The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Buckler turned away from her. “Suit y’self, miss.”

  Diggs, returning with their gear, was greatly cheered when his friend announced that they would camp there for the night. He promptly began setting up preparations for a meal. Flib feigned indifference, though she spoke to Diggs.

  “Worra youse gonna do wid those two scum, eh?”

  Diggs cast an eye over the two unconscious vermin. “Couldn’t say, really. Er, what d’you suggest?”

  The shrewmaid tested the edge of her knife blade. “Leave it t’me. I’ll slay ’em wid this!”

  Buckler swiftly wrested the weapon from her grasp. “You’ll do no such thing! Vermin or not, they’re helpless creatures, unable to defend themselves.”

  Not daunted, she grabbed her club and waved it. “Stan’ outta me way, youse. They woulda slayed me!”

  Buckler’s long rapier sent the club flying. “You savage little murderer—keep away from them!”

  Flib sucked her paw, scowling at him. “Yew two are daft. Yer a right pair o’ softies. Don’t yer know that the only good vermin is a dead un? That’s wot ole Jango sez!”

  Diggs nodded as he chopped up a fruit salad. “I’ve heard that, too. Who’s this Jango feller?”

  She curled her lip contemptuously at him. “I’ve told yew once, mind yer own bizness, fatty!”

  Buckler winked at Diggs. “If that’s the way she wants things, mate, then let her be. She can sit apart from us and mind her own bloomin’ business, for all I care!”

  Diggs agreed stoutly. “Fair enough by me, old scout. She can sit alone in solitary blinkin’ splendour, for all I care. Aye, an’ she can shift for her bally self. I ain’t givin’ no supper to that ill-mannered little spitwhiskers, nor a drop t’drink, wot. I should jolly well think not, so there!”

  Flib sat apart from them, her nose in the air. “I don’t blinkin’ well care!”

  Diggs would not let it go. He retorted, “An’ we don’t jolly well care that you don’t blinkin’ well care, so yah boo sucks t’you, marm!”

  The moment the two vermin began to stir and groan, Buckler took the rope halter to them. He bound the weasel and the fox back-to-back, tying both forepaws and footpaws tightly.

  Pretending that she cared little, Flib commented, “Worra ye gonna do wid the scum now, eh?”

  Buckler answered without looking at her. “Don’t know, really. Haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  Shades of evening were streaking the sky as Buckler joined his friend by their little fire. “So, young Diggs, what’ve we got here for supper?”

  The tubby young hare was a very good cook. He announced the menu aloud. “Some summer fruit salad, toasted cheese on oatcakes, slab o’ fruitcake an’ a drop o’ the jolly old dandelion cordial t’wash it down. How does that sound t’ye, young sir, wot?”

  His friend rubbed paws together, pointedly ignoring the shrewmaid sitting by with her nose in the air. “Mmmm, just the stuff t’feed two Long Patrollers!” He bit into an oatcake, topped thickly with cooked cheese.

  Diggs slurped down fruit salad as though he had lived through a famine season. Dipping fruitcake into the honeyed juice, he made loud sucking noises.

  Flib suddenly slumped on the sand, allowing a strangled sob to escape.

  Diggs looked up from his soggy cake. “I say, did you hear somethin’—sounded like a bloomin’ toad bein’ throttled, wot?”

  Buckler replied conversationally, “Y’know, if I was a foolish little creature, a shrew, let’s say, well, I wouldn’t go about insulting those who helped me an’ being an ill-mannered young grump. D’you know what I mean, Diggs?”

  The tubby hare sucked juice from his paws. “Indeed, old top, I know exactly what y’mean. No excuse for bad behaviour, wot. I think I’d stop blubberin’ an’ beg chaps’ pardons, show ’em I was civilized an’ whatnot. Who knows, there might even be a spot o’ supper left for the silly little swab!”

  A moment went by, then Flib took the hint. Rubbing her eyes, she shuffled to the fire. Staring at her footpaws, she murmured, “M’sorry f’bein’ rude.”

  Diggs began milking the situation, holding a paw to one ear and calling out like an irate old colonel, “Eh, what’s that y’say? Speak up, young un, out with it!”

  Buckler heard the shrewmaid’s teeth gritting as she sang out lustily, “I said I’m sorry f’bein’ rude. I ’pologise for me bad manners!”

  Diggs kept up his aged-colonel act. “Hah, did ye hear the little maggot, Blademaster Buckler? I s’pose she thinks that entitles her to some of our bloomin’ supper, wot?”

  Buckler nudged his friend hard. “Right, that’s enough, mate. Apologies accepted, Flib. Come and sit here. Diggs, serve our guest with supper, please.”

  She ate like a madbeast, cramming everything in with all the speed she could muster.

  Diggs passed her a beaker of cordial. “Whoa, marm, slow down before ye go bang! Here, take a sip o’ this, slowly now. Sufferin’ stewpots, how long is it since you last had vittles, wot?”

  Flib chewed hard, swallowed, then sighed. “Caw, nothin’ like vikkles when yer ’ungry, eh? It’s a couple o’ days since I ’ad a feed.”

  Buckler refilled her beaker. “So now will you tell us what you’re doing out here all on your own, bein’ attacked by vermin?”

  At that point, the scraggy fox, who was now wide awake, shouted angrily, “Untie us, I’m warnin’ ye. Cut us loose right now!”

  Buckler rose. Bowing to his supper companions, he drew his long rapier. “Pardon me a moment, please.”

  Crossing to where the vermin lay bound, he began assisting them to stand. “C’mon, up on your hunkers. That’s the stuff, cullies!” Buckler the Blademaster circled them, swishing the air with his long, lethal blade.

  “Cut ye loose, d’ye say? I’ll cut you, ye hardfaced villains, though it mightn’t be loose!”

  The hulking weasel and the scrawny fox wailed in terror as he came at them with the whirring sword. Whip! Snip! Whizz! A few expert strokes shaved the whiskers from the petrified pair. Buckler chuckled grimly. “I’d hold very still if’n I was you. Don’t want t’get in the way of my blade, now, do we?”

  Keen steel slashed through the weasel’s belt, causing his ragged pantaloons to fall round his footpaws. Ting! A brass earring was chopped neatly from the fox’s earlobe. Swish! He lost a tail bracelet. Thwup! A shabby sleeve dropped from the weasel’s dirty shirt. Pingpingping! This was the sound of three fancy bone buttons shooting off the fox’s tawdry waistcoat.

  Buckler surveyed his work, leaning on his sword hilt. “What d’ye think, Miz Flib. What next?”

  The shrewmaid bellowed savagely, “Their ears, snouts ’n’tails, then their necks!”

  The vermin collapsed on the sand, pleading pitifully.

  “Aaarr no, sir, y’wouldn’t do that, sir!”

  “Don’t kill us, yer Lordship. We’ve got families!”

  “Aye liddle uns an’ wives. Spare us fer their sakes!”

  Buckler ’s eyes went cold; he kicked them both. “Get up, up, both of ye! Snake-tongued liars. If I believed ye, I’d finish both of ye right now just t’save any poor beast the misery an’ shame of havin’ the like of you as fathers. Now, which way am I pointin’?”

  “North, sir, yer pointin’ north,” wailed the fox.

  Buckler growled through clenched teeth, “Aye, north ’tis. Go now, an’ don’t stop for the next three sunsets, or I promise ye’ll be flybait!”

  A few stinging smacks from the narrow flat of his blade sent them scurrying awkwardly off. Still tied back-to-back and paw-to-paw, they stumbled and tripped off into the falling dusk.

  To say that Flib was impressed was an understatement. She sat wide-eyed, whispering, “I never seen anybeast that good wirra blade, never!”

  Diggs patted the shrewmaid’s paw. “Indeed, an’ you ain’t likely to, missy. You’ve just witnessed a Salamandastron Blademaster, the best there is. But y’must remember, he was only toyin’ with ’em, right, mate?�
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  Buckler speared a slice of apple from the fruit salad, flipped it up with his swordpoint and caught it in his mouth. He sat down, winking at Flib. “Right!”

  5

  Zwilt the Shade waited until three of his Ravagers, with their two small captives, stopped to rest. Then he made a silent and unexpected appearance behind them. The leader of the vermin, a weasel called Grakk, spun around as the polecat tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Lord Zwilt, we were just—” Zwilt silenced him by raising a paw. “I know, Grakk. You were just stopping to rest before you carried on to Althier. Where did you capture the shrews?”

  Grakk pointed with his spear. “By the south bend of the River Moss. Their tribe were camped there, Sire. These two had strayed off into the trees, so we took them.”

  Tugging gently on the halter about their necks, Zwilt drew the young ones closer. They were gagged and blindfolded; both looked exhausted.

  The polecat nodded as he looked them over. “Good work, Grakk. You did well. The Sable Quean will be pleased when I tell her. I will take them to Althier.”

  The weasel saluted with his spear. “Lord!”

  Zwilt wound the halter around one paw. “Go back and see if the shrewbeasts have any more little offerings for us.”

  Grakk and the other two Ravagers, both weasels, stole off into the woodlands.

  Althier was the secret place. Only a chosen few of the Ravagers were allowed to be there. The main body of the vermin were camped half a league away in the depths of Mossflower Wood. In this way, there was no well-trampled pawpath, which would reveal the Sable Quean’s location.

  The two young shrews were stumbling with exhaustion as the Shade led them to the great oak. He tapped on the concealed door in its trunk. Two vermin guards admitted him, leading the new captives down a twisting tunnel into a large central chamber. The ceiling was formed by the arched roots of the mighty tree above. This was no vermin achievement—Althier had been constructed countless seasons before by far more noble beasts.

  Prodding his little prisoners, Zwilt guided them to a side room. The Ravager standing guard stepped aside as Zwilt swept in with the shrews.

  They blinked in the torch and lantern light as Zwilt flicked off their blindfolds with his swordtip. Both took a pace back at the scene which confronted them. Raised on two steps was a broad stone seat covered with soft mosses, dried grass and rugs made from the fur of beasts. Lounging gracefully upon it was a creature of barbaric beauty. Her fur was shining black and thick, with undertones of rich, dark brown. She was slender of limb, but lithe and strong. Her nosetip and ears were a dainty pink; her eyes, with a slight almond curve, glittered like two dark jewels. Beneath a fine silken cloak of regal purple, a necklace of snake fangs adorned her elegant neck.

  The young shrews forgot their plight momentarily. They stared at her in awe. Crouched on the bottom step of the stone seat, an ancient rat clad in tattered raiment gave them a toothless smile.

  “Is she not wonderful to look upon, my little dears? Bow your heads to Vilaya the Sable Quean!”

  Her words seemed to break the spell. The younger of the shrews broke out sobbing. “Waaahaaah, I wanna go ’ome to Mammy!”

  Vilaya bared a set of perfect sharp white teeth at him. “Be silent or I will eat you!”

  The venom with which she spat out the words frightened the shrew into silence. She gestured to a guard. “Put them with the others!”

  They were hustled swiftly off. From a distance, the sobs of the little shrew could be heard afresh.

  Zwilt leaned on his sword hilt as he addressed Vilaya. “There are more where they came from. Shrews always have big broods. I told Grakk to go back and look for others. Though I think you already have enough.”

  Vilaya replied scathingly, “I will tell you when I have enough. Your job is to obey my commands, not to stand here giving opinions and bandying words with your Quean.”

  Zwilt knew how dangerous the Sable Quean could be. Avoiding further argument, he shrugged. “What would you have me do, then, Majesty?”

  Vilaya let Dirva, the old rat, speak for her.

  “There’s been reports of river rats down on the South-stream—Grullba’s crew, they say. Quean Vilaya thinks they would be a valuable addition to our Ravagers. She needs somebeast to challenge Grullba and defeat him. The river rats would follow one who could do it.”

  It was a rare thing for anybeast to see Zwilt the Shade smile, but smile he did. Drawing his broadsword, he cleaved the air in a deft pattern, making the wide blade thrum.

  “Grullba Deathwind, eh? I’ve heard of his skill with the battleaxe. When I’ve slain him, I’ll take off his head with his own weapon and bring them both here for you to see, Majesty.”

  Vilaya shook her head at the grisly prospect. “Forget the head of some oafish River Rat Chieftain. All I wish to hear is that you’ve added his crew to my army of Ravagers. Only that will please me.”

  Zwilt extended his sword at eye level, speaking as he peered down the length of its blade. “Then we will be strong enough in numbers to conquer Redwall Abbey. It will fall before us like an old dead tree!”

  Vilaya stared at him for a moment, then turned away. As if ignoring Zwilt, she remarked to the old rat Dirva, “Does this fool never listen to the wisdom of his Quean?”

  Stung by the slight, Zwilt looked up from his sword. “Victory and conquest are the only things that are wise!”

  The Sable Quean closed her eyes and waved a languid paw at her ancient confidante. “This beast is beginning to tire me. Dirva, explain our plan to him again.”

  Chuckling at Zwilt’s humiliation, Dirva outlined the plan briefly. “There is no need for warfare. Battles are a gamble in which one side must be defeated. Redwall Abbey has never suffered defeat. The conquering tyrants and vermin hordes who have been vanquished from that Abbey’s walls are lost to memory. Their bones have long turned to dust. So, how do we achieve a victory over Redwall, and all the country of Mossflower?”

  Zwilt’s dead black eyes bored into the speaker. “Tell me.”

  The Sable Quean prowled down from her throne. Slowly circling the tall beast, she took up the explanation. “It’s quite simple. We leave Redwall alone. They cannot fight what they do not see. The Abbey, and all this land, is inhabited mostly by woodlanders, would you agree? Good, honest, hardworking creatures, yes?”

  Zwilt nodded, allowing her to continue.

  “Woodlanders with families, relatives and friends. The young ones, their babes, their kindred, are the hope of the future, the very lifeblood of peaceful creatures. They would do anything to protect their brood, even fight. But how can they fight what is not there? The worry, the grief and sorrow at the loss of their dearest treasure. Where are their young ones? Are they alive or dead? No woodlander or Abbeydweller will know until I speak to them on my terms. Give me what I want, and your families will be allowed to live. They will, believe me, because the alternative would be too awful for them to imagine. That is my plan, Zwilt.”

  Returning the broadsword to his belt, the Shade nodded, then paused. “When will all this happen, Majesty?”

  She moved close, whispering in his ear, “When I think the time is right. Once we have control, I will need Ravagers to enforce my will. I trust only you, my loyal commander, to help me in all things. Remember, the rewards will be great, and only we two shall share them. Now go and do as your Quean bids.”

  Zwilt bowed his head slightly. “Your wish is my command!”

  Watching the tall figure striding away, Vilaya went back to her throne. Dirva waited until he had left the side chamber.

  “I think he got your message, but I keep feeling that Zwilt the Shade would rather wage war on Redwall.”

  The Sable Quean produced a slim knife from the end of her snake fang necklace. “He would be dead and at Hellgates before he could shout charge. One scratch from my little toy would see to that.”

  Carefully, she withdrew the knife from its slender crystal sh
eath, watching the drops of adder venom collecting at its needle tip. She smiled. “On the day that Zwilt is no longer useful to me, he will learn the real power of Vilaya the Sable Quean.”

  With their bonds and gags removed, the two little shrews were thrust roughly into the holding chamber. This was the largest of the subterranean caverns. It had an oaken door, complete with a small grille aperture. As the guard bolted the door from outside, the younger shrew broke out crying again. “Waaaaah—I wan’ my daddy’n’mamma . . . waaaah!”

  The older of the pair, a little shrewmaid, hugged her brother, soothing him. “Hush now, Borti. Don’t cry.”

  “Aye, tell Borti t’keep quiet, or we’ll all suffer!”

  Midda, the shrewmaid, looked around to see who had spoken.

  The place was poorly lit by three guttering lanterns. She could see shapes of other creatures huddled around the walls in groups. The speaker was a young otter—he strode through the gloom to her side.

  “I’m just warnin’ ye, miss. Keep the liddle feller quiet. Thwip’ll take the lanterns away, an’ we’ll all be left in the dark. If’n Borti makes a sound after that, we won’t get any vittles. That scum’s just lookin’ for an excuse to punish us, so don’t give ’im the chance.”

  Midda picked her little brother up, rocking him gently. “He’ll drop off t’sleep soon—we’re both very tired. My name’s Midda. We’re Guosim shrews. D’ye know what our name stands for?”

  The otter nodded. “Aye. Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. My name’s Flandor—ain’t got no kin. I’m from the Eastlands. We’ve got a few shrews in here. Maybe ye might know some of ’em, Midda.”

  The shrewmaid peered into the shadowy interior. “Maybe I might, Flandor, but who’s Thwip?”

  A gaunt squirrelmaid appeared at her side. “Here, let me take the little un. Ye look about ready t’drop. Sit down here an’ try to get some rest. I’m Tura.”

  Midda was grateful to Tura, who laid Borti down on a pile of rags and dry grass. They sat beside each other, with Flandor squatting before them. He kept his voice to a low murmur.