The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Dubdub wriggled, squealing, “Leggo me, nastybeast!”

  Buckler held out his paw, cautioning the infant hog, “Be still, now, and stay quiet. You’ll soon be back with your mamma.”

  He nodded at the tall sable. “A life for a life, then. Is that the bargain?”

  Skilfully, Zwilt flicked Buckler’s fallen rapier with the blade of his broadsword. It skittered away to where it was totally out of the young hare’s reach.

  The sable eyed his captive coldly.

  “The time for bargaining is over. You are in no position to bargain. This babe may live, then again, he may not. A lot of your friends will die before Zwilt the Shade and his Ravagers are done here.”

  Enraged by his captor ’s treachery, Buckler bounded forward, trying to reach Zwilt, but the vermin guards clung to him. Sinews stood out on the hare’s neck as he yelled, “Coward! Liar! The old sayin’ is right! The best vermin is a dead one! Zwilt the Shade? Hah! Zwilt the Scum, more like it!”

  The sable was shaking with rage at the insult. He passed Dubdub to one of the Ravagers.

  “Get him to those stairs. Kneel him down and grab his ears. We’ll see what he has to say when his head is decorating the point of a spear!”

  The guards dragged Buckler, struggling wildly, to the stairs. Forcibly, they made him kneel, two holding his forepaws from behind, with the remaining one tugging on his ears, stretching his neck taut.

  Zwilt stood over his victim, raising the big broadsword aloft to judge the strike. “Well, rabbet, you don’t look so brave now, do you?”

  Craning his head sideways, Buckler stared with loathing at his enemy. “I don’t answer to cowards!”

  The broad blade flashed in the candlelit hall. Then it stopped in midair. Zwilt was still grasping it, but his mouth was wide open, as though he was silently screaming.

  Buckler watched in amazement as the sable lost his grip on the sword. He swayed once, then fell to a kneeling position, facing his intended victim. A hoarse rattle issued from Zwilt’s throat; his eyes held a look of surprise as he stared at Buckler. Then he toppled sideways on the stairs. Dead!

  Clarinna was bent over him still holding the hilt of Martin the Warrior’s legendary sword, which she had driven deep between Zwilt’s shoulder blades. The harewife stood dry-eyed, her voice unusually harsh for such a gentle creature.

  “That’s for Clerun Kordyne, the father of my babes, who you murdered!”

  Baby Dubdub lay on the floor where the guard had placed him before running off with the other Ravagers, who had quickly released Buckler. He seemed none the worse for his recent ordeal, repeating the last word he had heard, over and over.

  “Murdered, murdered, murdered!”

  Leaving Martin’s sword protruding from Zwilt, Clarinna picked up little Dubdub. She wept into his tender spikes.

  Abbess Marjoram came hurrying with her friends. Buckler stood, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the stiffness. He gathered the broadsword and the medal from his fallen enemy’s neck, passing them to Clarinna. “These belong in your family. I’m sorry I couldn’t have slain Zwilt for you, marm.”

  Abbess Marjoram had retrieved Buckler’s blade. She held it out to him. “Don’t be sorry. You did something far braver than slaying a vermin—you offered to sacrifice your life to save another.”

  The young hare did not stop to dispute the point. He sped off, rapier in paw, for the door.

  “Maybe so, but there’s four vermin loose within Redwall, and we’re being invaded from the west flatlands!”

  30

  Buckler came running up to the walltop, thinking to use it as a viewpoint to seek out the four vermin guards. He was almost knocked flat by Bartij, who bustled past him carrying a boulder.

  The big hedgehog beckoned to the stones piled on the walkway. “Lend a paw here, Buck. We need more stones. That young badgermaid’s got our cattypult goin’. Hoho, ye should see it lobbin’ stones at yon vermin!”

  Skipper was alongside the ballista, waving. “Ahoy, mate, come an’ see this thing workin’!”

  Ambrevina had made a few alterations to the weapon. Now it had two thick young alder saplings, sturdy trunks, culled from the Abbey grounds. Between these, an old canvas groundsheet was laced. She had rigged the whole thing up on the original timbers. Ropes were attached to the tops of the alders. These were secured to a heavy baulk of oak, which had a hole drilled in it. A team of moles and Witherspyk hogs hauled on the ropes, leaning their weight on the oaken baulk. This bent the alder saplings backward until a wooden peg, anchored to the timber base, could be inserted into the baulk hole.

  Four good-sized rocks were laid in the canvas sling. Jango stood on the battlements, watching the oncoming Ravagers. The Guosim Log a Log called the range. “Back! Stop! Left a bit! Stop! Ready, Ambry!”

  Using a bung mallet, the badgermaid knocked the peg out with a sharp tap, releasing the stone load. There was a whoosh of air as the four rocks shot off over the battlements and out over the flatland into the ranks of the advancing vermin. Even though they scattered, the missiles fell so swiftly that two were slain and three more lay injured, screaming in the dust.

  Skipper nodded at the Abbey building. “Everythin’ alright down there, Buck?”

  The young hare moved out of the way, allowing a mole to stumble past under the weight of a big sandstone chunk.

  “Zwilt was in the Abbey, but he’s been slain. There’s four vermin loose in the grounds, an’ Diggs is lyin’ wounded in the kitchen!”

  Skipper picked up his javelin. “I’ll see t’the vermin. Sister Fumbril, will ye go an’ attend our mate Diggs? He’s been injured.”

  The Warrior mole Axtel had been listening. He stumped off down the wallstairs, brandishing his war hammer. “You’m leave ee vurmints to oi, zurrs. They h’aint a-goin’ nowheres twixt ee four walls. Oi’ll see to ’em. Hurrr!”

  Sister Fumbril joined Axtel. “Then ye can walk me as far as the kitchens, sir.”

  Buckler took a rock from old Granvy. It was far too heavy for the aged Recorder, who smiled his thanks.

  “Thank the seasons we have a creature who knows about these ballista things. Dame Fortune must’ve sent the badgermaid to us. Apparently, the beasts where she comes from, on the eastern coastlands, use them all the time. Both she and her family have sunk many a searat galley before it ever came to shore.”

  Oakheart Witherspyk leaned on the threshold wall, watching the vermin advance. “The scoundrels are still comin’, sirrah. It strikes me that one ballista ain’t enough to stop all of ’em. What say ye, Buck?”

  The hare came to join his friend on the threshold. “Aye, Oakie, this is where the final battle will be—on this point, where the hill is piled in front of Redwall’s gate. Once they cross that ditch, they’ll try an’ force an entry by chargin’ us. Unless . . .”

  The Sable Quean stood at the back of the slow-moving advance, urging the Ravagers forward. “They can’t get us all with a few boulders. Double-march them, Grakk. The quicker we reach that hill of rubble, the sooner we’ll make an end of it. The woodlanders are still outnumbered. We can do it with one good charge. Speed up the chant, get them moving.”

  Grakk could see great things ahead for himself. Boldly, he marched along with the rear ranks, roaring out, “Wait’ll we gets in there, bullies! Ye can eat all ye like, sleep on soft beds an’ be waited on tail an’ paw by woodlander slaves! Sable Quean Vilaya! Kill kill kill!”

  Not committed yet to a head-on charge, the Ravagers broke into a shambling trot, waving their weapons and taking up the call, which spurred them on.

  “Kill! Kill! Kill! Victory to Vilaya, Sable Quean!”

  Having left Redwall by the small north wallgate, with a heavily armed force, Buckler, Jango and a crew of Guosim warriors sped silently along to put the plan into action. Emerging from the woodlands north of the Ravagers, they hurried over the path, then slipped quietly into the ditch. A short time thereafter, they were in the main gate area, peering over the ditchto
p at the unsuspecting vermin advance.

  The Guosim were in two lines, one behind the other. Buckler commanded the front line.

  “Put shafts to bowstrings, an’ make every arrow count. On my word now. Stand! Draw! Shoot!”

  The front rank of Ravagers were taken by surprise. The sudden volley of barbed shafts hit them hard.

  Buckler signalled his archers to stand back; Jango took over. “Back row, forward! Slings an’ javelins! Stand! Throw! Fall back!”

  This time it was a salvo of stones and fire-hardened ashwood javelins which hit home, thinning the Ravager horde. They fell flat, returning the missiles with their own stones, spears and arrows.

  Vilaya lay facedown on the flatland, striking at Grakk’s footpaws. “Get them up, keep going, we’re almost there!”

  Orders rang out from the ditch. More shafts, javelins and slingstones pelted down on the vermin. Grakk was about to rise when a dull whump rent the air. Black smoke billowed out, followed by sparks and flames.

  Jango tossed the empty cauldron of dirty kitchen fat on the blazing battering ram. Slapping his ears with a paw, he blinked through the billowing haze. “Scorched me ears, whiskers’n’ blinkin’ eyebrows to a frazzle, there. Ahoy, Buck!”

  Buckler shoved the Shrew Chieftain ahead of him, along the ditch bottom with the rest of his Guosim fighters. “Hurry, mate, back to the Abbey while they’re still won derin’ what happened!”

  Cellarmole Gurjee and Axtel Sturnclaw met them at the north wallgate. As they piled in, Buckler locked the gate behind them.

  “Anything to report here?”

  Axtel’s eyes were still blood-tinged from the berserk fury. He was limping about in circles as he touched his snout in a brief salute. “Oi h’accounted furr three o’ they vurmints, zurr. Ee fourth un throwed hisself frum ee walltop an’ perished without offerin’ a foight. Oi ’m h’awaitin’ further orders, zurr, thankee koindly!”

  Jango glanced up at the twilight sky. “Best git yoreself up atop o’er the gate. There’ll be battle aplenty for ye there soon!”

  Buckler bounded onto the north wallsteps. “Right, mates, no time to waste now!”

  Some of the defenders had wrapped damp cloths about their faces to counteract the black smoke billowing up from the ditch. The ram was blazing; the flames had taken hold. From down below there was silence—not a Ravager could be seen anywhere.

  Trajidia Witherspyk lowered her face cover, trilling, “Hoorah! Victory is ours. The rascally foe have been routed! Rejoice, brave friends, rejoice!”

  Oakheart fixed her with a withering glance. “Cease your foolish prattle, daughter dear. Well, my comrades in arms, what think ye?”

  Skipper watched the dark, oily smoke clouding the setting sun. “I don’t like it. Somethin’s goin’ on.”

  Jango nodded agreement. “Aye, they ain’t just upped stakes an’ left. They’ll be back, y’can be sure. But when?”

  Axtel gave an experienced warrior ’s opinion. “When ee doan’t bees ’spectin’ et, zurr, that’s when.”

  Buckler paced back and forth, framed in the last rays of daylight. “Right, sir, it’ll be sometime durin’ the night. Vilaya will try to catch us nappin’. So we must be alert an’ on guard all through the darkness.”

  Abbess Marjoram came up on the walkway. “Is everything under control? How are we doing?”

  Skipper saluted with his javelin. “We’ve beaten ’em off once, marm, an’ we’re fit’n’ready for any vermin wot wants a second try. No need for ye to worry, marm.”

  Marjoram smiled warmly at the Otter Chieftain. “Why would I ever worry, with such brave warriors to keep my Abbey safe? I just came to tell you that Friar Soogum and his helpers will be arriving soon with supper.”

  Oakheart patted his rumbling paunch. “Kind of ye t’be so considerate, friend Marj. We could all manage a bite or two. It’s been a long, weary day, an’ the night will be far more tiresome, I suspect.”

  The Abbess tapped Buckler’s paw. “I think perhaps you’d better come to the Infirmary. I’d like you to look in on Mister Diggs.”

  Buckler gave the matter some brief thought before replying, “Er, much as I’d like to, marm, I rather think my place is up here—in case of trouble, y’see. I’m sure Diggs would agree if he were here, marm.”

  Skipper gave the hare’s shoulder a nudge. “Go on with ye, Buck. If’n anythin’ breaks, we’ll let ye know loud’n’clear. Right, mate?”

  Axtel winked at Buckler. “Roight, zurr. Us’ll raise a gurt showt that’d be hurd ten leagues off’n. You’m go an’ see ee friend Diggsy!”

  As Marjoram and Buckler passed through Great Hall, a song that was almost a dirge echoed out. It gave the Abbess a start. “Good grief. What’s that?”

  Buckler knew. He pointed out Clarinna, who was seated in a corner beside the body of Zwilt the Shade. She had a bowl of water, with which she was cleaning the blade of Martin’s sword whilst singing the dirge to the slain enemy.

  Buckler explained this to Marjoram. “Clarinna could not properly grieve the murder of her mate, my brother Clerun, until his killer was punished. It’s an old Salamandastron custom.”

  Pausing, they listened to the eerie sound. Clarinna carried on singing, oblivious to their presence.“Sleep now, my love, rest quietly in peace,

  the cost of thy blood now is paid,

  for I with mine own paw, fulfilled the warriors’ law,

  exacting vengeance with this shining blade.

  Thy son and daughter, too, who’ll grow not knowing

  you,

  I’ll tell them that you dwell by tranquil streams,

  amidst the silent trees, mid fields of memories,

  mayhaps sometimes you’ll visit them in dreams.

  Sleep now, sleep now, my love, sleep on,

  for time will dry all tears and ease the pain,

  now justice has been done, sleep on, my love, sleep on,

  until the day when we shall meet again.”

  As they mounted the stairs, Buckler observed, “Clarinna won’t recover properly until her babes are back with her. They’re happy enough for the moment with Mumzy the old water vole, thanks to Ambrevina and Diggs. How’s the old rascal doing, marm?”

  Marjoram led the way up to the Infirmary. “See for yourself. Sister Fumbril has taken care of that dreadful head wound he took, but at the moment, he’s drifting in and out of consciousness.”

  Diggs lay very still on his sickbay bed, his head swathed in a turban of herb salves and bandages. Buckler stood staring at his friend as he spoke to Sister Fumbril. “How’s he doing, Sister?”

  The jolly otter healer shook her head dubiously. “There’s no way of knowin’, sir, he’s been like that since he was carried up here. It was a terrible wound, a stroke of a big sword, I think. He’s lost an ear an’ been scarred for life. I’m waitin’ on him t’wake up, but he ain’t respondin’.”

  Buckler eyed a table laden with food of all sorts. “Bring that table closer, Abbess. I’ve never known the tubby fraud to sleep through any mealtimes. Let me try.”

  Seating himself by the bed, Buckler started into the delicious repast, commenting loudly, “Mmmm, hazelnut’n’apple bake with arrowroot sauce. I wonder, should I save some for old Diggs? No, he never saved any for me back in the Long Patrol mess. Hello, what’s this? Mushroom, leek and gravy pasty! I say, Diggs, d’you fancy a bite o’ this? It’s yore favourite. Yummy, still nice’n’hot, too!”

  Diggs groaned. Opening one eye, he glanced quizzically at Buckler and said in a voice like an old officer, “Wot . . . wot? An’ who are you, sirrah? Speak up!”

  Buckler smiled. ‘C’mon, you great fat fraud. It’s me, Buckler, your mate!”

  Diggs opened the other eye, staring scornfully at his lifelong companion. “Buckler, eh? Bit of an odd handle for a chap. ’Fraid I’ve never had the pleasure of meetin’ ye. An’ who in the name of snits’n’scuts is Diggs, eh?”

  Buckler poured himself a beaker of October Ale. “Diggs is y
ou, y’great lardsack, that’s yore name!”

  Diggs snorted. “Piffle’n’balderdash, laddie buck. I’m Colonel Crockley Sputherington—known as Sputhers t’my friends, but you ain’t no chum of mine, sah, so show a bit of bloomin’ respect to a superior officer, wot, wot!” His friend held out a slice of the pastie.

  “Oh, right y’are, Colonel, sah. How about tryin’ a bit of this scoff? It’s very good, y’know.”

  Diggs wrinkled his nose. “Take it away, this very instant, y’greedy buffoon. It looks disgustin’!”

  Buckler appealed to Sister Fumbril. “It ain’t like him to refuse vittles. What should I do?”

  The cheerful otter shrugged. “Be thankful he’s still alive, I suppose. I’d try humourin’ him, if’n I was you.”

  Diggs glared at the Sister—he was outraged. “Humour y’self, y’great grinnin’ planktail. One more word an’ I’ll have ye slapped on a fizzer for gross insolence, marm! Now, take y’self jolly well off, go on! An’ take this gluttonous oaf with ye. Aye, an’ all this mess y’call vittles. The very sight of it makes me ill!”

  Deciding to take Fumbril’s tip, Buckler stood to attention, throwing the patient a stiff salute. “Right y’are, Colonel Crockley Sputherington, sah. Come on now, marm. Let’s shift all this stuff an’ let the good officer get a spot of shuteye. He must be tired.”

  Any further discussion was cut short by a thunderous war cry from out in the grounds. “Redwaaaaaaalllll! Redwaaaaaallll!”

  Buckler hurtled from the Infirmary, calling to Sister Fumbril, “That’s it, the attack! I’m needed on the walltops, they’ve made their move!”

  As the sickbay door slammed behind him, Diggs cast a pitying glance at the Abbess, sighing. “Chap’s off his rocker, gone bonkers, I’d say. Dearie, dearie me. How sad for a beast so blinkin’ young, wot!”

  The battle of Redwall Abbey really had started in earnest. Like a foul tide, the Ravagers charged over the remainder of the nightdark flatlands, bellowing bloodcurdling war cries. Buckler came bounding up the wallsteps to join Skipper and Jango on the threshold battlements. The Guosim Chieftain was honing his rapier on the smooth sandstone.