles, must be plenty growin’ in a forest, birds, eggs an’ fishes, too. Stay in de forest an’ make a big fire, cook everythin’ up. Make skilly, an’ soup, an roast stuff, to feed all me mates, all me good crew! Well, buckoes, ’ow’ll dat do ya?”
There was a mass murmur of agreement. Magger started to move off, then turned to Vizka. “Wot’ll yew be doin’, Cap’n?”
The golden fox tapped his muzzle with a paw. “Plannin’, Magger, figgerin’ a way so’s we kin get inta dat Redwall an’ lay our claws on all dat loot, an’ all der vikkles. Leave it ter me, nobeast can lay a plan like Vizka Longtooth, right?”
Magger saluted with his spear. “Right y’are, Cap’n!”
Vizka called after the departing vermin. “Don’t let ole Magger scoff everythin’, mates, save some fer yer old cap’n, I’ll join youse later.”
They went off in a lighter mood, bouyed by their captain’s words.
When they had gone, Vizka sat alone under the canvas awning, pondering his dilemma. How to conquer an Abbey, which was not only well-defended, but contained a berserk badger who had sworn to kill him. It was not a prospect that he relished, but now that he had committed himself, he could not back down in front of his crew. He knew that if they lost confidence in him, he was little better than a deadbeast. There was always some creature wanting to be captain, he had already witnessed this with Grivel, Feerog and Durgy.
A noise from behind him on the path caused Vizka to creep out from his shelter and peer over the edge of the ditch. It was a party of moles who had ventured out to inspect the fallen watervole. He could not understand their speech.
“Burr, ee’m h’aloive, but that bee’s ee gurt lumpen on ee’m ’ead, a roight mole’ill et bee’s!”
“Burr aye, ole Benjo can surrpintly ’url a barrel stopper!”
There were six moles, they lifted the watervole between them and carried him inside the Abbey.
As the main gate of the outer wall slammed shut, Vizka mentally berated himself for a fool. He had missed a golden opportunity: the main gates had stood ajar for vital moments, and he had sent his entire crew off looking for food. They could have captured the moles, and rushed the gates! A huge sigh of regret and frustration came from the golden fox. He laid his forehead against the muddy ditchside, cursing fate for robbing him of a great chance.
Something tickled the tip of his nose, he drew back and inspected the object. It was a worm, boring its way out of the ditchside wall. Callously, Vizka nipped it in two halves between his pawnails. He watched the worm writhing, then stamped on it. His long fangs showed as a sudden smile came across his features. He had a plan, a superbly simple scheme. His crew would dig their way into Redwall from the side wall of the ditch. A bit lower down, close to the big gate. It would be a foolproof idea!
19
It was an unfortunate day for the Brownrats of Gruntan Kurdly. Hastened and bullied forward by their irate leader, they dashed along the squelching banks of the sidestream.
Rangval the Rogue, unseen to his enemies, skipped nimbly along in the middle terraces of the woodlands, chortling with delight as they blundered into his cunningly laid traps. He perched in a sycamore, watching the leading half dozen runners vanish amid screams of dismay. Down they went, straight into a deep, natural pit, which he had disguised with ferns and rotten branches. The hole was filled with water, overflowing from the stream.
The others veered sharply away from the bank, only to run into a grove of osier and purple willow, long, whippy branches and boughs. Rangval had tied back or intertwined a lot of the heavier limbs. He shook with laughter as the rats dashed into them.
Thwack! Splat! Whoosh! Thud! Their bungling passage released the lashing boughs. Jaws were shattered, teeth broken, paws damaged and stomachs had the wind driven from them as rats were felled, or cannoned into each other.
Rangval cast a backward glance at the chaos, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Ah now, me bold buckoes, that’s only a taste of wot ye’ve got to come. I’ll teach ye to mend yore wicked ways. Hurry up, now, an’ see the grand treat I’ve got in store for ye!” He halted long enough to hear Gruntan Kurdly roaring.
“Wot’n the name o’ boiled eggs’n’bunions are ye doin’ swimmin’ round in that hole? Gerrout an’ capture those boats! An’ youse lot, who said ye could lay around in them bushes? Up on yore hunkers an’ charge, afore I do a spot of ear slittin’ an’ tail choppin’!”
Rangval sped on his way, chuckling. “Shure that’s the way, Kurdly me ould rat, keep ’em comin’. Boot a few bottoms, that’ll move ’em!”
Rangval arrived ahead of the vermin, at his pride and joy, Owch Mansions. He had spent long seasons enticing wasps and hornets to the spot where two golden weeping willow trees formed a thick, low arch from bank to bank. He had specially placed lots of rotten fruit and dead vegetation, full of grubs and aphids, at the foot of each tree.
The wasps had built four nests there, large, globe-shaped structures, which perched between branches. For the hornets, he had a fallen tree, the long-dead and decaying trunk of a wych elm, that he had maneuvered to the waterside. There was a constant coming and going of wasps and hornets around the willow, and a steady, thin hum from the insects.
Rangval treated them with loving care, walking among them unafraid. He grasped the ends of two long, trailing ropes, which had been tied to the branches of both weeping willows. Rangval spoke soothingly as he paced carefully backward. “Ah, me little stripey darlin’s, pay no attention t’me, ’tis only yore Uncle Rangval. But listen now, get those fierce ould stings of yores ready. There’s a horde of fearful vermin comin’ this way. I want ye to give ’em a good, hot, ould welcome, shure I know ye’ll do me proud, bein’ the fine, savage bunch y’are!”
Rangval retreated until the ropes were almost taut. Crouching in the undergrowth, the wily squirrel kept the wasp nests in view, listening for sounds of the Brownrats heading toward them.
Stringle’s duty as an officer was to make the others carry out Gruntan Kurdly’s wishes by hook or by crook. Having already blundered into a few of Rangval’s minor traps, they were reluctant to pursue the logboats vigorously. Stringle knew that he would be the first to suffer, if the horde continued to advance in such a laggardly fashion. Gathering the two scouts, Noggo and Biklo, for support, he tried a strategy which he had seen Gruntan use successfully.
Pushing his way to the front, he halted the vanguard, waiting until the rest had caught up en masse. Gruntan was in his litter, somewhere near the middle of the mob. He listened to Stringle’s speech, nodding approvingly, as his officer addressed everybeast jauntily.
“Scrag me tai
l an’ plug me ears, wot’s all this, mates? The terror o’ Mossflower, the great Brownrat horde, an’ ye can’t catch a few wooden boats full o’ scruffy liddle sh’ews! I’ll wager they’re laughin’ at us right now. Them sh’ews is only just upstream, y’know, an’ a stream can’t go on forever. One good charge an’ we’ll lay ’em by the tails. All the boss wants is their boats. Once we’ve captured ’em the chase is over, we kin do wot we like. Go fishin’, rob birds eggs or just lay round in the sun for a few days. So wot d’ye say, buckoes, shall we go an’ get them logboats?”
Gruntan shouted from his litter. “Aye, go to it, mateys, I’ll make a feast fer the first one who brings me back a sh’ews head!”
Stringle had to jump aside as the horde sped by him, roaring, bellowing and whirling their weapons.
Gruntan Kurdly was smiling, he winked at Stringle. “Haharr, well done, bucko, let’s get after ’em!” He laid about at the litter bearers with a willow withe. “Cummon, yew bottle-nosed, slab-sided, doodly-tailed idlers, git those paws poundin’ at the double!”
Rangval heard the horde long before he saw them. Standing out in full view, the roguish squirrel tugged gently on the ropes, which were tied to both willows at strategic limbs. “D’ye hear that, bhoyos, ye’ll have company soon, shure an’ I hope those stings are well sharpened!”
With Biklo and Noggo in the lead, the horde came thundering along both banks, splashing through the shallows and bulling through the reeds. Biklo was first to spot Rangval up ahead, he stabbed the air with his spear. “That looks like one o’ the rascals, watch me take ’is ’ead!”
Rangval laughed. “Faith, an’ aren’t you the bold feller, take this, vermin, an’ bad luck to ye!” He yanked hard on both ropes, then somersaulted up into the trees and vanished.
Eulalia! Page 17