The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  “Poor Clerun, he didn’t stand a chance, though he tried his best. The one called Zwilt toyed with him, wounding and taunting before he cut Clerun down. Then he took the medal, which Clerun had given me, from my neck. He gave his sword to one of the rats and took Clerun’s blade. He said it was far superior to his own. Then he used it to wound my shoulder and strike me over the back of my head. I went down. He must have thought he had slain me, too. I heard him say to the others that he had struck a blow for his Ravagers and the Sable Quean. I must have passed out then.

  “When I woke, it was late evening. Our babes were gone, Clerun was lying there dead, and the little home we had built together was in ruins, robbed and plundered. I staggered off into the woodlands, calling out for my little ones. After that, I don’t recall anything else, until I woke up here. Oh, Buckler!” She broke down grieving again.

  Buckler was rigid with sorrow and rage. He loosed his paw from Clarinna’s, gritting out through clenched teeth, “Ravagers, eh! And there’s that name again, Sable Quean! Hah, now we have another one to add to the list. Zwilt the Shade, carrying my family’s broadsword and the Coin!”

  Clarinna fell back upon the pillow, wailing, “My babies. What would anybeast want, stealing two tiny leverets, little helpless things!”

  Buckler’s long rapier swished as he drew steel. Dry-eyed and stone-faced, he kissed the blade. “I swear that Zwilt the Shade and his Ravagers—aye, and the one they call the Sable Quean—will die by my paw. Nor will I rest until the babes are safely back with their mother, the wife of my brother Clerun. I will wear the Coin of the Blademaster and pass on my brother ’s broadsword to his son. I take this oath upon the honour of the Kordyne family. This is my word!”

  The high, bright sun was up and dawn well broken when Log a Log Jango led his Guosim in by the main gates. Buckler and Skipper took breakfast on the west walltop, watching them troop in.

  The Otter Chieftain called out, “Ahoy, Jango—did ye have any luck out there?”

  The shrew shook his grizzled head. “Nary a vermin whisker in sight, but don’t worry. Soon as we’re rested, we’ll set out agin, matey. Oh, how’s the hare lady farin’?”

  Buckler replied, “She’s not too good, mate. Bring your breakfast up here an’ I’ll tell ye the whole tale. Er, where’s Diggs? I don’t see him with your lot.”

  Jango came striding up the wallsteps. “I chased him off. Don’t know where the nuisance is.”

  Buckler nodded. “I might’ve known that’d happen. Ole Diggs takes some gettin’ used to. Was he chunnerin’ again? Nothin’ can silence that fat rogue.”

  Jango stamped a footpaw on the ramparts. “Chunnerin’, is that wot ye calls it? The rascal never stops—he’s like a babblin’ brook, goin’ on an’ on. I kept warnin’ Diggs to shut up, but he wouldn’t. I told ’im he was endangerin’ us all with the noise he was makin’. Enny’ow, one thing led to another, an’ I told ’im to get lost. I think yore Diggs took my advice, ’cos we haven’t seen ’im since.”

  An unmistakable sound, that of the chubby subaltern, rent the morning air. “Halloooo! I say there, you rotters, are you goin’ to open this bloomin’ gate an’ let us in, wot?”

  The shouts were coming from beyond the east wall.

  Skipper and Buckler ran around there by way of the walltops. There was Diggs, looking up at the battlements, grinning like a demented frog. He had with him a ferret, whom he whacked with his loaded sling every time the vermin made a move.

  Skipper smiled down at him. “Ahoy, young Diggs. Who’s that scallywag ye have in tow?”

  The tubby hare kicked the prisoner’s tail end cheerfully. “C’mon, don’t stand there like last season’s leftover pudden. Tell the nice chap your flippin’ name—smartly now, laddie buck!”

  “Gripchun, sir, me name’s Gripchun!” the unhappy captive shouted.

  Two Guosim unlocked the east wickergate, and Diggs swaggered in, kicking the ferret before him.

  Jango glared at the garrulous hare. “Where did ye get that un?”

  Diggs waggled his ears at the Shrew Chieftain. “Oh, nowhere, really, old Log a Thing. I just came across the blighter prowlin’ round the shrubbery, so I surrounded him an’ chunnered him into submission, wot!”

  Jango glared at him sourly and stalked off.

  Buckler clapped his friend on the back. “Good old Diggs! A captive, eh? I’ll make him talk!”

  Diggs threw a headlock on the wretched ferret. “Rather y’didn’t, Buck. Leave old Gripchun t’me. I’ll soon have the blighter talkin’ faster’n me.” He applied the headlock tighter. “Ain’t that right, my stinky old friend? Dastardly Diggs the Terrible Torturer, that’s what they call me!”

  Assisted by Fumbril and Marjoram, Clarinna was escorted into Great Hall, where Diggs had bound Gripchun to a sandstone column.

  Buckler pointed to the ferret. “Was this one of the vermin who attacked you, Clarinna?”

  She shook her head. “No. They were all large rats, except for the dark-furred one, Zwilt. He’s not one of them, I’m sure.”

  Diggs made a great show of rolling up his tunic sleeves. “Right ho, then, Gripchun, me foul old vermin. Let’s find out a little bit about you, wot! Now, there’s no sense in beatin’ round the jolly old bush, so we’ll get right to it. Can some kind creature please bring me a large sharp axe, the larger’n’sharper, the better? Oh, an’ some boilin’ water, about a cauldron full. Hmm, I suppose we’d better have a few iron pokers an’ stuff to light a good roarin’ fire. That’ll do for now, wot. No good interrogatin’ victims without the proper stuff!”

  Abbess Marjoram was horrified. “Mister Diggs! Surely you’re not planning on torturing this beast inside my Abbey?”

  Diggs saluted cheerily. “Pardon me, marm. I’ll take the scoundrel outside, if the noise bothers you, wot. These rascals do screech an’ wail a bit, y’know!”

  Turning his back on the ferret, Buckler tipped Marjoram a huge, mischievous wink. “You leave it to Diggs, marm. I’ve never known a vermin that wouldn’t talk after a session with him!”

  Marjoram knew then that it was all a ruse to loosen Gripchun’s tongue. She kept up the pretence. “Well, take him outside, over to the west wall steps. I’m not having this Abbey messed up with the result of axes, pokers, boiling water and fires!”

  Diggs bowed, making an elegant leg. “My thanks t’ye, marm. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  Skipper chuckled. “Oh, I think it will—ole Gripchun’s just fainted clear away with fright. Look at him!”

  They carried the ferret out to lay him on the wallsteps, then waited until he stirred.

  Buckler watched him closely, remarking to Diggs, “I think he should sing like a skylark now. Leave this to me—you go and find something to eat, mate.”

  The tubby hare needed no second invitation. At the mere mention of food, he scooted off kitchenward.

  Buckler borrowed a beaker of water from the gatehouse. He sprinkled it on Gripchun until the ferret was awake once more. Wide eyed, he lay there, not daring to move.

  “That fat rabbet, Diggs, ’as ’e gone, sir?”

  Buckler nodded. “Aye, but I can bring him back if ye so wish—”

  The ferret let out a wail. “Noooooo! Don’t let ’im near me, sir, please. I’ll tell yer wot ye wants ter know, on me ’onner I will!”

  Buckler patted his tear-stained muzzle. “That’s the stuff—but trust me, I’ll know if you’re lying. So I want straight answers. Now, who is this creature they call the Sable Quean, and what is she doing here in Mossflower?”

  Gripchun swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen ’er, sir, on me life I ain’t. I’m just one of the Ravagers. Zwilt gives all the orders, an’ we just carries ’em out.”

  Buckler nodded. “So this Sable Quean prob’ly gives Zwilt his orders, and he passes ’em on to you?”

  The ferret’s head nodded vigourously. “That’s right, yer ’onner. There must be about tenscore of us Ravagers by now. Zwilt brought in a mob o’ n
ew beasts, river rats, they are.”

  Buckler exchanged glances with Skipper, who was sitting on a higher step, taking it all in. He put his next question to the prisoner.

  “An’ what exactly are your orders?”

  Gripchun replied obediently, “To take any youngbeasts we comes across, liddle woodlanders. We catches ’em an’ passes ’em over to Zwilt. I don’t know where ’e takes ’em though, I swear!”

  Buckler leaned closer, staring hard at the ferret. “Don’t you have any idea where the young ones go to?”

  For answer, Gripchun spat on his pawpad, then dabbed it on either eartip—a vermin habit to show that he was speaking truly. “If’n I knowed, I’d tell ye, sir.”

  The young hare tried another tack. “Tell me more about this beast, Zwilt the Shade. Who is he? Where did he come from? How did he choose you to become a Ravager?”

  The vermin became more animated with his reply. “I ain’t seen nothin’ like Zwilt, sir. ‘E’s tall an’ slim but real strong, very fierce, too. Ye never knows where Zwilt’s goin’ to turn up. Some says ’e’s magic, appearin’ an’ vanishin’ jus’ like that! But I tells yer, Zwilt’d slay ye soon as look at ye. I never seen one so quick wid a blade as Zwilt is with that big sword ’e carries under ’is cloak—pure murder, ’e is!”

  Skipper interrupted. “So how did ye meet up with him?”

  Gripchun shrugged. “I used t’roam far north o’ Mossflower wid a gang o’ weasels, stoats an’ ferrets like meself. Our chief was Gadra the Spear, a real warrior, expert killer ’e was. Then one night, Zwilt jus’ turns up at our camp an’ tells Gadra that we’re all gonna be Ravagers an’ that ’e’s the new chief.”

  Skipper raised an eyebrow. “I’ll wager ole Gadra didn’t like the sound o’ that, eh?”

  Gripchun continued, “Gadra challenged Zwilt to a fight, right off. Huh, pore Gadra, Zwilt made ’im look like a fool—’twasn’t nice ter watch. Zwilt tore Gadra t’bits with the big sword, laughin’ an’ tormentin’ ’im like a snake wid a worm. Once ’e finished with Gadra, we was left wid no choice but ter follow Zwilt the Shade. So, that’s ’ow I came t’be a Ravager, sir.”

  Skipper murmured to Buckler, “Zwilt the Shade sounds like a reg’lar terror t’me.” A dangerous look entered the hare’s eye. “We’ll see how much of a terror Zwilt is when he meets a warrior who can fight back!”

  Oakheart Witherspyk had been patrolling the walltops, a part of his duties as protector of Redwall. He marched grandly down the wallsteps. “Well, well, ’pon me spikes an’ snout, what have we here? A fiendish vermin, eh!”

  Buckler felt that he wanted to talk over the information he had gleaned with Skipper. So he delegated charge of the prisoner to the portly hog. “I know he doesn’t deserve it, Oakie, but I want you to take this rascal over to the kitchens an’ see that he’s fed’n’watered. Keep an eye on him, though!”

  The big hedgehog took his responsibilities seriously. Gripchun found himself seized tightly by ear and tail. Oakheart frogmarched him off, admonishing the vermin sternly, “Zounds, one rascally move out o’ ye, sirrah, an’ I’ll belt ye from here to suppertime an’ back!”

  Buckler called out, as the unhappy ferret was hauled off, “If that villain gives you any trouble, just turn him over to Diggs—he’ll know what t’do!”

  Shaking his head, Skipper expressed an opinion to Buckler. “If’n that Sable Quean an’ Zwilt have a crew of over tenscore vermin, I think we’ll have to secure the Abbey. Armed guards patrollin’ all walls, an’ others watchin’ all four gates. You an’ Diggs should be able t’help there. We need warriors like ye, mate, Salamandastron trained.”

  Buckler strode to the walltop. Leaning on a battlement, he stared out over the western plain. “Oh, we’ll do the best we can for ye, Skip. But what bothers me is the stolen little uns. What d’ye think this Sable Quean intends on doin’ with ’em?”

  The Otter Chieftain shrugged. “That I don’t know, Buck. It’s a puzzle, ain’t it? Pore young things, it don’t bear thinkin’ about, wot a crowd o’ vermin scum could do to them.”

  Even though it made him shudder at the thought, Buckler tried to address the problem logically. “Hmm, one thing we can be sure of, the Sable Quean isn’t stealin’ the young uns just to slay ’em.”

  Skipper agreed. “Aye, mate. I’ll wager me rudder they’re all alive someplace. . . . But where?”

  His companion smote a paw on the battlement. “Somewhere out there in Mossflower, this Zwilt rascal is hidin’ ’em. Right, let’s see if we can squeeze some more information out of that ferret who Diggs nabbed. Vermin usually know more’n they’ll tell you.”

  The Otter Chieftain clenched his strong paws. “I think we’d best git him up ’ere on the walltop. We don’t want to upset any gentlebeasts. Squeeze him, d’ye say? I’ll squeeze the blaggard until he sings like a brace o’ nightingales!”

  Gripchun was feeling much better since he had been taken to the kitchens and given good Redwall fare. The absence of Diggs added to his well-being; he felt his natural vermin insolence returning. It came as an unpleasant shock when Skipper strode in and seized him by the scruff of his neck.

  Gripchun tried to wriggle free, snarling, “Git yer paws off a me, riverdog. Who d’ye think ye are?”

  The brawny otter pinned him to the wall with one hefty paw. He began clouting the ferret’s ears with the other. Skipper explained who he was, accentuating each word with a stinging smack.

  “I’ll tell ye who I am, Dibbun robber! I’m the beast who’s goin’ to knock yore head off if’n ye tell any lies, or give me any more of yore lip!”

  Gripchun began sobbing relentlessly. “Please, sir, don’t ’it me no more. I’ve told ye all I know, I can’t tell ye no more, honest I can’t!”

  Diggs ambled in, munching on an oversized vegetable pasty. “Oh, hello, Skip old scout. What’s that rascal been up to, wot? I say, d’ye mind holdin’ my pasty whilst I give him a few smacks? I feel sort of responsible for the scoundrel, havin’ captured him an’ all that!”

  Skipper left off cuffing Gripchun’s ears long enough to explain, “Me’n’Buckler thinks this un knows more’n he’s sayin’. I’m takin’ him back up to the walltop so we can question him without upsettin’ everybeast.”

  Diggs brushed pasty crumbs from his chubby cheeks. “Good idea. I’ll lend a blinkin’ paw—you take one ear an’ I’ll take the other, wot!”

  They went off with Gripchun hobbling tippawed between them and wailing pitifully, “Owowow—leggo, you’ll pull me lugs off!”

  Oakheart joined them as they left the kitchen. “ ’Pon my word, does that wretch never stop bleating?”

  Halfway across the lawn, they met Granvy, who enquired where they were taking the captive. On being told, he decided to tag along.

  Gripchun cowered against the battlemented wall, nervously licking dry lips as he looked from one to the other of his interrogators.

  Diggs was finishing off his pasty; Skipper was flexing his paws. Oakheart had taken the liberty of bringing along a wooden oven paddle, which he was tapping on the rampart stones. Granvy had sat down, taking from his belt pouch a piece of bark parchment and a thin charcoal stick. He smiled at the ferret.

  “Just to take down anything you tell us.”

  However, it was Buckler who was causing the captive some real apprehension. The young Blademaster was honing his long rapier blade on a whetstone. Without looking at Gripchun, he spoke, testing the keen edge against his paws: “I want you to think very carefully. I must have an answer to every question I ask.”

  A lump appeared in Gripchun’s throat as he swallowed hard. He nodded furiously.

  Buckler continued in a level tone, “Are the young uns alive and well?”

  The ferret kept nodding as he found his voice. “They’re all still livin’, as far as I knows, sir.”

  Log a Log Jango Bigboat came bounding up the wallsteps. “I heard a kitchen helper sayin’ you was tryin’ t’make this scum talk. Has he said
anythin’ yet?”

  Granvy looked up from his writing. “He says the little uns are all still alive, as far as he knows.”

  The Shrew Chieftain’s blade was out in a flash, its point a hairsbreadth from the vermin’s throat. Jango’s voice was shaking with rage. “As far as ye know? I’m the father o’three of those youngsters! So ye’ll have to do a bit better’n thinkin’ ye know. If’n they’re alive, yore chief must be keepin’ ’em hid somewhere. . . .”

  Jango’s voice rose with his rage. He drew back the short Guosim rapier, readying it for a thrust. “I’m right, ain’t I? My liddle uns are bein’ held prisoners. Where? Tell me where, ye useless cob o’ flotsam. Tell me or die!”

  Gripchun gave a hoarse screech as Jango swung the blade. Fortunately, it was knocked to one side as Buckler deflected it with a deft flick of his long rapier.

  The ferret threw himself flat on the walkway, sobbing hysterically. “I keeps tellin’ ye, I don’t know nothin’. All I does is carries out Zwilt’s orders. I ain’t got a clue where Althier is, on me oath I ain’t!”

  Oakheart bounded forward. Heaving the vermin upright, he shook him like a rag, bellowing into his face, “Althier, what d’ye mean, Althier?”

  Gripchun rattled on like a babbling brook. “I ’eard Zwilt sayin’ it, an’ I didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time, honest I didn’t, sirs. But just now the name came into me mind. Althier, I think that’s the name of the place where they keeps yore little uns!”

  Oakheart dropped the hapless vermin. “Well, well. What d’ye make o’ that, friends?”

  Granvy ceased writing. He whispered to Skipper, “I believe him, but let’s not frighten him into telling lies to save his skin. Leave this to me. Maybe I can persuade a bit more out of him.”

  Diggs gave the Recorder a broad wink. “Aye, but first allow me to jolly well scare the blighter a bit more. Then you can come in, all blinkin’ kind’n’gentle, eh, wot!”