Lord Brocktree

by Brian Jacques

Put his creatures to the sword!

  When the stars fall from the sky,

  Red the blood flows ’neath the sun,

  Then let mothers wail and cry,

  These are the days of Ungatt Trunn!

  Hark, no bird sings in the air!

  The earth is shaking everywhere!

  His reign of terror has begun!

  For these are the days of Ungatt Trunn!’

  A fat spider fell from its web, landing on the wildcat’s shoulder. He let it run down on to his paw, turning the paw over and back again as the spider scurried to escape. ‘Now explain it to me!’

  As he had done several times, Groddil translated. ‘It says that you are too fierce and strong to accept the Highland Kingdom when your father dies. Nor are you a wandering robber, dreaming of conquering some castle, as your young brother Verdauga says he will do someday. You will establish your own realm, ruling it from a mountain that is greater than any other. Nobeast has an army to command as large as your Blue Hordes. I am your magician, and I say that tonight you will see the stars fall from the sky. At tomorrow’s dawn you will feel the earth shake beneath you.’

  The wildcat stared levelly at the undersized fox. ‘You have many clever tricks, Groddil. But if you fail me then you will feel the earth shake from above you. Because I will be dancing on your grave! What about the Badger Lord? Tell me.’

  Groddil knew the wildcat would not slay him – he was far too valuable a creature for any warlord to kill. The magician fox merely shrugged and went back to studying his scrolls.

  ‘The stripedog is as your Fragorl described, an old one. He should be no trouble to the mighty Ungatt Trunn.’

  The wildcat leaned on the desk, bringing his face close to the fox. ‘My dreams do not contain any doddering ancient stripedog. The one who disturbs my slumbers is a badger of middle seasons with the mark of a warrior stamped on him. So, my withered friend, explain that to me?’

  Groddil removed his eyeglasses and began wiping them. ‘I cannot dream your dreams for you all the time. This badger you see might be just that, a dream!’

  Ungatt returned to his chair, stroking his fangs. ‘You’d better hope for your sake that he is, Groddil!’

  Lord Stonepaw had been staring from his window at the masses of fog shrouding the seas. He was beginning to see phantom shapes looming in the mists, as one is apt to after gazing awhile. He rubbed at his tired old eyes and lumbered over to his bed, where he sat down to brood over the troubles that beset him.

  Stiffener Medick knocked on the door and entered. ‘Sire, every harejack in the place is waitin’ on you t’come an’ talk to ’em. They’re gathered in the main chamber, armed t’the ears an’ primed for action!’

  With a weary sigh the Badger Lord rose. ‘The old, the weak and the feeble. I wish we were all as fit as you, Stiffener. Huh, if wishes were fishes. Ah well, fetch me my armour and javelin. Least I can do is to go down there looking like a Mountain Lord!’

  Main chamber was just short of half filled with hares. Two of them, Bungworthy and Trobee, assisted the armoured badger up on to a rock platform. Stonepaw shook his head sadly as he assessed his army. Holding up his javelin, he waited until silence fell, then he spoke up loudly, for the benefit of those hard of hearing.

  ‘Good creatures, faithful comrades, you know I have always spoken truly to you, so I am not going to lie about our present situation. I see before me many brave warriors – alas, none of them young and sprightly any more. Like you, I too can remember the seasons gone, when this chamber and the passages outside would be packed solid with young fighting hares. Now we are but a pitiful few. But that does not mean we cannot fight!’

  A ragged cheer rose from the old guard, accompanied by warlike comments.

  ‘Eulaliaaa!’

  ‘Aye, we’ll give ’em blood’n’vinegar, sire!’

  ‘We’re with you to the last beast, lord!’

  ‘We ain’t called Stonepaw’s Stalwarts for nothin’, wot?’

  ‘Send ’em on an’ let’s begin the game!’

  A tear trickled from Stonepaw’s eye. Hastily, he brushed it aside and swelled his chest out proudly. ‘I am honoured to lead ye! We know not the number of our foes or how skilled they be at weaponry, but let’s give them a hot old time in true Salamandastron fashion!’

  Amid the cheering, orders were shouted out.

  ‘Bar all entrances!’

  ‘Archers at the high window slits!’

  ‘Long pikes at the low windows!’

  ‘Stone-slingers on the second level!’

  ‘Sailears, take your crew up on to the high ledges where the boulder heaps are ready!’

  As the hares dispersed to their places, Lord Stonepaw held two of them back. ‘Blench, marm, they’ll need feeding. I know you’ve only got a few kitchen helpers left, but can you see to it?’

  The head cook saluted with an iron ladle. ‘H’ain’t seen the day I couldn’t, m’lud. There’ll be nobeast fightin’ on a h’empty belly whilst I’m around!’ She whirled off, yelling at her helpers. ‘Check the larders an’ bring the list t’me. Gather in h’anythin’ that’s a-growin’ up on those ledge gardens, fruits, salad veggibles, h’anythin’!’

  Stonepaw turned to the one hare left, his faithful retainer. ‘Fleetscut, have you still got the ability and wind to be called a runner?’

  The ancient hare laughed mirthlessly. ‘S’pose I could still kick up a bit o’ dust, m’lud. Why?’

  Stonepaw lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Good creature! I want you to draw field rations and leave this mountain within the hour. Go where you will but use your wits. Search out our young wandering warriors and any bands of hares about the countryside. Young ones with a touch of warriors’ blood in their eye. We need help as we’ve never needed it. Find them and bring them back to Salamandastron, as fast as you can!’

  Fleetscut bowed dutifully as he flexed his paws. ‘I’ll give it a jolly good try, sire!’

  Lord Stonepaw hugged his old friend briefly. ‘I know you will, you old grasswalloper. Good luck!’

  When Fleetscut had left, the Badger Lord retired to his secret chamber. When he had sprinkled herbs into the burning lanterns he sat back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Concentrating hard, he willed the face of his successor to appear in his mind.

  ‘Where are you, strong one? Come to me – I need you now. Feel the call of the mountain and hurry to it!’

  Stonepaw finally drifted into slumber, rewarded by no sight of any badger’s face, just a worrying puzzlement of troubles as yet unborn.

  6

  LORD BROCKTREE FELT himself borne underwater by an adversary of tremendous strength, which seemed to increase on contact with the stream. The beast was built of muscle and steely sinew, wrapping itself about the badger’s head, neck and shoulders, blocking off air and light in a skilful deathlock. As soon as he felt his paws touch bottom, Brocktree used his formidable strength, thrusting upward to the surface with a powerful shove.

  As both beasts broke the surface, the badger managed to gasp in a breath of air. Then he was aware of thudding blows raining on his opponent as Dotti yelled: ‘Gerroff! I’ll pound your blinkin’ head to a jelly if you don’t let him go an’ jolly well fight fair!’

  The beast wrapped about Brocktree’s head roared aloud. ‘Fair? Y’call two to one fair? Yowch ouch! Watch that bag, ye doodlepawed fool, y’near put me eye out. Owww!’

  The Badger Lord seized his chance. Clamping his paws round his assailant’s tail and jaws he tore the creature from him and lifted it above his head. It was kicking and wriggling as he hurled it forcefully into the far shallows. Then, diving down, he grabbed his battle blade, which had fallen from his back in the struggle. Dotti gasped with fright as the massive Badger Lord surfaced in a cascade of streamwater, whirling his sword aloft.

  ‘Brocktree of Brockhall! Bones’n’bloooood!’

  The otter, for it was a fully grown male of that species, stood up dripping in the shallows. ‘Aye a
ye, steady on there, matey, there ain’t no need t’go swingin’ swords around. Wot’s yore trouble?’

  Brocktree waded towards him, sword still upraised. ‘You were trying to drown me back there, murderer!’

  The otter threw back his head and chortled. ‘Hohoho, murderer is it, cully? Shame on ye! Yore the one who sneaked up an’ started all this. Ambusher!’

  Dotti thought about this for a moment, then wading over she placed herself between both creatures. ‘Stap me if he ain’t right, sah. It was you who attacked him first, y’know.’

  Brocktree dropped his sword in bewilderment. ‘Hi there, miss, whose side are you on, mine or his?’

  The otter sat down in the shallows, chuckling merrily. ‘Now now, youse two, stop all yore argifyin’. Tell ye wot, d’yer like watershrimp an’ ’otroot soup? I’ve got a pan of it on the go – should be plenty for three.’

  At the mention of food Dotti felt immediately friendly. ‘I’ve never tasted it, but I’m sure I’ll like it, sah!’

  The otter waded over, paw outstretched. ‘Hah! Don’t sir me, young ’un, I goes by the name o’ Ruffgar Brookback. Y’can call me Ruff, though. Ruff by name, rough by nature, that’s wot my ole grandma used t’say when I wrestled ’er!’

  Dotti looked at him in surprise. ‘You used to wrestle with your old grandma?’

  Ruff grinned. ‘Aye, but she always beat the daylights out o’ me. C’mon, hearties, foller me.’

  Further upstream they came upon Ruff’s camp, merely a blanket made into a lean-to. There was a slow-burning turf fire on the bank edge and a long flat elm trunk floating in the water. Ruff attended to a cauldron of soup bubbling on the fire, dipping in a wooden ladle and sampling it gingerly.

  ‘Haharr, all right’n’ready. This is the stuff t’put a shine on yore fur an’ a glint in yore eye, good ole ’otroot!’

  He scrambled aboard the log, which was obviously his boat, and retrieved a battered travelling bag. From this he dug three enormous scallop shells, tossing one apiece to Dotti and Brocktree.

  ‘Dig in now, I ain’t yore mother. Serve yerselves, mates!’

  Dotti filled her shell and went at it like a gannet in a ten-season famine.

  ‘Yah! Whoo! Mother help me I’m on fire! Oh! Oohaaah!’

  Ruff, who had been watching in amusement, took pity on her and scooped up some cold streamwater in his shell. ‘Cool yore gob on this, missie!’

  She drained the water in a single gulp, blinked the tears from her eyes and sniffed. ‘Good stuff this, wot? A little warm an’ spicy, but first-class soup. I like it!’ Ruff and Brocktree sat gaping as she refilled her shell and tucked in with a will.

  The badger winked at the otter. ‘She’s a hare, you see.’

  Ruff nodded sagely. ‘Aye, that explains it, mate!’

  After the meal they lay about on the bank, and Dotti and Brocktree told Ruff their stories. Ruff explained to them how he came to be in those parts.

  ‘I’m a bit like you, young Dotti, I left ’ome when I was young, just afore they decided to sling me out. Wild an’ mischievous? Haharr, I was more trouble than a bag o’ bumblebees. Me pore ole grandma was sorry t’see me go, but the rest of me family breathed a sigh of relief. Any’ow, I been a loner most o’ the time. It ain’t so bad. Nobeast to keep shoutin’, Ruff stop that! Or, Ruff don’t you dare! Nowadays I can do wot I likes, without anybeast hollerin’ at me.’

  Brocktree nodded. ‘And what are you doing at present, Ruff?’

  ‘Oh, a bit of this an’ a bit o’ that, nothin’ really. Why?’

  The Badger Lord’s eyes twinkled. ‘Dotti and I need to get down to the shores of the great sea. Best way to do that is to follow waterways, as you well know. It would be nice if we could go by boat, instead of all that trekking by paw. Suppose you came with us?’

  Ruff’s rudderlike tail thwacked down upon the bank, propelling him upright, grinning from ear to ear. ‘No sooner said than done, Brock me hearty. Can you two paddle?’

  Dotti replied for them both. ‘Well, if we can’t I bet you’ll soon teach us, wot. I’m no Badger Lord, but I’m jolly well strong of paw!’

  Ruff touched the swelling around his eye. ‘You already proved that by the way you swing yore bag!’

  Floating down the broad sunlit stream was a very pleasurable experience. Dotti and Brocktree soon picked up the knack of wielding a paddle. Passing beneath overhanging trees the young haremaid sighed with joy, watching the dappled patterns of sunshine and shade drifting by on the smooth dark green water.

  ‘Oh, whoopsy doo an’ fiddley dee! This is the life, eh, sah? I say there, Ruff my old streambasher, d’you know any jolly songs that creatures sing when they’re out boating?’

  The otter flicked water at her with his paddle. ‘Bless yer ’eart, Dotti, course I do, but they’re called shanties or water ballads. ’Ere’s one y’can both join in with. The chorus is very simple – ’elps t’keep the rhythm o’ the paddles goin’, y’see. It goes like this.’

  Ruff sang the chorus once, then launched into a deep-throated old boatsong.

  ‘Hey ho ahoy we go.

  Row, me hearties. Row row row!

  Chucklin’ bubblin’ life’s a dream,

  I’m the brook that finds the stream.

  Hey ho ahoy we go.

  Row, me hearties. Row row row!

  Sun an’ shade an’ fish aquiver,

  This ole stream flows to the river.

  Hey ho ahoy we go.

  Row, me hearties. Row row row!

  Down mates down an’ foller me,

  I’m the river bound to the sea.

  Hey ho ahoy we go.

  Row, me hearties. Row row row!’

  Ruff’s elm tree fairly skimmed the water, with him singing the verses and his two friends roaring out the chorus like two seasoned old riverbeasts. The otter signalled them to stop rowing. ‘Ship yore paddles, mates, let ’er run with the current!’

  Normally a staid creature, as befits a Badger Lord, Brocktree was exhilarated, grinning like a Dibbun. ‘My my, Ruff, I can see why you love the freedom of the waterways. It certainly is a pleasant experience.’

  Guiding his elm log boat with the odd paddle stroke, Ruff watched the stream ahead knowingly. ‘Oh, it ain’t so bad most seasons, but don’t go gettin’ too taken up with it, Brock. You gets the ice in winter, snow, hail, rainstorms, dry creeks, rocks, driftwood an’ gales. Once y’gets used to that lot then you got to face rapids, sandbanks, cross-currents an’ waterfalls. Aside from that there’s savage pike an’ eel shoals an’ all manner o’ bad-minded vermin watchin’ the water an’ huntin’ their prey both sides o’ the banks.’

  Dotti waved a paw dismissively. ‘Oh, pish tush, sah. It doesn’t seem t’bother you!’

  Ruff pulled a tangle of line from his pack. Checking the hook and weight on it, he baited up with a few watershrimp left over from the hotroot soup. ‘Fish for supper, shipmates. Look ’ere at this fat shoal o’ dace!’

  Through the deep fast-flowing stream they glimpsed the dace, cruising through the trailing moss and weed, their olive-green backs and silver flanks shining wherever rays of sunlight pierced the water. They were fine, plump fish. Ruff trailed the line as they followed the log, keeping in its shadow.

  ‘I’ll just snag two o’ the beauties, that should do us. Hearken t’me, Dotti. If’n yore bound to take the life of a livin’ thing for food, then take only wot you need. Life’s too precious a thing t’be wasted, ain’t that right, Brock?’

  The badger nodded solemnly. ‘Aye, that’s so. A lesson every creature should learn.’

  That evening they camped at the mouth of a small inlet and Ruff cooked the fish for them. After the long day on the stream it was a delicious meal.

  Lord Brocktree sat back, cleaning his teeth with a twig. ‘I’ve tasted trout and grayling, but never anything like that dace before. You must tell me how you prepared it, Ruff.’

  Looking furtively about, the otter managed a gruff whisper. ‘My grandma’s s
ecret recipe ’tis, an’ if’n she was ’ere now she’d skelp me tail with a birch rod for tellin’ ye. You needs tender new dannylion shoots, wild onions an’ hedge parsley, oh, an’ two fat leeks. Chop ’em all up an’ set ’em o’er the fire in a liddle water, but don’t boil ’em. Then when you’ve topped’n’tailed yore two dace, you lays them fishes flat on a thin rock. Mix cornflour an’ oats with a drop o’ water from yore veggibles an’ spread it o‘er the fishes, so they bakes with a good crunchy crust. Drain off the veggibles whilst they’re still firm, spread ’em in a bed an’ top the lot off with your dace. But don’t you two ever breathe a word to any otter that ’twas me wot told ye the recipe. Alive or dead, ole Grandma’d either hunt or haunt me!’

  Dotti began reaching for her harecordion. ‘Time for a jolly old ditty, eh, chaps?’

  Nobeast was more relieved than Brocktree when Ruff put the blocks on the haremaid’s warbling. ‘Best not, missymate. This ain’t too friendly a part o’ the woodlands – you’d prob’ly attract unwelcome visitors. Best sleep now. We’ve got an early start in the morn.’

  Dotti yawned. ‘You’re right, of course. My beauty sleep.’

  When the fire had burned to white embers, Ruff checked that Dotti was sound asleep. He shook the badger gently, cautioning him to silence. ‘Lissen, Brock, we could’ve sailed further today, but I chose to berth in this spot because I feel there’ll be trouble further downstream. No sense in upsettin’ young pretty features there. Look, I’ve got a plan. ’Ere’s wot we’ll do. I’ll wake ye at the crack o’ dawn an’ the pair of us will rise nice an’ quiet. Then . . .’

  When Ruff had outlined his scheme Lord Brocktree nodded agreement. Then he lay down again and stared at the canopy of stars twinkling through the trees, his paw clasping the battle blade at the ready, noting every noise of flora or fauna in the forest night.

  7

  THE NIGHT THAT fell over the three companions on the streambank also lowered its shades over Salamandastron and the western shores. Silently, with furled sails, ships drifted in on the flood tide. Out of the thinning mists they slid, headed for the shore on the quiet swell. Ships upon ships upon ships . . . craft of every description from single-to four-masted, flat-bottomed, deep-keeled, bulky and sleek, large and small. Any creature could have walked the length of the sea, a league from north to south, by stepping from ship to ship without once wetting a paw.