Salamandastron, page 22
The Assassin stood upright, his gold medal gleaming in the firelight. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you!’
Midnight had long gone. Ferahgo’s diggers were well advanced but the Assassin’s confidence would have wilted had he seen what awaited him inside Salamandastron. Several hares were listening to the banging and pounding from the outside.
Bart Thistledown grinned wryly as he leaned on his lance. ‘Well, twist my ears. The crafty ol’ blue-eyed villain! Who would’ve thought he could find the old kitchen drain outlet. It was blocked up when I was a leveret.’
Big Oxeye took up a heavy spear and held it poised.
‘Good thing you heard the diggin’ an’ gruntin’, Barty m’lad. What d’you say we dig from this end, give those chaps a bit of help if they’re so anxious to come in?’
Sapwood considered this proposition then shook his head. ‘Pers’nally Hi’m agin it meself, an’ Lord Urthstripe wouldn’t be too ’appy about us ’elpin’ vermin. Let ’em do their own diggin’. They should be through afore mornin’. We’ll just wait ’ere nice ’n’ quiet. Penny, you stand by. When I tips yer the wink, run an’ fetch ’is Lordship.’
Pennybright stifled a youthful giggle. ‘Righto, Sarge. I can’t wait to see what happens when the jolly old vermin break through.’
The two Captains, Doghead and Dewnose, were working like madbeasts. They had got about two spearlengths into the rock; the tunnel was going to work. Horde soldiers lined the narrow passage, passing back loose boulders and shields piled high with pebbles and shale. Outside on the moonlit beach, others were disposing of the rubble. Doghead and Dewnose laboured hard with iron bars and spearpoints, levering away at the packed mass of stone that blocked the old kitchen drain. Both stoats knew that their lives depended on completing the tunnel; nobeast failed Ferahgo. Together they sweated and strained to prise out a big slab.
‘Come on, mate. Pull. We’ve got it!’
‘I’m pullin’. Owow! Me paw’s jammed – wait a sec!’
‘Migroo, get yerself up ’ere. Squeeze in there an’ hold that bar while Dog’ead gets ’is paw loose.’
‘Owch! OK, I’m free. Now get yer spearpoint in right about ’ere, Migroo. I’ll take care of the bar. Watch out, or it’ll slide down an’ trap yer paws!’
Crabeyes came crawling up the tunnel and pulled their tails. ‘Outside you three. The Master an’ young Klitch wants to see yer.’
They crawled backwards out of the tunnel, scratched, bruised and covered in dust. The Assassin and his son awaited them on the sands. Ferahgo brushed aside their salutes, questioning them anxiously.
‘Well, how is it going? Are you nearly through yet?’
Doghead wiped dirt from his eyes and licked his injured paw. ‘It’s just like you said it’d be, Master – all loose rock, none of it solid. We’re over two spearlengths in now, shouldn’t be too long before we break through.’
Ferahgo smiled scornfully, his crinkling blue eyes mocking Klitch. ‘That sounds like a fine mess, eh, young know-it-all?’
Klitch looked slightly taken aback. ‘But how did you know it was possible to tunnel at this spot?’
Ferahgo scooped up a pawful of sand and held it under his son’s nose. ‘Kitchen debris, old nutshells, broken bits of pottery – that’s how. Sometime or other this has been an outlet. When I checked I could see it wasn’t part of the original rock, only stones packed in there to block it off. I was right, you see, cleverpaws. Now do you think that the old one is making a mess of things?’
‘How wise of you, Father, you have found a way in.’ Klitch put on an expression of respect and kept his tone apologetic. ‘Now, are you going to stand there sneering at me and patting yourself on the back all night, or are you going to break into Salamandastron?’
Ferahgo’s blue eyes smiled back and his tone was equally civil. ‘Raptail, Bateye, take this ignorant infant to one side, will you. Now guard him carefully and don’t let him get hurt. Keep him here while his father goes to do the work of a warrior. Klitch is a bit inexperienced for this sort of thing, you know.’
Leaving his son fuming under the eyes of the two guards, Ferahgo drew his daggers and rapped out orders.
‘Doghead, Dewnose, bring a single torch. The rest of you, get fully armed and follow us. Keep silent in the tunnel . . . or else!’
The flaring light of a brushwood torch threw elongated shadows across the horde members packing up the tunnel behind Ferahgo and his two Captains. Dewnose patted the large slab when they reached the head of the tunnel.
‘There’s only this big un and a bit more behind it, Master, then we should be inside the mountain.’
The Assassin sheathed his dagger and grabbed the spear from Dewnose. ‘Come out of my way, I’ll show you how it’s done.’
The muscles stood out like whipcords on Ferahgo’s lean body as he pitted his strength against the slab. It moved and slid. Angling it aaoss the uneven floor, he struck it hard with the spearbutt, cracking it in two halves. ‘Pass that along and shift it out the way. Move yourselves!’
The Assassin went to work on the remaining rocks with ferocious strength, ripping them out with his bare paws, gouging with dagger and spearpoint. Hastily the rocks were passed back along the lines of hordebeasts jamming the length of the tunnel.
Throwing back a last few small boulders and kicking aside debris, Ferahgo halted abruptly. Licking the edge of his favourite skinning knife, he whispered to Doghead, ‘We’re through! Feel that draught of cold air – that’s our first breath of Salamandastron. Keep that torch aside a moment, there’s somebeast standing with their back to the entrance. Now listen carefully. Whoever it is I’ll stab him and drag him through for you and Dewnose to finish him off, then we’re in. Keep silent now and I’ll get him.’
With the dagger between his teeth, Ferahgo inched quietly forward, his murderous blue eyes shining with joy as he sighted the unprotected back of the creature at the opening. When it came to silent death Ferahgo the Assassin was the acknowledged master. Throwing a paw round the creature’s throat from behind, he locked off the windpipe and slid the blade expertly between its ribs. Pulling back in one swift movement, he threw the body to his Captains.
‘Finish him off quickly, then follow me!’
Doghead pushed forward, spear in one paw, flaming torch in the other. He turned the creature over to stab it – and screamed. Ferahgo turned, he took one look, gave a strangled sob of horror and shot through the packed ranks for the open beach, kicking and slashing as he went. The body of Farran the Poisoner lay on the tunnel floor, the face a twisted mask of fright, the mouth wedged open wide by the adderskin belt with its poison bags that Urthstripe had forced down the Poisoner’s throat. Thus had the badger Lord dealt with the murderer of his two hares.
The poisoned drinking water was standing by the entrance Ferahgo had made, lined up in cauldrons, boiling hot. As they were wheeled by, Urthstripe tipped each one with his spearbutt, sending scalding water rushing into the tunnel as he roared at the top of his voice:
‘Eulaliaaaaaa!’
The hordebeasts packed inside the tunnel fought each other madly in a vain bid to escape the contents of the cauldrons. Spears, swords, pikes and other weaponry hindered them in the darkness as the blistering hot stream gushed out, welling up into a steaming wave. Screams were drowned amid the boiling torrent. Smashed against the rocky walls, the bodies hurtled the length of the narrow aperture to be spewed out on to the beach.
Moonpaw, Starbob, Catkin, Thistle and Seawood climbed back into Salamandastron’s east side, throwing the sacks of dandelions, apples, berries and roots ahead of them. Sapwood helped each one in as they clambered through an unblocked window hole. Seawood and Thistle came last, cautioning the Sergeant, ‘Careful with those two sacks. There’s six canteens of fresh water there, Sap.’
Sapwood chuckled, patting their backs. ‘Bless yer ears, mates. Where’d you come by all this lot?’
Thistle nudged him in the ribs and gave a broad wink. ‘Fancy askin’ a Long Patrol Hare a question like that, Sergeant. Did you never have to survive off the land on a long scout?’
Sapwood began blocking the window hole up. ‘’Course I did. Silly ol’ me. Hey, Seawood, the diversion worked a treat. You should’ve seen Urthstripe. ’Is Nibs was like a liddle bunny on ’oliday, roarin’ an’ a-shoutin’. By the fur, the Boss gave those vermints an ’ot old time an’ no mistake.’
One backpaw, a leg and a large area of Ferahgo’s back were painful areas of blistered flesh. He lay stretched on a rock in the dawn light, biting on his knife handle to stop himself crying out. Sickear dabbed seawater gently on the injured weasel, backing off a few paces every time the Assassin winced.
‘Water from the sea is all we’ve got, Master. It smarts, but it cures. We used it for all injuries when I was searattin’.’
Klitch was enjoying the whole thing hugely. He leaned down close to his father’s face as he mocked him. ‘Ah then, did the naughty badger roast your bottom, O ruler of all the Southwest and Leader of the Corpsemakers. Never mind then, you leave it to young wet-behind-the-ears Klitch. I’ll take charge for a while.’
Ferahgo arched his back in agony as the seawater tricked on to it. Sweat beaded on his lips and nose as he gritted around the dagger blade at his grunting son, ‘Oh yes? And what’s your brilliant plan, you little toad?’
Klitch took one of the daggers from his father’s discarded belt and tapped the point against his teeth pensively. ‘Hmmm. Plan? I’m not quite sure yet, but it doesn’t involve getting thirty soldiers boiled to death by hot water. But don’t you fret your dear old grey head, I’ll think of something.’
‘You bring me the head of that badger, or I’ll. . . .’ Ferahgo struggled to rise but fell back snarling.
‘You’ll what?’ Klitch patted the Assassin’s back, none too gently. ‘You’re not in a position to do anything. Give me until nightfall and I’ll guarantee I’ll have a foolproof plan, one that will make this horde realize that they’ve been led by the wrong weasel for many seasons now.’
Forgrin the fox emptied a slingbag on to the rocks beside his friend Raptail the rat. ‘There y’are, mate – whelks, limpets an’ a few mussels. They’ll taste better’n hard crust an’ roots.’
Raptail smashed open a mussel with a stone and ate the contents ravenously. ‘Couldn’t yer find no fish?’
Forgrin scooped a limpet out of its shell into his mouth. ‘You get them shellfish down yer an’ thank yer lucky stars we’re still alive, Raptail. It’s a good job we was only at the entrance t’ that tunnel or we’d be layin’ scalded dead by now.’
‘It was a stupid plan, a cracked idea, the ’ole thing!’ Raptail chewed with difficulty on a rubbery whelk. ‘Migroo says that young Klitch is takin’ over. What d’you think of ’im?’
The fox spat on a rock and began sharpening his sword. ‘Think? We’re not ’ere ter think, mate. Accordin’ to ’Is Majesty Ferahgo, we’re just ’ere ter take orders. But between you’n me an’ the seashore, I think the time’s ripe for Ferahgo to go.’
The rat scratched his nose and stared at the fox. ‘Go?’
‘Aye, go, matey. He’s down an’ injured. Now’s the time to slip a blade across ’is weasely throat, see wot I mean?’
Raptail gouged at a tooth crevice with a grimy claw, realization dawning on him. ‘Yeh, maybe yore right. Ferahgo couldn’t give orders with a slit gizzard, that’s fer sure. Say tonight, when it’s nice ’n’ dark . . . he’ll be sleepin’ deep then, eh?’
Forgrin tested the edge of his sword on a whelk he had disgorged. ‘We’ll make sure he sleeps deeper than ever . . . tonight.’
BOOK THREE
Destinies and Homecomers
29
Thrugg and Dumble had arrived at the mountain stronghold of the Laird Mactalon. They stood shivering among the high rocks, unconscious of the beauties about them.
The Laird Mactalon spread his wings wide at the snowcapped peaks. The setting sun had turned the ice and snow from white to a clear pink.
‘Och, ’tis a sight tae gladden yer feathers, laddie!’
Baby Dumble spread his paws, gazing down at his fat little stomach. ‘I don’t avven no fevvers.’
‘Ach, so ye dinna. Would ye no’ like to be a falcon?’ Mactalon’s wide wing patted him, nearly knocking him over.
The dormouse sniffed as he climbed into Thrugg’s haversack, away from the cold. ‘Sooner be a Dumble!’
Mactalon chuckled fiercely. ‘Och, awa’ wi ye, mousie!’ He turned to Thrugg. The otter was stamping his paws to keep warm. ‘Noo then, mah friend, ye’ll be wanting tae get your paws on some Icetor Flow’rs, mah son tells me.’
Thrugg swung the haversack to his shoulders. ‘Yessir, them’s the ones – Icetor Flowers. You tell me where they’re at an’ I’ll go an’ pick ’em.’
‘Weel noo, aren’t you the bold creature?’ Mactalon preened his neck feathers. ‘Pick them indeed. Yer a braw big riverdog, Thrugg, but yer a long ways frae hame. Icetors only grow aboot the nest of the wild King MacPhearsome. Och, nae bird or beastie ever goes up there, laddie. Yon eagle’s a verra unpredictable creature. I wouldnae fancy makin’ requests o’ him! But if ye be foolish enough tae try, I’ll fly up there on the morrow, but you’ll have tae climb, as ye have nae wings tae speak of.’
Rocangus showed Thrugg and Dumble to a small cavern where they were to spend the night. There was heather and bracken piled up in a corner, but the place was dreadfully cold. Thrugg put some of the bracken to one side, the rest he placed at the cavern entrance. Digging flint and tinder from the haversack, he soon had a small fire going. Rocangus was wary of flames, but the sight of Baby Dumble seated in front of the fire warming his paws soon had the young falcon perched between Thrugg and Dumble, enjoying the welcome heat. Rocangus had some words of advice for the otter.
‘Mah faither says ye’re going up tae see the Wild King in the mornin’. Be careful, Thrugg. Auld MacPhearsome is a giant. Mind yer manners, address him as King or Your Majesty. Och, he has a braw temper that one has. He’d as soon eat ye as look at ye.’
Thrugg put more of the sweet-smelling bracken on the fire. ‘Listen, Rocangus me ol’ matey, I’ll do whatever it takes to get those Icetor Flowers back to Redwall Abbey. If I’ve got to pretend to be frightened of some old bird, then so be it.’
‘Ye have mah admiration, Thrugg, for I know yer not affrighted of anythin’.’ Rocangus flexed his good wing. ‘Mind, though, ye’d be well advised tae fear the Wild King. He’s the only one who has Icetor Flow’rs an’ he doesn’t part wi’ anythin’ lightly. Oh, an’ ye’d best leave yer sling wi’ me. MacPhearsome won’t have any armed bird or beast near his eyrie. That’s aboot it, Thrugg. Guid luck to ye. Yer a braw friend an’ a bonny riverdog.’
Rocangus had conquered his fear of the fire. In fact, he had rather come to like it. The young falcon spent the night feeding the flames with heather and bracken whilst Thrugg and Baby Dumble slept peacefully in the high snowcapped mountains of the north.
Dawn in the high mountains was a strange sight. Thrugg shivered as he peered into the whiteness. Clouds had descended upon the peaks, turning the whole place into a land of cotton wool. There was no sky, horizon or ground, save for that beneath the otter’s paws.
Settling Dumble into the near empty haversack, Thrugg cautioned him. ‘Stay put, matey, an’ keep yore head down. Ye’ll be nice an’ warm in there.’
The Laird Mactalon flew in low and hovered outside the cave. ‘A guid mornin’ to ye, Thrugg. Are ye ready the noo?’
Thrugg gave his sling to Rocangus. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be. Lead on, Yore Lordship!’
Rocangus stood waving with his good wing, watching them until they were swallowed up in the mists.
It was a perilous journey. Thrugg needed all his strength and sure-pawed skill. Sliding down glacial valleys and ascending slopes of crusted snow, scaling bare freezing rocks, the otter pushed on, keeping Mactalon in sight all the time. Seeking for holds in crevices, Thrugg dug his paws in, hauling himself strenuously upwards. Ledges with thick icicles hanging like sets of organ pipes ranged each side of him. Grunting and panting, he watched the falcon ahead flying upward, ever upward. Battling almost blindly through the world of snow, ice and white cloudbanks, the otter often slipped and slid back, but he was always back on the trail immediately, gritting his teeth and wiping away the perspiration that threatened to freeze on his nose and whiskers, ever mindful of the infant dormouse in the haversack strapped to his powerful shoulders. Thrugg lost all sense of time and space as he plugged doggedly onward and upward. It was at the exact moment that he thought he could go on no more that Laird Mactalon wheeled down through the shrouding mist.
‘Guid show, laddie. Ye’ve made it! Yon’s the eyrie of King MacPhearsome. Ah’ll be waitin’ here for ye when you’re done. The rest is up to ye now, Thrugg. Ah wish ye the best o’ fortune.’
Raising his eyes, Thrugg saw the eyrie. Swathed in clouds, it sat on a rocky pinnacle, strewn with heather, bracken, gorse, thistles and branches, all faded, dried and dead. The only living plant that could be seen sprouting through the debris was the Icetor flower, small, delicate, white, starlike, with blue tinged petals, almost invisible in the surrounding snow, but mysterious and beautiful in its mountain isolation.
Thrugg called up at the nest in a friendly tone, ‘Ahoy there, Yer Majesty. It’s me, Thrugg of Redwall Abbey. I’ve come to visit the Wild King himself.’
There was a crackling of heather and twigs, the nest stirred slightly, then MacPhearsome himself flew out.
The sight completely took Thrugg’s breath away. He had not been prepared for something like this. Snow flurried around his head as the great expanse of wings flapped downward and the Wild King landed in front of him. It was an awesome thing to see! The colossal golden eagle towered over Thrugg, two massive feet sinking slightly into the snow, lethal orange-scaled talons digging in for leverage. Each of the heavily feathered golden brown legs was as thick as the otter’s body; the eagle stood rooted on them as if they were twin oaks. The staggering canopy of wings swooshed noisily as the bird folded them both over his mighty back. The head dipped towards Thrugg, lighter brown-gold feathers framing the wild eyes afire with hunting lights.
