The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Fazdim, a river rat, upended a flask of blackberry wine, gurgling gleefully as it splashed over his chin, staining his lean chest. “Be plenty more o’ this good stuff when this place is ours, eh, Lord?”

  Zwilt snatched the wine from him, throwing up a cautionary paw. “Hush! What was that?”

  The rat Zwilt had left guarding the kitchen door, tippawed back to make his report. “Lord, it’s somebeasts singin’ an’ dancin’ out there!”

  Zwilt tasted the blackberry wine, nodding his approval. “Let them sing and dance. What harm can that do? Fazdim, you take a turn guarding the door, but get me some of this wine first. I’ll have to wait here until the coast is clear, then I’ll go upstairs.”

  Though he would not admit it openly, the tall sable was enjoying his first taste of Redwall fare. He wanted more.

  Out in Great Hall, Trajidia had delivered the joyous news to the ladies. They began singing and dancing with happiness, knowing the babes were alive and safe. The transformation in Clarinna was remarkable. She joined in with the celebrations immediately. Friar Soogum and his kitchen helpers provided the music, singing lustily as they drummed on an assortment of upturned pots and bowls. A molemaid scraped away on a small fiddle as the dancers threw up their paws, laughing and jigging gleefully to the jolly song.“Oh, whoopsy doo, one two three,

  happy jolly beasts are we,

  clap your paws, three four five,

  what a day to be alive!

  “The sun never shone so warm and bright,

  my paws never felt so free and light,

  good news never was so comforting,

  whirl around, my friend, let’s sing.

  “Oh, deedle doo, and doodle die,

  no more tears from you or I,

  kick those paws up in the air,

  joy and bliss be everywhere!

  “Our hearts are filled with joy and cheer,

  goodbye to anguish, grief and fear,

  whirl me round now, tralalaa,

  raise your voice and shout hurrah!”

  29

  Vilaya stayed close to the north wall, making her way through the woodlands. She had removed the bloodstained rag from her brow, cleaned up her soil-stained face and donned her silken cloak. She was once again the Sable Quean.

  The fight was going back and forth twixt the ramparts and the flatlands further down. Nobeast noticed as she crossed the path and slid into the ditch. She strode slowly and regally toward the useless battering ram. The Ravagers knew she was dead—had they not seen it with their own eyes? Zwilt the Shade had slain her with his broadsword. With Zwilt somewhere inside the Abbey and the vermin army being run by mere minions, it was high time for the resurrection of their real leader, the Sable Quean.

  The recently appointed Captain Grakk was issuing orders to the ram bearers, who were taking cover beneath the bough and leaf canopy in the ditchbed. Using his spearhaft none too gently, Grakk routed the vermin out.

  “Leave this ram, now. Git yoreselves outta there! Boss Fallug needs all of ye to attack the walltop. Move, ye worthless bunch, come on, shift yoreselves! Hah, fancy droppin’ a batterin’ ram into a ditch after all the ’ard work we put in makin’ it, eh? Leave it there. Boss Fallug says he’s got plans fer it once it goes dark!”

  The Ravagers were starting to scramble from the ditch when one, a stoat, fell backward. His paw was pointing, and his face a mask of fear as he wailed, “Waaaaaahhhhh! Eeeeeeyaaaah!”

  Everybeast turned to see what had caused this weird effect on the stoat. Eyes popped wide, jaws dropped, the vermin and their captain stood transfixed by the apparition. Vilaya walked unhurriedly up until she was facing the Weasel Captain, whom she addressed by name.

  “Are you in charge now, Grakk?”

  The weasel was trembling uncontrollably as he managed a stumbling reply. “Ch-charge, y’Majesty, er, er, no, I’m only a cap’n, marm. Er, er, it’s Fallug’s in charge, er, Lord Zwilt made ’im a boss, er, Majesty!”

  Vilaya repeated the name. “Fallug. I don’t know that one. Take me to him, Grakk. Bring these Ravagers with you.”

  Fallug was revelling in his newfound authority, which had many benefits. Some of his foragers had brought in a large clutch of partridge eggs, of which he would take the largest share. He sat watching them roast the eggs in hot ashes, well out of range from Redwall missiles. Fallug was retrieving the first of the cooked eggs with a twig when a ferret pointed out what was going on.

  “Lookit, Boss, they’ve left off fightin’ an’ they’re all comin’ over ’ere. . . . An’ the Quean’s with ’em!”

  Fallug shaded his eyes, staring hard at the lead figure. There was no doubt about it—the Sable Quean was unmistakable. Murmurs ran through the foraging party.

  “But I thought Zwilt killed ’er!”

  “Aye, ’e did. I saw Zwilt do it meself, mate!”

  “Then why’s she ’ere? Why ain’t she dead?”

  “Maybe . . . maybe she’s a ghost, come back to slay us all!”

  They began edging back, ready to break and run off.

  Fallug was not about to relinquish his new high office, nor was he about to show fear in front of his command. “Git back ’ere, ye ole frogwives, she ain’t goin’ to slay nobeast. Lord Zwilt’ll sort this out when he gits back. Meanwhile, I’m the boss o’ this army, an’ I ain’t afeared o’ nobeast, livin’ or dead!”

  When Vilaya arrived at the smouldering fire, all the Ravagers stood to attention. All except Fallug, who was still crouched over the ashes, pulling roasted eggs clear with his twig.

  Vilaya looked down at him. Her voice held the ring of authority as she spoke. “Are you the beast they call Fallug?”

  Dropping the twig, Fallug drew his dagger, making a show of cracking a partridge egg with the blade. He replied boldly, “Aye, I’m Boss Fallug, an’ I’m in charge around ’ere until Lord Zwilt gits back!”

  The onlookers to this confrontation were surprised when Vilaya smiled approvingly. Her tone was almost cheerful. “Well said, Boss Fallug. That’s the way it should be! But the Sable Quean has always ruled over all Ravagers, so I’ll take charge now. You won’t be needed anymore.” Reaching down, she patted the back of his neck.

  Oakheart Witherspyk had mounted the battlements once more, trying to assess the new situation, which was puzzling them all.

  “D’ye think somethin’s going on out there, Skipper?”

  The otter leaned on the walltop. “Aye, mate, I do, an’ I just wish I knew exactly wot it was.”

  Buckler climbed up alongside Oakheart. “They’ve all gathered round that campfire over yonder, too far t’see what’s goin’ on.”

  Axtel drew the war hammer from his belt. “You’m wanten oi to goo an’ take ee lukk, zurr? Et woan’t bee no trubble to oi.”

  Diggs interposed hastily. “No need for that, old lad. Rest that jolly old footpaw of yours, wot. Besides, who are we to argue if the bloomin’ wretched vermin want to chuck in fightin’ for the day? Maybe they’ve decided to take afternoon tea. Jolly good idea, don’t y’think, eh, Buck?”

  Jango shook his head at the gluttonous young hare. “Don’t ye think of anythin’ aside o’ vittles? We’ve not long eaten lunch!”

  Diggs gave his ears a cavalier wiggle as he set off down the wallsteps. “Pish tush, sah. That’s alright for you t’say—shrews don’t need as much bally nourishment as hares do. I’ll just toodle off down t’the jolly old kitchens an’ see what the Friar is fryin’ up, wot! Oh, I say, that was rather a good un, the Friar fryin’ up stuff, wot?”

  Glancing back, he saw his pun had not been appreciated. With that, he strode off, chunnering. “No sense o’ humour. That’s the trouble with you mouldy lot. Thought it was pretty funny m’self, Friar fryin’ an’ all that. My old aunt Twodge was right, where there’s no sense, there’s no bloomin’ feelin’. Huh, she was right!”

  Flib climbed up alongside Buckler. She nodded toward the Ravager army. “They might’ve stopped fightin’, but that don’t mea
n the dirty scum ain’t hatchin’ summat up. Take my word, mate, we’d do well t’keep an eye on that lousy lot!”

  Buckler hid a smile, nodding vigorously. “Right, marm, I’ll take yore advice, marm, good of ye to mention it, marm, thank ye kindly!”

  The Guosim maid eyed him coldly. “Marm me jus’ once more an’ I’ll shove ye off’n this wall . . . rabbet!”

  Buckler tweaked her ear. “Aye, try callin’ me rabbet again an’ I’ll take ye with me, cheekyface!”

  Pulling free of the hare’s grip, Flib eyed Buckler with a face like thunder.

  Jango winked at Buckler. “Growin’ up into a proper Guosim lady, ain’t she?”

  Sniffy the Tracker nodded over at the foebeasts’ position. “Sounds like they’re fixin’ to start somethin’. Lissen t’that. Sounds like a war chant to me, Chief.”

  Log a Log Jango cupped an ear in the direction. “Aye, they’re yellin’ somethin’, I can’t make out wot it is, though. Ahoy, Flib, me darlin’, can ye make out wot those vermin are chantin’?”

  After standing for a moment in rebellious silence, Flib relented, complying with her father ’s request.

  “Vilaya, Vilaya, Sable Quean! That’s wot they’re callin’. Prob’ly workin’ themselves up for action.”

  Buckler nodded courteously toward her. “Thankee, mate. You’ve got good sharp ears!”

  She smiled, her sullen mood fading. “I’ve got better ears than my pa or Sniffy. You’d be surprised at some o’ the things I can hear.”

  Buckler nodded. “I’m sure I would.”

  Flib looked toward the Abbey building. “I just heard a noise from over there—bet you didn’t!”

  Buckler was concentrating more on the Ravagers’ shouts, which were growing louder, but to humour Flib, he asked, “What sort of noise was it?”

  She shrugged. “Came from the south side o’ the Abbey. Sounded like wot you yell out sometimes. Eu-lowly-oh!”

  The Salamandastron Blademaster was suddenly alert. “Y’mean Eulalia, the Long Patrol war cry? That’ll be Diggs—he must be in some sort of bother! Skip, Jango, keep a close watch on those Ravagers. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Guard that rubble pile in front o’ the gates. If they charge, they’ll try to come at us straight up it. I’ve got to go!” Drawing the long rapier from its back scabbard, Buckler sped off down the wallsteps.

  Grakk had replaced the slain Fallug, who lay stiff on the ground, his face fixed in a hideous grin caused by the adder venom from Vilaya’s lethal little knife. She stood to one side, nibbling daintily on a roasted partridge egg, watching her new commander whipping the vermin into a battle frenzy. Grakk used thrusts of his spear to emphasise words.

  Zwilt was temporarily forgotten, now that the Ravagers had fallen under the spell of their Sable Quean. One who could rise from the dead, and the bars of Hellgates. She who could slay a warrior like Fallug with a single touch of her paw. What else could they do but follow her? En masse, they thundered out their replies to Grakk’s questions.

  “Who do we serve? Who do we serve?”

  “Vilaya! Vilaya! Sable Quean! Yahaaaaaarrrr!”

  “An’ who are we? What do we do?”

  “Ravagers! Ravagers! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

  They began the advance, waving spears, axes, pikes and all manner of weaponry. Stamping hard with their footpaws, until the open flatlands thrummed like a great drum, as they repeated over and over, “Vilaya! Vilaya! Sable Quean! Yahaaaaar! Ravagers! Ravagers! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

  Buckler instinctively knew where Diggs would be—around the kitchen area. If it was not a usual mealtime, the tubby rascal would make his way to the kitchen window. Pasties, pies, scones and tarts were often taken from the ovens and left to cool on the open window ledge. Cutting along the south side of the Abbey building, Buckler sensed right off that something was amiss. He drew his blade, running to the window. One glance was all that was needed.

  Amidst the welter of broken dishes and scattered food, Diggs lay slumped on the floor. Vaulting over the windowsill, the young hare went straight to his companion. Turning Diggs over, he cradled his head, leaning close to his nose. Thanking the seasons that Diggs was breathing, Buckler reached for an oven cloth to stanch the deep wound on his unconscious friend’s head. Binding it tight, he reached out a footpaw, pulling a half-empty sack of flour close. Resting Diggs’s head on the makeshift pillow, Buckler suddenly became alert.

  There were cries of alarm from within Great Hall, coupled with the sound of a little one wailing. Grabbing up his long rapier, he charged out to confront the intruders.

  Buckler skidded to a halt. Abbess Marjoram, Clarinna, Jango’s wife, Furm, Drull Hogwife and Dymphnia, Witherspyk, clutching Dubdub to her, were surrounded by Zwilt the Shade and his four Ravagers. Buckler knew that only by keeping cool could he rescue them.

  Leaning on his sword, he shook his head at the foebeast, commenting scornfully, “Making war on ladies and an infant now, ’tis a brave thing t’do. What a great pity a real warrior’s turned up. So, what’ll you do now, coward?”

  Zwilt’s broadsword was already drawn. He drove his Ravagers away from him. “Stand clear and keep a watch on the others, lest they try to run outside and give the alarm. Well, rabbet, come for a lesson in swordplay, have you?” He began circling, his blade swishing the air as he limbered up his paw.

  Buckler circled in the opposite direction, holding his weapon lightly. He smiled coldly. “Always ready to learn, if you think you’re the master, though I thought babe stealing was your chosen trade.”

  Both beasts continued circling, drawing closer to each other. It was obvious Zwilt and Buckler were skilled swordbeasts. They locked eyes, never letting their gaze stray. Moving nearer, they walked side on, to present the narrowest target. Footpaws braced nimbly, each seeking an opening.

  Herded to the side of the stairway by their captors, Marjoram and her friends watched the duel.

  Zwilt, feeling he was close enough, made the initial move. Bounding at his opponent, he struck out with the broadsword, hissing viciously, “Tizzzzz death!”

  Buckler sidestepped, countering with a single slash which deflected the broadsword. As he passed Zwilt, he flicked out his blade, nicking his enemy’s ear.

  Zwilt lashed out on the turn, laying a wound across Buckler’s cheek. The young hare knew that stopping to consider a cut was fatal in a fight to the death. Ducking low, he scythed out with the long rapier, slashing Zwilt’s left footpaw.

  With his blade cutting whirring arcs, the sable warmed to the attack, pacing high, stepping forward, seeking to drive the hare back.

  Buckler, familiar with the move, stood his ground, jabbing with his swordpoint between Zwilt’s swings. The sable felt the rapier tip jab his sword paw—he was forced to back off.

  Now Buckler came forward. Step! Jab! Parry! Lunge! Zwilt went sideways, one of his swings catching the young hare’s side at the waist. Grabbing the big broadsword in both paws, Zwilt battered away at Buckler, who was forced to crouch.

  Using this position to his advantage, the hare came upward in a leap, shouting his war cry. “Eulaliaaa!” He drove his adversary backward with a speedy display of figure-of-eight maneuvers.

  Steel clashed upon steel. Zwilt was driven backward; he bounded onto the stairway, but Buckler was there first. Skipping up a few steps, the hare gained the advantage, coming down on the sable like a thunderbolt. The clang of weapons striking each other echoed about Great Hall.

  Both contestants were panting heavily as they hacked and thrust, each desperate to finish off the other. They battled upon the sweeping flight of stairs, up and down, neither giving an inch. Zwilt was swinging wildly when a fierce slash from Buckler scored his muzzle. He retreated downstairs, leaving a blood trail behind him. Clamping a paw to his wounded side, the young hare hastened to the attack.

  Zwilt was losing the fight. He knew he had met a sword-beast who was more than his match. For the first time in his life, the sable felt the broadsword was becoming
too heavy to lift. The hare was still light on his paws, wielding the rapier with skill and vigour. So Zwilt the Shade made the only move left open to him.

  Hurtling down the stairs, he grabbed baby Dubdub from his mother’s paws. Holding his blade against the tiny hog’s throat, Zwilt rasped viciously, “Get back, or this one’s a deadbeast!”

  Dymphnia Witherspyk tried to snatch her baby back. “Don’t hurt him, give him to me! Oh, please!”

  Abbess Marjoram pulled Dymphnia away. “Stay clear, friend, or he’ll hurt the little one, I know he will. His kind are evil—stay clear!”

  Dubdub squealed as Zwilt squeezed him. The sable gestured at the ladies, snarling savagely, “Get out of here, you lot. My business is with the rabbet, not you. Begone quickly or the babe suffers!”

  Buckler beckoned the ladies away. “The babe will be alright. Go now. I’ll settle things with this vermin!”

  Abbess Marjoram shepherded them away to the other end of the hall. Still keeping his blade ready, Buckler confronted his foe. “So, now what?”

  Zwilt moved out into the open, holding the baby hog tight. “Throw your sword away, rabbet!”

  The young hare hesitated.

  Zwilt raised his voice. “Cast that blade away or I’ll have this one in two pieces!”

  The long rapier clattered on stone floor as Zwilt ordered his four Ravagers, “Get him—take hold of him, now!”

  Buckler called out as they seized him, “Are you going to let the babe go free?”

  Zwilt’s smile was cold evil. “Of course I am. As soon as I’ve slain you!”