The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Ambrevina was immediately off, though Diggs lingered a moment as Mumzy told her young guests what she was planning for their lunch. “Right, me liddle darlin’s, how’d ye fancy a honeynut tart with hot arrowroot sauce, some raspberry cordial an’ a fine ould bowl of apple’n’pear crumble?”

  Diggs gritted his teeth as he climbed to the bank top. “Lucky blighters. Serves ’em right if they scoff too flippin’ much an’ end up with tummyache, wot!”

  Ambrevina had to wait for Diggs to catch up. “Which way to Redwall?”

  He took the lead. “Follow me, Ambry, old gel. By the left, though, you look jolly keen for a crack at the vermin, wot?”

  Keeping hot on his footpaws, the badgermaid hastened him on. “I just want to catch up with those who murdered my friend Flandor. Can’t you go any faster?”

  The gluttonous hare fed on pawfuls of food from the flour bag as he panted forward. “You’ve prob’ly heard that hares are built for speed. Well, not this bloomin’ chap, I can tell you. My pal Buck can deal with the vermin until we arrive—he’s a Blademaster, y’know. There’s him, Jango, Skipper, Axtel, Bartij an’ absolute scads o’ Guosim shrews an’ useful Redwallers. They’re sure t’keep a firm paw on things ’til we arrive. I say, d’you want any o’ this tucker, Ambry? Jolly tasty stuff, wot!”

  Ambrevina cast a jaundiced eye over the mixed mess of congealed chestnut and mushroom bake mingling with blackberry tart. “Aye, give it t’me, will you?”

  Diggs reluctantly passed the bag to her. “Have a bite or two, but leave some for a famished young chap—share an’ share alike, wot wot?”

  She flicked the lot off into the undergrowth. “This is not the time for meals. We’ll eat when we get to Redwall Abbey. Now, shake a paw, will you!”

  Diggs increased his pace, knowing it would be unwise to argue with a badger of his companion’s size. However, that did not stop him chunnering to himself. “Huh, shameful waste, that’s what ’tis. Chuckin’ good scoff away to the blinkin’ insects. By the left, if my old mess sergeant caught y’doin’ that, marm, you’d be on a real fizzer, quarter season in the bloomin’ guardhouse. Hah, an’ you’d richly deserve it!”

  They passed on, leaving the half-finished bag of food hanging from a bramble in the undergrowth. A scrawny paw reached out and retrieved it.

  Gliv clutched the bag to her, crawling back through the bushes to where Vilaya lay resting.

  The sable’s glittering eyes watched the stoat keenly. “Who was that passing by? What did you steal from them?”

  Gliv sat down just out of reach. She began eating from the bag. “It was just one of those rabbets an’ a big stripedog. From wot they was sayin’, I think they’re bound for that Abbey. Looks like Zwilt will have a fight on his paws if’n ’e has t’face the stripedog. She was big—looked like a fighter t’me.”

  The injured Sable Quean was inching closer. “And they gave you those vittles?”

  Gliv stuffed a pawful of Mumzy’s food down, licking her blackberry-stained mouth. “ ’Course they never gave me it. The stripedog slung it away, said they didn’t ’ave time fer meals.”

  Holding her wounded side, Vilaya rolled rapidly over, seizing the bag from Gliv. Casting aside any pretence to daintiness, she wolfed the remainder down. “Go and find me some water. I’m thirsty.”

  The stoat sneered. “Feelin’ better, are we? Ye’ll soon be up an’ about. I thought you was gonna die for a while back there.”

  Vilaya stood up, leaning against a sycamore. “No time for dying. I’ve got a score to settle!”

  Gliv grinned coldly. “Huh, so have we both!”

  27

  Seeing his friends with their backs to the west wallgate, illuminated by the shafts of firelight, Skipper roared out the order. “Open the gates! Everybeast to the entrance! Quick!”

  The main entrance was pulled open in a trice. Ducking down, Buckler, Bartij, Jango and the Guosim crew retreated hurriedly inside. The defenders hurled a salvo of javelins, rocks and slingstones at the advancing Ravagers. Temporarily blinded by the sudden burst of light from the bonfire in the open gateway, the vermin were taken by surprise. They scattered both ways along the path, seeking to avoid the onslaught of missiles, some slipping backward into the ditch.

  Zwilt lashed about him with the flat of his broadsword, yelling hoarsely, “Forward! Forward! Keep going, can’t you see the gates are open? Forward! Chaaaaarge!”

  Something struck his blade like a thunderbolt. It flew out of his grasp, over the ditch, onto the flatland. Zwilt the Shade was strong—he was also fast and agile. However, the tall sable was not about to face the hefty hammer-wielding mole who had disarmed him so savagely.

  Knowing instantly that the attempt had failed, Zwilt leapt the ditch in a single bound, calling out, “Retreat! Back, Ravagers, back! Retreat!”

  Blinded by the firelight and assailed by slingstones from the gateway and walltops, the vermin were only too ready to obey their commander. They fled westward to where the sessile oak trunk lay abandoned outside their camp.

  Now that Zwilt had regained his blade, the need for secrecy and concealment was over. He squatted down by the fire his vermin were building. The weasel Fallug, whom he had promoted to captain, knelt alongside him, nursing a swollen jaw—a stone had hit him.

  “Wot next, Lord? Do we still use the batterin’ ram?”

  The tall sable blinked as he stared at the fire. “As soon as it’s ready. We’ll charge those gates and smash them, in daylight if we have to. There’ll be no mistake a second time, I swear it!”

  Abbess Marjoram came to the main outer gate. Skirting the fire, she sought out the defenders, congratulating them. “Thank you, friends. ’Twas a brave thing you did here.”

  Granvy wiped his face with a clump of dewy grass. “Good idea that fire, eh, Jango?”

  The Guosim Log a Log crouched down by a gatepost. “A masterstroke, I’ll grant ye. Though if’n ye hadn’t got the gates open when ye did, we’d have been slaughtered out there. Sniffy, how many did we lose?”

  The Tracker wiped smoke from his bleary gaze. “Two slain, four wounded, Chief. I was goin’ to check south down the path, but that berserk mole’s still out there. Nothin’ll stop that un—Axtel will smash anybeast wot stands in his path!”

  Buckler put up his long rapier. “That’s how Bloodwrath works, mate. We’ll just have to hope he comes to his senses. Marm, stop, where are ye goin’?”

  The Abbess had walked out onto the path. “Stay where you are, everybeast. I’ll deal with this.”

  Jango started after her, but Sister Fumbril drew him back. “Marjoram knows what she’s about, sir, trust me!”

  Skipper nodded. “Do as the Sister says, matey, an’ trust our Mother Abbess. That goes for all of ye. Now, how about dampin’ this blaze down. We could be sittin’ targets stannin’ in the firelight!”

  The blaze was subdued with a bit of effort. Some of the embers were pushed into the open ditch, some scattered to the inside wall, the rest were damped down with water from the Abbey pond. Dawn was streaking the sky when Abbess Marjoram passed through the gateway, ordering Foremole Darbee and Cellarmole Gurjee to close and lock the doors. Axtel was limping alongside her. She was giving him advice on his wounded footpaw.

  “I’m sure that Sister Fumbril can treat your injury. She’s very skilful at such things. I guarantee you’ll be walking normally by the season’s end, running, too. Oh, Bartij, would you take Axtel’s hammer? The poor beast shouldn’t have to limp about carrying that great heavy thing. It’s not doing him a bit of good.”

  Buckler watched in amazement as Axtel Sturnclaw, the berserk warrior, meekly surrendered his weapon to Bartij.

  “Hurr aye, mum, ee war’ammer do gets gurtly weight ful at toimes. Hoo urr, but et bee’s a wunnerful vermint stopper, even tho’ oi says et moiself, mum!”

  Buckler shook his head. “Well, I’ve seen everything now!”

  Bartij winked. “Yore at Redwall Abbey now, young mate—you h’ain’t
seen nothin’ yet!”

  Friar Soogum bustled up with two kitchen helpers in tow. “Er, Abbess, marm, where do I serve brekkist today?”

  Marjoram was never at a loss when it came to prompt decisions, unlike the hesitant Friar. She rattled off instructions, including everybeast. “Serve it up on the west ramparts to those who’ll be keeping an eye on our foes—Mister Buckler, Skipper, Bartij, Log a Log Jango and his Guosim. Redwallers and Dibbuns will eat in Great Hall. I think it would be wise for those not engaged in defence of the Abbey to stay off the walltops until any threat of attack has gone. Sister Fumbril, Axtel and myself will dine in the Infirmary. Foremole, would you and your molecrew dine in the gatehouse with Granvy, just in case you’re needed?”

  Darbee tugged his snout respectfully. “Ut’d be moi pleasure, mum!”

  Marjoram patted Soogum’s paw fondly. “That’s your problem solved, old friend. Now, is there anything else, please?”

  Buckler had a request. “Marm, could you have the good Friar serve an extra portion on the walltop? Make it a big helping.”

  The Abbess nodded. “I’m sure our Friar could arrange that, but what do you require another breakfast for?”

  One of the young hare’s ears drooped thoughtfully. “Just an idea, really. It’s been my experience that whenever fine vittles are served, Diggs is usually somewhere about. Oh, I’m not worried about the tubby glutton, wherever he is. But I’d be easier in my mind if he were here where I could keep an eye on him.”

  Marjoram smiled. “Oh, I think we can manage that, Buck.”

  Buckler made a quick, elegant bow. “Thankee, marm. An’ I apologise for not bringin’ the little uns safe back to Redwall. As soon as this Ravager matter ’s settled, I vow I won’t rest ’til the babes are all inside these walls an’ peace is restored.”

  The Abbess nodded. “I’m sure you speak truly, my friend.”

  Out on the flatlands, work was progressing on the battering ram. Zwilt had supervised his vermin in the making of the weapon. One end of the sessile oak trunk had been hacked into a blunt point and burned several times in the fire. This had the effect of sharpening and hardening the ramming end. Fallug and his crew had returned to the woodlands. Now they were hauling in heaps of thick green-leafed boughs. Zwilt outlined their use to his captain.

  “I want a frame built, a canopy to go over the ram. The carriers underneath it will be protected from anything those Redwallers heap down upon them. Now, we’ll have two shifts of ram carriers, one relieving the other to keep the attack going full pelt. I want archers and sling throwers constantly on the go. That’ll keep the woodlanders’ heads down below the walltops.”

  Fallug grinned crookedly. “Aye, Lord, an’ ’twill ’elp our ram beasts from bein’ attacked!”

  The weasel was pleasantly surprised when Zwilt patted his shoulder heartily. Something resembling a smile stole across the inscrutable sable’s features.

  “You’re a beast I can trust, Fallug. Tell me, how do you like being a captain, eh?”

  Fallug puffed out his narrow chest. “I’m enjoyin’ it, Sire. Ye can rely on me—I’ll do me best for ye, Lord, on me word, I will!”

  Zwilt toyed with the medal about his neck. “Good. I knew I could, so I want you to be in charge of all my Ravagers from now on.”

  Fallug looked fit to burst as he puffed in more air. “Me, Lord?”

  Zwilt nodded. “You’ll need a bit of help, so why not pick out a few trusty comrades and make them captains?”

  A worried look furrowed the weasel’s brow, but Zwilt reassured him, “Of course, you won’t need to be a captain any longer. I’ll promote you to chief, or general. Which title d’you think suits you best?”

  Fallug replied without hesitation, “Chief, Sire! Sounds good, don’t it? Fallug, Chief of all the Ravagers. Aye, chief suits me fine, Lord!”

  Zwilt watched the ram point shaping up. “Right, Chief Fallug, these are your orders. You’ll be in charge of this whole attack—archers, slingers, ram carriers, everything!”

  The new chief looked slightly perplexed. “But where’ll you be, Sire? Wot’ll you be doin’?”

  Zwilt stared at the distant Abbey walls. “I’ll be doing what I do best—being Zwilt the Shade. You just carry on obeying orders. Don’t look for me. I have a plan of my own. If it goes the right way, I may be inside Redwall whilst you’re still knocking on the doors. Leave me now. I’ll put the word about that you are in command here.”

  Back on the ramparts, Bartij, who had no experience of warfare, shielded his eyes against the sun, peering at the distant vermin encampment. “There’s smoke a-risin’. See, they’ve lit a fire. Looks like they’re burnin’ one end of the big log. Why d’ye suppose they’d do a thing like that, eh?”

  Jango dipped a crust of toasted nutbread into his hot mint tea and sucked it with relish. “I’d say they’re makin’ a batterin’ ram, eh, Buck?”

  Buckler put aside a bowl of oatmeal. “Yore right, mate. Skipper, fetch Foremole, please. I need to speak with him.”

  Foremole Darbee did not like high walltops. He sat down with his back to the battlements, concentrating his gaze on the walkway. “Hurr, ’ow can oi ’elp ee, zurr?”

  Buckler sat down next to him. “This stone-throwin’ catapult thing your crew are making in the cellars, can we get it up here?”

  Darbee shook his velvety head glumly. “ ’Tis all in bits, zurr. Oi knows nuthin’ abowt cattypults, but if’n us gets it up yurr, ’twill need t’be resembled.”

  Skipper quaffed off what was left of his hotroot soup. “Granvy’s the beast who’d know about assemblin’ it. Come on, we’ll lend a paw to carry it up here.”

  It turned out to be a far harder task than they had expected. Some of the timber donated by Cellarmole Gurjee was huge and weighty. Long-seasoned lengths of elm, beech and oak, devoid of bark or branch, were hauled laboriously up to the walltop.

  Old Granvy the Recorder inspected the material doubtfully. “Hmm, wish I’d bothered to look at this lot earlier. I’m afraid most of it is far too ancient and dried out t’be of any use. It’d snap under pressure.”

  Bartij flicked a woodlouse off a chunk of beech. “Can’t we make any use of it, Granvy?”

  The old hog sighed wistfully. “I wish I knew. I dug out an ancient parchment which had the plans for a ballista—that’s what they’re called, you see. But I’ve never seen a real one, and I’m not sure how it works. What we need is a creature who knows all about such weapons.”

  Oakheart Witherspyk mounted the battlements, dramatically gesturing toward the vermin foe. “Hearken, comrades, our present dilemma is how to counter a battering-ram attack. What to do, eh? If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, what about fire?”

  Skipper assisted the portly hog down onto the walkway. “I knows wot yore thinkin’ of, mate, hurlin’ fire down on it, to set the ram ablaze. Well, it won’t work, Oakie. Once that batterin’ ram was on fire, they’d lean it up agin’ our gateway. Then they’d just sit back an’ watch the whole thing burn down. No, sir, we’ll have to come up with somethin’ better’n that!”

  Foremole Darbee had a typically molelike solution. “Zurrs, ’ow abowt soil’n’urth. Hurr hurr, they’m villyuns wuddent git far a-tryen to shuv ee rammerer through a gurt ’eap o’ soil’n’urth!”

  Buckler’s ears stood up in admiration of the mole’s scheme. “Now, that’s what I call a great plan! We’ll tip loads of everything over the wall, right here over the main gate. Aye, an’ we’ll shore it up from the inside, too. Hah, it’d take an army of vermin a couple o’ seasons to ram their way through that lot!”

  Skipper slammed his rudder down on the walkway. “Ahoy, mates, we’ll have t’get started real sharpish, afore the vermin git their ram up an’ runnin’!”

  Redwall Abbey immediately became a hive of activity. Foremole and his trusty crew began digging up the lawn and some flower beds. Oakheart got an earth-moving chain in motion. Improvised stretchers were loaded up with soil, gravel, c
lay, stones and turf. The biggest and sturdi est creatures carried these to the walltop. Meanwhile, Flib and Trajidia Witherspyk rigged a rope and pulley up on the walkway. A line of the young, helped by some old ones, bore an assortment of vessels. Bowls, pails, ewers, cauldrons, anything that could be filled with soil and debris, was passed from paw to paw. Sniffy hooked them to the pulley, whilst Flib and Trajidia hauled away energetically. Jango got a work song going, something of a shanty. Everybeast soon caught onto the chorus, roaring it out lustily, even the Dibbuns. Anybeast who was not sure of the verse just kept chanting the “haul up” bits. It all worked rather well.“Haul up! Haul up!

  Haul up, d’ye hear me call,

  the strong of heart must play their part,

  for the sake of ole Redwall . . . haul up!

  “Dig up that earth for all yore worth,

  fill all those pails again,

  an’ just let me catch one of ye,

  complainin’ of a pain!

  “Haul up! Haul up!

  Haul up, d’ye hear me call,

  the strong of heart must play their part,

  for the sake of ole Redwall . . . haul up!

  “Come on now, mateys, bend those backs,

  there’s loads o’ work to do,

  if you don’t toil an’ tote that soil,

  you’ll let down all this crew!

  “Haul up! Haul up!

  Haul up, d’ye hear me call,

  the strong of heart must play their part,

  for the sake of ole Redwall . . . haul up!

  “So haul ’em up an’ lower ’em down,

  no time to moan or weep,