‘Vitch isn’t dead,’ Scringe butted in. ‘Slagar’s taken him along somewhere.’
Halftail brandished a dagger at Scringe. ‘Somewhere? What d’you mean, somewhere? You’ve been spying and listenin’ to things that don’t concern you, Scringe. I think you’re a dirty traitor.’
‘Dirty traitor, eh? Listen who’s talkin’. You’re the turncoat, bucko. Slagar told me to keep my eye on you. And don’t you start waving that dagger at me, snot-whiskers. I’ve got a sword twice as big as that. Look!’
Halftail rushed Scringe as he tried to draw his sword. Taken unawares, the ferret was easy prey to the stoat’s dagger. He fell mortally wounded. Halftail turned upon the rest.
‘That’s what spies and traitors get. Anybeast want some? Come on!’
Threeclaws pulled out a vicious-looking hook. ‘Hey, Halftail. You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. Who do you think you are, the Chief?’
‘I am, as far as you’re concerned, weasel, Slagar left me in charge when he told me he’d be gone for awhile.’
Threeclaws brandished the hook, nodding to Fleaback and Drynose, and all three advanced slowly upon Halftail. Threeclaws grinned wickedly.
‘Slagar left you in charge? Whose paw do you think you’re trying to pull? He would have left one of us weasels in charge, wouldn’t he, mates.’
Halftail snatched the sword from the dead Scringe. He swished it at them and jabbed with his dagger.
‘Get back, weasels, leave me alone or there’ll be real trouble when Slagar returns.’
Threeclaws circled slowly, swinging the hook. ‘You must have bread for brains if you think the fox is coming back, you idiot. Why do you think he took the slaves with him? He’s got no intentions of coming back. Ha! No wonder they call him the Sly One.’
Drynose made a rush at Halftail. The stoat leapt to one side and spitted the weasel with his sword. He shouted an appeal to Bageye, the only other stoat in the group:
‘Come on, Bageye. Slagar left me in charge, help me out, mate.’
Before Bageye could rise to his paws, Wartclaw and Snakespur, two other weasels, jumped on him. Their iron hooks flashed once. ‘We’ve got this one, Threeclaws, go on, finish Halftail!’
Halftail fought like a mad creature, he wounded Skinpaw and was about to finish him when Snakespur struck him from behind with his hook. Halftail was dead before he hit the ground.
The survivors of the mutiny sat about licking their wounds and eating any provisions they could find. Out of the crew that had taken the young ones from Mossflower there were only five weasels remaining, Skinpaw, Fleaback, Threeclaws, Wartclaw and Snakespur. Undecided, they lounged about the camp. Threeclaws fancied himself as leader, but after the slaughter that had taken place he decided to stay in the background lest one of the others challenge him for supremacy. Besides, who knew? Slagar might come back, and then there would really be trouble.
As if reading Threeclaws’ thoughts, Snakespur grumbled aloud, ‘Deserted, that’s what we’ve been mates, deserted. That scurvy fox has left us in the lurch and gone off to get the reward for the captives himself. What makes me so mad is that we’ve followed him like a pack of fools all this time. “Yes, Chief”, “No, Chief”. Huh! Now where are we? Half a season’s journey into the middle of nowhere, with empty paws and empty bellies too, by the look of those slack ration bags.’
‘But what about little Vitch,’ Fleaback interrupted. ‘I wonder what’s happened to him?’
Snakespur slashed at the grass with his iron hook. ‘Dead as a pickled frog, for all I care. What’s one rat or more got to do with us? We’re weasels, mate. Oho, I tell you, I’d like to have that fox’s guts at the end of this hook right now.’
‘Brave words from the scum of the earth!’
A large male badger had walked quietly into the camp. He stood testing the edge of a big double-headed battleaxe with his paw. The weasels leapt up, unsure of what to do against the huge warrior, without a leader to galvanize them into action.
Orlando gave a cold smile.
‘Run or fight, eh, baby stealers?’ His voice was deceptively calm. ‘I know you haven’t the courage to fight. There’s only five of you and not a gang. Ah well, if you’re not going to fight then you must run like the cowards you are. But even then you won’t get far, because you’re surrounded.’
Matthias and his friends stepped from the bushes and the rocks.
Wartclaw began trembling violently. ‘It was Slagar. It was his idea. We don’t even count. Look at the way he’s deserted us.’
Matthias pointed at the bodies of the fallen. ‘Tell me, weasel, what happened here?’
‘It was the masked fox. He did it!’
‘You lie! We lay hidden and watched it all. You murdered your own comrades. Listen to me. If you do not speak the truth then you will all join them. Is that clear?’
The weasels nodded vigorously.
Jess Squirrel faced Skinpaw. ‘Where has Slagar taken the captives?’
‘I know you’re not going to believe me,’ the weasel moaned in despair, ‘but when we woke this morning he was gone. The prisoners too, and a rat named Vitch.’
Matthias drew his sword. The five weasels began pleading:
‘It’s true, it’s true!’
‘Please, sir, believe us!’
‘See that dead weasel there? He’s Damper. We found him slain when we woke. He must have tried to stop Slagar leaving.’
Log-a-Log drew Matthias aside and whispered, ‘He’s probably telling the truth. My scouts have discovered tracks. They’ve been well covered, but there were rats here. Matthias, I’m not just speaking about a group; this was a horde, a mighty army.’
The warrior mouse nodded. He turned to the five weasels.
‘I believe you. Now try to remember, did any of you wake last night and see who was here?’
‘No, sir, no.’
‘We were asleep.’
‘Slagar took the watch alone.’
Basil picked up a rope and made five loops in it.
‘Right, c’mere, you wicked weasel types. Put these nooses around your dirty necks. Stop blubberin’, we ain’t goin’ to string you up. Though it’s all you richly deserve, wot? Wretches! Now, we’ll let you march up front. Isn’t that good of us? That way you’ll get the benefit of any bally old traps that’ve been laid for us: poison arrows, swamps full of mad frogs, great eagles that rip your jolly old eyes out, an’ suchlike. Cheer up, chaps, it’ll be fun!’
Cheek found Threeclaws’ willow cane and gave it to Basil. ‘I say, a blinkin’ flogger. Is this what you keep the slaves goin’ with, sort of give them the odd whack. Like this, and this, and this! Whack! Swish! Thwack!’
Matthias stopped Basil. There was a sound from the bushes, and the old rabbit tottered out, still wrapped in his sack. He walked round the captured weasels, staring at them with rheumy eyes.
‘Death, death, is this all he left? Last time the masked one came this way none of his band lived. Dead, all slain!’
Matthias tried questioning him further but he staggered off into the bushes, still moaning about death and doom.
Orlando watched the ancient one until he was lost to sight.
‘Matthias, that one knows a lot more than we think. Did you hear him? He’s seen Slagar passing through here once before. It must be an old game with the fox to pick out a band of vermin and promise them the sky, then when he gets near his destination he either dumps his helpers or slays ’em, one way or another. Then he’s free to reap the rewards of his filthy trade all for himself.’
‘Yes,’ Matthias agreed, ‘but what does he get out of it? What is his reward?’
Orlando shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll find out when we catch up with him. One thing is clear; now that he’s got rid of his band he must be near the end of the journey. Though where that is, your guess is as good as mine.’
Matthias stood between the two tall rocks. He drew out the parchment. ‘I hope this will take some of the guesswork out of it, f
riend.’
He indicated the space between the badger and bell rocks. ‘This is where we are now. Let me see, the poem says:
“See the badger and the bell,
Face the lord who points the way
After noon on summer’s day.
Death will open up its grave.
Who goes there. . .? None but the brave.”
Jabez squatted beside the bell rock. ‘Not long to go till afternoon. We’ll rest here. Where’s this lord who’s supposed to be pointing the way?’
They gazed out at the country. It was mainly grassy hills dotted with scrub and groves of trees. In the late summer morning there was no indication of mystery, death or doom. It all looked fairly plain and harmless.
Orlando shook his head. ‘Well, whoever the lord is, he’s not come out to show us anything yet. I’d best give a shout. He may be taking a nap.’
The badger cupped his paws to his mouth and roared until the valley echoed:
‘Hi there! Are you listening, Lord? This is Orlando of the Axe from the Western Plains. Come out and show us the way!’
The echoes died on the summer air.
‘No, no, you’re doin’ it all the wrong way, old stripetop,’ Basil chaffed Orlando. ‘Here, let a chap with a touch of breedin’ have a jolly try.’
Basil stood beyond the rocks. Throwing his head back, he yodelled out in a wobbly tenor.
‘Hullo there! I say, Lord old fellah, it’s Basil, one of the Mossflower Stag Hares, doncha know. Listen, why don’t you toddle out an’ point the way to me and my pals? Super wheeze, wot?’
The only sound that could be heard in reply was Orlando sniggering.
Matthias offered Basil a shrewcake, and he wandered off eating and chuntering to himself, ‘Confounded bad form, you’d think the rotter’d have the manners to answer a chap!’
Jess was also muttering to herself. ‘“Afternoon on summer’s day”. What part of the afternoon: midday, high noon, middle of noon, late noon? How are we supposed to know. Silly rhyme, if you ask me. What d’you think, Matthias?’
‘I think it means before the early evening, Jess. Look, the words are separate, it doesn’t say “afternoon”, it says “after . . . noon”. Another thing, “the lord who points the way” doesn’t have to be a living creature.’
Jess looked puzzled. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Easy. The badger and the bell are both rocks. We identified them by their shapes. So why can’t the Lord who points the way be a rock?’
Cheek sidled up. ‘Or even a tree.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I’ve just climbed up this badger rock a way and had a look around. The one thing that stands out like a landmark is a tree. It’s sort of directly in line with the path between these two rocks, but we can’t see it from where we stand down here.’
Jess Squirrel raced up the rock face of the badger peak like an arrow from a bow.
‘It’s there, Matthias,’ she called down. ‘I can see it. The biggest fir tree in the world. What a sight! It’s colossal!’
The early noonday sun beat down on the summit of badger rock. Matthias, Jess and Cheek stood atop the tall edifice, looking down at the tree in the distance. The warrior mouse grasped the rope Jess had rigged.
‘Come on, let’s get down from here and get moving. I want to arrive at that tree before the sun goes down. I know exactly what to do and what to look out for now!’
43
MATTIMEO’S EYES OPENED slowly. He felt sick and groggy, but above all frightened. Lifting his manacled paws, he rubbed his eyes. The last thing he remembered was being held whilst a hooded figure pressed something against his face. The overpowering sweet sickness of it still hung upon his breath. He had lost count of time. Though it was dark he felt he was in some sort of chamber, and outside it might be night or day; he had no way of knowing.
The creatures around him were groaning, moving restlessly as the effects of the soporific wore off. Then the familiar heavy paw of Auma touched his.
‘Mattimeo, is that you? What happened? Where are we?’ the badger asked worriedly.
‘I don’t know. It’s too dark in here. Feels like a kind of stone room, like Ambrose Spike’s wine cellar at Redwall.’
‘I don’t like it. It’s cold, too. Are the rest of us all here?’
The others had awakened, and they dragged themselves over to the sound of Auma’s voice. Though their presence was of small comfort, the young mouse could not shake off the dread aura surrounding him. A shrew whimpered in the darkness, then the jangle of keys outside warned them that some creature was about to enter.
A torch flared and they covered their eyes against the brightness of the light. Shadows danced about the stone walls as the torch-bearer entered. It was a rat in a long purple robe. His eyes glinted dully in the flames from the torch, and when he spoke his voice was flat in tone, but menacing and imperious.
‘I am Nadaz, Voice of the Host,’ he said. ‘Do not move or dare to talk with me, or you will regret it. Nadaz commands the breath that comes from your mouth. I am the power of life and death over all of you. There is no light in here, nor is there food and water. You will be left in this place until I decide that you are fit to use your eyes again, to eat and to drink. Malkariss has spoken!’
The light was extinguished with the slam of the door and the turn of the key.
‘Who is Malkariss?’ Cynthia asked. Her voice sounded hollow and scared.
Tess grasped her paw in the darkness. ‘I’m certain we’ll find that out soon enough.’
Slagar followed Nadaz. They passed through tunnels and rooms, with Vitch trailing nervously behind.
Some of the chambers and corridors they walked along had obviously been built a long time ago by master craftsbeasts; other were crude, hacked and gouged from the earth, with boulders, hard-packed soil and severed tree roots showing in the light of the torches which burnt in wall brackets throughout the strange place.
A long winding passage gave way to a broad rock ledge, and Vitch gazed around in awe. Crystal and mica deposits in the rocks reflected the torchlights of a huge wheel-shaped chandelier, and on the brink of the ledge stood a colossal statue hewn from white limestone. It was the standing figure of a monstrous white polecat, with teeth of crystal and glittering eyes of black jet. Beyond it the ledge dropped away to the depths of the earth. Around the walls winding down to the deeps was a narrow carved stairway which started from the left side of the ledge, losing itself in the misty green light below.
Nadaz beckoned Slagar and Vitch to stand on a groove in the rock some distance away from the statue. The purple-robed rat moved slowly with bended head until he stood close to the figure.
‘Who comes near Malkariss?’ a sibilant voice echoed from between the crystal teeth.
Nadaz answered, keeping his head bowed, ‘It is Nadaz, Voice of the Host, O King of the deep, Lord of the abyss, Defier of the sun! The fox Slagar has returned, bringing many creatures young and strong to work in your realm beneath the earth.’
There was a pause, then the voice from the statue spoke again.
‘Who is the other one?’
Nadaz went to Slagar, and a whispered conversation took place.
The purple-robed rat returned to his former position. ‘He is a young rat named Vitch. The fox says that if it pleases you he is a gift, to serve in the ranks of the Host.’
‘He is not born to the Host, our ways are not known to him.’ The voice was curt and dismissing. ‘A rat that comes from the place of woodlands is of no use to us. Chain him with the slaves!’
Two black-robed rats appeared out of the shadows. They seized Vitch and chained him, dragging him off as he screamed at Slagar, ‘Save me! Don’t let them do this to me! I was loyal to you, I served you well. Help me, Slagar!’
The masked fox did not even turn to look at Vitch. He stared at Nadaz and shrugged.
‘I thought he might have been useful, being a rat like yourself.’
The voice cut short further conversation between Slagar and Nadaz: ‘Keep the new slaves in darkness without food until I decide they are fit to work. Hunger and lack of light is a sound lesson for creatures that have known freedom in the woodlands. Ask the fox what he wants of me.’
Nadaz conferred with Slagar again.
‘Malkariss, All-powerful One. Slagar says to remind you of your promise when he brought you the last slave workers: that you give all the land above ground to him, from the gorge to the south boundaries of your realm. He says he will serve your interests faithfully and be your voice above ground.’
‘Tell the masked one to be patient awhile. Take him down below and show him the work that is being done to complete my underworld kingdom. I will watch him for a time, and when I have made up my mind that his voice above ground would serve me as well as yours does beneath the earth, then I will send for him.’
Slagar could hardly wait for Nadaz to walk back to him. He had heard the voice of Malkariss clearly.
‘Listen, rat, tell your master that I’ve kept my side of the bargain. He promised me that land; now you go and tell him I have a right to the territory!’
Nadaz rattled the skull on his sceptre. The masked fox was suddenly surrounded by the black-robed rats with their short stabbing spears held ready. The Voice of the Host confronted Slagar.
‘You don’t tell me anything, fox. You have no rights here, and never dare to make demands upon Malkariss. Your audience is over. Come with me now. If the Lord of the abyss wants to reward you he will do it in due time. Until then, keep a rein on your tongue.’
Feeling far from satisfied, the masked fox was led away down the curving causeway steps by Nadaz and his servants.
The diamond-patterned skullmask moved this way and that as Slagar descended into the green depths. The steps wound down into the earth until they reached the cave bottom, where the green light came from whatever fuel burned in the torches and braziers that dotted the vast and intricate workings.
Mattimeo (Redwall) Page 29