Eulalia!

by Brian Jacques

The vole caught on fast. “Please sir, ye fine, big, handsome Cellarhog, release me, I beg ye!”

  Benjo flung the vole from him contemptuously. “You’ve overstayed yore welcome at this Abbey, ye wretch. If’n I see ye around here come dawnlight, I’ll throw ye from the walltops. Now get out o’ my sight!”

  As the vole slunk away, Skipper addressed Maudie. “Looks like yore badger friend’s gone, miss, an’ there’s nought ye can do about it.”

  The haremaid looked at the otter. “Why so?”

  Skipper gestured to the woodlands outside the walls. “Mossflower’s teemin’ with Kurdly’s mob, an’ a vermin shower o’ Sea Raiders, far too dangerous for a young ’un like you t’be wanderin’ about round the trees.”

  Maudie treated the otter to an icy stare. “I have only two words to say t’you, sah. Pish an’ tush!”

  Skipper looked nonplussed. “An’ wot’s that supposed t’mean?”

  Rangval drew a dagger from his belt and twirled it skillfully. “Ah, shure, it means that darlin’ Maudie has a mind of her own, bucko. She’s goin’ out there to find that great, ould lump of a badger. Oh, an’ I’m the very beast who’ll be goin’ with her!”

  Orkwil seconded the rogue squirrel promptly.

  “Gorath’s my friend, too, count me in, Miz Maudie!”

  Skipper shrugged and heaved a gruff sigh. “I’ll get some volunteers from the Guosim an’ come along with ye. Barbowla, are you game for this?”

  Maudie interrupted. “Not possible. I’m afraid, Skip, you’ll need every beast available to defend these bloomin’ walls if there’s a vermin attack.”

  Abbot Daucus, who had wandered up, and eavesdropped on the conversation, stepped forward. “She’s right, Skip, besides, I think a few might accomplish more than a whole band of Redwallers out in the woodlands. When do you three plan on leaving?”

  Rangval sheathed his blade. “Soon as we can, Father. Now would be a good time, whilst the ould feast is rattlin’ on atop o’ the walls, an’ the countryside’s nice’n’quiet out there. Sure, nobeast’d notice us slippin’ off quietlike.”

  The Abbot bowed slightly. “As you wish. Take some provisions from the kitchens, and whatever weapons you may come across. Though we’re not greatly stocked with arms at Redwall. Go, and good luck to you. Maudie, should you find Gorath, would you be so kind as to bring him back to the Abbey, if only for a short visit and a brief farewell? Before you persuade him to be spirited off to Salamandastron?”

  The haremaid curtsied elegantly. “It’d be my pleasure, Father Abbot. Right, stir your stumps, you chaps, quick’s the word an’ sharp’s the action, wot!”

  The Abbot accompanied them to the kitchen, where an obliging old molemum packed three small haversacks with foodstuffs enough to last several days. Maudie seldom carried a weapon, Rangval had all the arms he needed, and Orkwil still carried the knife and club he had taken from the vole. The trio had no need to go looking for more protection. As they were passing through Great Hall, Orkwil crossed to the alcove where the great tapestry hung. The Abbot commented to Rangval and Maudie, “He’s probably taking his leave of our Abbey Champion.”

  The haremaid followed the young hedgehog. “A jolly good idea, from what I’ve heard of Martin the Warrior, think I’ll pay my respects, too, wot!”

  Before they reached the alcove, Orkwil’s shout of alarm echoed around the vaulted hall. Rangval sprang forward, shouting, “Orkwil, what is it?”

  The young hedgehog staggered toward them, dragging with him the limp form of Sister Atrata. Abbot Daucus intercepted him, gently he placed the Sister on the ancient floorstones, supporting her head as he made a rapid examination.

  “She’s taken a heavy blow to the back of her head, maybe she was pushed, and struck one of the columns.”

  Maudie knelt by the frail figure of Redwall’s healer. “But why? She never hurt anybeast, the Sister was devoted to healing others. Who could have done this?”

  Orkwil cried out, his voice rising to an angry shout. “Look, Martin’s sword has been taken, an’ I’ll wager it was that vole who did it. The Sister must’ve tried to stop him!”

  Maudie stared at the spot on the wall where the great sword had been mounted. “Good grief, you’re right, old lad, it’s not long since Benjo exiled him from the Abbey. He must have come straight here, committed the crimes and left pretty quick.”

  Rangval started toward the door. “Aye, well, the blaggard might’ve left Redwall, but he can’t have gotten too far yet. Let’s get after him!”

  The rogue squirrel and Maudie sped off. Orkwil was last to leave Great Hall. He stood in front of the tapestry for a brief moment, gazing into the eyes of Martin’s likeness, which was the centre of the wondrous fabric. The young hedgehog’s voice was steely and resolute. “Martin, sir, I’ll bring your sword back to Redwall, and I’ll make that coward pay. I give you my promise I will.” Orkwil Prink bowed swiftly and departed.

  Abbot Daucus called for assistance to help with the unconscious Sister Atrata. “Our friend has been cruelly taken from us.” He turned back to the picture of Martin the Warrior, his voice shaken by the violence in his beloved Abbey. “Rest assured, friend, Orkwil Prink will keep his promise.”

  27

  A tranquil summer morn reigned over Mossflower. Dewdrops trembled, like tiny crystal pears, from bough and fern, birdsong echoed melodiously over the woodlands. Berries blushed from ruby to deeper purple as they matured, and flowers of the forest burgeoned into full blossom. However, all of this serenity was soon to be shattered. Gorath the Flame was on the vengeance trail.

  The blood of berserk warriors coursed hotly through his veins, Gorath felt totally renewed as he stalked the woodland tracts. The sickness had left him, he was lean and gaunt, yes, but his dark eyes glittered with a frightening intensity. The big badger held his pitchfork, Tung, at the ready, as he passed, silent as a summer breeze, through the countryside.

  Vizka Longtooth’s deputy, the weasel Magger, had passed an unnerving night amid his captors. He was fearful of the Brownrats, they were big, painted savages decked out barbarously with bones, they treated their prisoners roughly. Their captain, Stringle, roped Magger’s neck to a stake in the ground. He lay there helpless, dreading whatever fate lay in store.

  The weasel Sea Raider had convinced himself that the Brownrats were cannibals. Often in passing they would kick, slap or pinch him, sometimes terrifying him, with a hungry leer. However, for the moment they were satisfying their hunger by breakfasting on the remainder of the stores left behind by the vermin crew of the Bludgullet.

  Stringle had commandeered the dregs of the grog barrel, he sat over Magger, gnawing at a roasted trout. As if suddenly noticing his captive, he winked at Magger. “Don’t fret, matey, we’ll soon be movin’ out. Ye must be ’ungry, d’ye want some o’ this?” He held the half-eaten fish in front of the weasel’s nose.

  Magger managed to mutter humbly, “Aye, sir.”

  Stringle dealt him a smack across the muzzle with the trout. He laughed, calling to a nearby Brownrat, “Ahoy, Bladj, this pore beast ain’t ’ad no brekkist, wasn’t you in charge o’ dishin’ out the vittles?”

  Bladj was a wicked-looking piece of work, he seized Magger by the jaw, pulling him close and mocked the hapless prisoner. “I musta forgot that ye wanted brekkist, I ’opes you’ll accept me apologies. I’ll wager ye’ve not even ’ad a drink, ’ere, mate, try a liddle punch.” He punched the weasel’s snout so hard that it sent bells ringing in Magger’s ears. Bladj patted his head. “Would ye like some more, or I can give ye lashins o’ stick, a nice slap up soup an’ a kick bottom pudden?”

  Magger had the good sense to refuse. “No sir, der punch wuz enuff!”

  Bladj communicated his reply to Stringle. “Sez he don’t want no more brekkist, Cap’n.”

  Stringle smiled indulgently. “That’s me trouble, I always spoils prisoners. Maggot, was that wot yore name is?”

  Magger nodded dutifully, not wanting to disturb his captor�
��s expansive mood.

  Stringle untied the rope from the stake, passing it to Bladj. “Cummon, Maggot, we’ll take ye to see yore Uncle Kurdly.”

  The Brownrat horde was moving out of the camp at a leisurely pace, when a horrible gurgling scream rent the morning air. Everybeast froze, Bladj cast an uncertain glance at the woodlands. “Wot’n the name o’ ’ellgates was that?”

  Stringle shrugged. “’Ow should I know, sounded like somebeast yowlin’ t’me. It came from over yon, by that ole tree, go an’ see wot it was.”

  Bladj did not sound too eager. “Wot, me?”

  The captain turned his spearpoint threateningly toward Bladj. “Aye, you! Go an’ see who’s doin’ the screamin’…” As Stringle spoke, another bloodcurdling scream rang out from the same direction as the first. This was followed by a great, roaring shout.

  “Eulaliiiiaaaaa!”

  Two slain Brownrat carcasses came hurtling out of the tree cover. As they flopped on the grass, another death screech cut the air, followed by a thunderous bellow. “Eulaliiiiaaaaa!”

  En masse, the Brownrat horde turned and fled the scene. Stringle stood uncertainly for a moment, his voice hesitant. “But, but we don’t know who…”

  “Eulaliiiiaaaaa!”

  The Brownrat captain fled after his command.

  Completely forgotten in the panic, Magger fled straight up the nearest tree and clung motionless amid the foliage. He saw Gorath come striding out of woodlands onto the trail of the departing Brownrats, teeth bared, breathing like a bellows, eyes ablaze. Magger held his breath, not daring to move a muscle. The weasel had seen Gorath kill somebeast before, aboard the Bludgullet, he knew what he was seeing now, a badger in the throes of Bloodwrath. Magger stayed where he was, watching in horrified awe, until the huge, pitchfork-wielding beast was out of sight. Climbing swiftly down from his perch, Magger fled in the opposite direction.

  Deeper into the woodland, another was also descending out of a tree. Vizka Longtooth had caught sight of several Bludgullet crew vermin, they were creeping cautiously about midst the tree trunks, trying to stay clear of Brownrats, whilst they foraged for food. Vizka concealed himself behind a fallen elm trunk, he watched, and listened, gleaning information from them.

  Firty and Jungo were digging out some edible roots, debating as to whether they really were edible. “Dese looks alright, mate, wotjer t’ink?”

  Jungo sniffed them, pulling a face. “Huh huh, dey smells a bit strong, but I s’pose dey’ll do.”

  The ferret Ragchin upbraided Jungo. “Ahoy, don’t yew be eatin’ dem, ’tis share’n’share alike, chuck ’em wid der rest!”

  Jungo looked highly indignant. “I wuzzent eatin’ dem, I wuz only smellin’ ’em. Any’ow, who made yew der cap’n, Raggy?”

  Ragchin had made himself a spear, by tying a broken knifeblade onto a pole. He leaned on it nonchalantly. “Ain’t no more cap’ns round ’ere now, but I’m in charge of youse lot, Glurma said so. Cummon, let’s git dis lot back t’camp, so’s Glurma kin cook dem up.”

  Gathering up their forage, the score of crewbeasts stole off through the trees, with Vizka quietly following them. The golden fox did not want to show himself, until he knew which way the land lay.

  It was a day for wanderers and ramblers, in that region of Mossflower, one of whom was particularly pleased with himself. The watervole had come upon a magpie, it was fluttering feebly on the ground, dragging one wing, which was obviously injured. The vole finished the magpie’s flutters, with a single thrust of Martin’s sword. Gathering dry moss, he struck flint to the legendary steel, and soon had a small fire burning in the lee of a grassy knoll. Spitting the magpie carcass on a green twig, he set it over the flames, and settled down to admire the blade he had stolen.

  The vole was ignorant of the sword’s history, or value, to him it was merely something to replace the dagger which Orkwil had taken from him. Granted, it was a fine piece of work, razor-sharp, and perfectly balanced, but a sword was only a big, useful knife to the mean-spirited stream-dweller. He stirred the fire with it, not even bothering to clean off the flawless blade, which had once been part of a meteorite hurtling through space.

  Magger had stopped running, he crouched amid some ferns, regaining his breath. Then he smelled the acrid odour of burning feathers. The weasel straightened up, judging the breeze direction until he knew the source of the pungent reek, a small, grassy knoll, only a short walk from where he stood.

  The vole pulled the bird clear of the heat, raking away the black ash of burned feathers with the sword.

  From directly overhead, a scornful voice caught his attention. “Hah, it’s der ’airymouse!”

  Bending backward, he looked up into the leering face of Magger. The weasel was standing atop the knoll, holding a boulder over his head. Before the startled vole could move, the big stone crashed down, slaying him outright.

  Chuckling to himself, Magger kicked the deadbeast callously to one side. Sitting in his place, he continued roasting the magpie, commenting, “Shouldn’t never waste good vikkles!” A moment later, the weasel was crunching into the carcass and spitting out feather stubs. He glanced at the dead vole, treating the body to another kick. “Ain’t much of a cook, are ye, ’airymouse. Aye aye, wot’s dis yer ’idin’ from ole Magger?”

  The vole’s body had rolled over, to reveal the sword. Magger pulled it from the vole’s deathgrip, appraising the wondrous weapon as he wiped it on his ragged jerkin. “By de ’ellfires, worra beauty!” Ignoring the roast birdmeat, he sprang up, waving the blade about, marvelling at its lightness and clean lines. “Hoho, blood’n’spit t’the bucko who tries ter stan’ in my way, dis is a real cap’n’s blade!”

  Dashing headlong into the ferns, Magger swished about left and right, whooping with joy as the blade sent fronds willy-nilly, revelling in the feel of the thrumming weapon. He halted, to plant a smacking kiss on the red-stone-pommeled hilt. “Haha, king o’ de forest, king o’ de sea, king of everyt’ink, dat’s me!” Surprised at his own rhyming eloquence, Magger sat down, gazing lovingly at his newfound acquisition. “Hah, I even feels cleverer now I gotten dis!”

  Back at the deserted campsite, Rangval took food from his haversack, beckoning to his companions. “Take a rest now, mates, let’s have a look at these tracks. Orkwil, try not to disturb anything.”

  Orkwil and Maudie made their way over to the rogue squirrel. Both opened their packs, they were hungry from hours of tracking.

  Maudie cast a cynical eye about as she munched on a scone. “Hmph, it’ll be jolly difficult tryin’ to make one blinkin’ track out from the other. It looks like there’s a bloomin’ stampede passed through here, wot!”

  Taking a pull from a flask of damson cordial, Orkwil knelt. He outlined a broad footpad close by. “Well, here’s where Gorath was, headin’ that way toward the ditch. Lots of other prints, too.”

  Rangval gave them a cursory glance. “Brownrats, shure I’m no stranger to their trails. Nobeast passed over the big feller’s marks, y’know wot that means?”

  Maudie finished her scone. “Indeed, it means our badger was pursuin’ the rascals. The way those rats kicked up dirt one could see Gorath was the last chap they wanted to face.”

  Rangval selected an apple. “Shure, an’ I wonder why that was, Maudie darlin’?”

  The haremaid replied nonchalantly, “Who knows, old scout? Gorath never looked to me like a chap who’d be fond of vermin. Perhaps he just got peeved with the blighters, wot!”

  Orkwil snorted. “Peeved? Look at the way those Brownrats churned up the grass to get away from him. Gorath’s in the grip of Bloodwrath, that’s why they were in such a rush to get away!”

  Rangval took a bite of his apple. “Hmm, Bloodwrath, is it. I’ve heard o’ that afore, ain’t it supposed to drive badgers mad?”

  Maudie nodded. “Somethin’ like that. Oh well, chaps, up an’ at ’em, wot! I suppose we’d best follow his trail. What d’ye say?”

  Orkwil began packing his h
aversack. “You two go ahead, I won’t be comin’ with ye. I’ve got to bring Martin’s sword back to the Abbey, so I’ll have to cast about until I find that vole’s tracks, he’s the rascal who’ll have the sword.”

  Maudie pointed to the main tracks. “But what about my blinkin’ badger?”

  Rangval found himself in the position of mediator. “Ah, c’mon now, Maudie me ould beauty. We know where the big feller’s bound, he’s chasin’ the Brownrats. They’ll run straight back to their boss, Kurdly, an’ he’s camped south o’ the Abbey wall. Let’s lend young Orkwil a paw to find his vole. We can always catch up with Gorath an’ Kurdly’s bunch later.”

  Maudie relented. “Oh well, righto, but remember, Orkwil, if we find your sword then you owe me one.”

  The young hedgehog was frankly relieved. “Good, I’ll be in yore debt, marm, let’s go this way.”

  They marched off north, on Orkwil’s supposition that the vole would be making for the River Moss. All three spread in a forage line, keeping their eyes out for tracks. Rangval was the first to break trail, he was slightly east of the other two.

  “Ah shure, and ain’t I the grand tracker! Look, here’s the ould villain’s pawmarks. I can tell ’tis him, ’cos there’s the dragmarks he made by lettin’ the sword point scrape the ground. See, an’ here’s a slash on this rowan trunk, where he’s made a swipe at it, testin’ out his fine, new blade I’ll be bound, eh!”

  Maudie cut across Rangval, getting ahead of him. “I say, chaps, blood’n’feathers on the ground here. The bounder’s killed a bird. Hold on, can you smell scorchin’ feathers? Quiet now, an’ keep your eyes peeled!”

  Rangval, who prided himself on his woodcraft, nodded toward the small hillock, which he glimpsed through the trees. “Smoke’s still arisin’ yonder, that’s where yore vole will be, Orkwil.”

  Maudie took charge. “Rangval, you come over the rise from the back. Orkwil, skirt the hill from the left. I’ll take it from the right. When you hear me shout a Eulalia, then charge the blighter. Spread out now.”