Salamandastron, page 28
‘What ho, old gel. Are you all right?’
Mara picked up the sword. Bringing it close to her face, she peered at the blade until her breath misted it. ‘Can you see anything in this blade, Pikkle?’
The young hare took a look and shook his head. ‘No, not a bally thing. Why d’you ask?’
‘I saw the face of a mouse looking at me from the blade, a warrior mouse, fiercer than any fighting badger.’ Mara kept her voice low so that only he could hear.
Pikkle let one ear droop comically. ‘You didn’t eat any strange fruit or plants on that island, did you? I remember one time I scoffed an old preserved damson I was sick as a frog for a day, and you wouldn’t believe the things I saw when I tried shuttin’ me eyes . . .’
Mara jabbed him with the end of her paddle. ‘Don’t talk silly, it was nothing like that. I tell you, I’d swear I saw this warrior mouse looking straight at me from the blade of that sword!’
Log-a-log had overheard Mara. He offered an explanation. ‘What you saw was probably the face of the shrew sitting behind you; the blade was lying at an angle where it caught his reflection and distorted it, what with the sunlight and the movement of the boat. It couldn’t be anything else, Mara, believe me.’
Mara thought about it for a moment then nodded. ‘Aye, you’re probably right, Log-a-log.’
As she resumed paddling she glanced back at the shrew behind her. He was an old Guosssom member with a thin face, one good eye and a flowing grey beard – nothing remotely like the fierce hot-eyed warrior she had seen reflected in the mirrored blade.
Morning gave way to noontide. They ate as they paddled, travelling on without any untoward event.
Urthwyte stood up carefully and stretched his cramped limbs, turning this way and that as he rolled the stiffness out of his thick leg muscles. Suddenly he pointed and cried out, ‘Over there, to the left, dark shapes in the water!’
Immediately the crews felt a chill of fear run through them. Was there more than one Deepcoiler? Perhaps the monster had a mate that was seeking vengeance for the slaying of its partner.
Log-a-log gave orders for them to ship paddles and be silent. The two logboats lay still and quiet on the waters, some of the Guosssom shrews even holding their breath with apprehension.
When Mara could stand the suspense no longer, she turned to Pikkle. ‘Come on, Ffolger. You’ve got good long-sight – up on my shoulders and tell us what you can see.’
Nordo and Log-a-log steadied Mara’s footpaws as Pikkle climbed up and stretched his lanky frame. ‘Can’t see much, you chaps. ‘Fraid it’s too far away. Paddle over to the left a bit, please, and maybe then it’ll become clear.’
Log-a-log gave the order. ‘Stay where you are in that other boat – no sense in putting two craft in danger. Right, Guosssom, no paddle-splashers now – nice and easy, long deep strokes, paddle over that way.’
Still balanced on Mara’s shoulders, Pikkle shaded both eyes with a paw, flopping his ears over to add to the shade. The shrews pulled well and strongly; not a spare drop of water fell from their paddle blades as the logboat glided smoothly over the lake, silent as a feather floating on the breeze. Mara stood still as the trunk of a tree as Pikkle narrowed his eyes and strove to make something of the dark shapes that shimmered in the sunlight on the surface. Suddenly his ears stood erect and he muttered out of the side of his mouth, ‘Log-a-log, old scout, you’ve got friends out here – somebeast is callin’ your name.’
The shrew leader looked up. ‘Calling my name?’
‘Oh yes indeed.’ Pikkle nodded. ‘Shall I tell you what they’re saying?’ He threw back his head and shouted, ‘Logalogalogalog!’
Immediately Log-a-log swung into action, his deep shrew voice roaring out orders:
‘It’s Guosssom shrews. They need help! You shrews in the other boat, follow us! Bend your backs, dig those paddles deep and pull! Logalogalogalogalog!’
The two logboats raced across the waters, paddles flashing as bow waves churned up and the vessels rocked from side to side. Pikkle leaped down and grabbed up his paddle to match Mara’s stroke.
A cheer went up from the crews of the three logboats as Samkim climbed down from the shoulders of Alfoh and Arula.
The young mole patted Samkim’s back furiously. ‘You’m a roight gudd shouter, Sanken. They’m ’eard ’ee, hurr hurr. Lookit, they acomen. Wot think ’ee, Alfoh, zurr?’
Alfoh shook Samkim heartily by the paw. ‘Best Guosssom call I’ve ever heard in me whole life. We’ll make a boatshrew of you yet, young squirrel!’
There was a moment’s pause as the five logboats met on the wide lakewaters. Log-a-log stood in the prow of his boat, displaying the Blackstone strung about his neck. All the five crews bowed low in acknowledgement of the Log-a-log of all the Guosssom, then happy shouting broke out.
‘It’s Alfoh’s colony from the hillbank!’
‘Hey, Nordo, you young rip, how’s your paddle!’
‘Cousin Dwing, you fat old rascal, give me your paw!’
‘Bowley – hi, Bowley, are you still poisonin’ the lads with your cookin’?’
‘Forbun, how are the twins – still growing?’
‘I’ll say they are, Tubgutt, and they’re the image of your sister: fat and idle. Hahahaha!’
Backslapping and paw-shaking went on apace as the shrews were reunited with old friends from the Great South Stream. Samkim was lost for words; he could only stand and stare at the handsomely marked young female badger holding the sword of Martin the Warrior in her paws. Stepping over the side of the boat, he never once took his eyes from hers as he spoke.
‘I am Samkim of Redwall Abbey.’
‘I am Mara of Salamandastron.’
They stood staring at one another until Samkim found himself speaking again. This time the words sprang unbidden to his lips. He felt as though he was back in Redwall, standing before the tapestry picture. Images golden with motes of the dust of time floated through his mind like brown leaves drifting over an autumn evening meadow . . . Thrugg the otter dressed as a badger guardian at the Nameday feast . . . the big empty chair in Great Hall where once sat Abbey badgers . . .
‘The sword you are holding belongs to Redwall Abbey. It was once the sword of Martin the Warrior, and it was his face you saw in the blade.’
Samkim shivered and placed a paw across his mouth, not knowing why he had spoken such words. He felt slightly foolish as he looked into the badger’s dark brown eyes. Mara was mystified but she did not question the young squirrel. A sense of calm and quiet happiness stole over her as she placed the beautiful sword into his paws.
‘May your sword travel safely back to its Abbey, Samkim of Redwall.’
37
Three gnarled apples and half a beaker of water stood on the long dining hall table in Salamandastron. Urthstripe sat in his chair like some brooding mountain spirit, and around the table were thirty-two hares – the full complement of the Long Patrols. Urthstripe’s gaze roved about his fighters, finally settling on Pennybright.
‘Take these apples and this water, Penny. A sip and an apple apiece for you and the two next youngest in the mountain.’
Pennybright was about to object when Bart Thistledown nudged her forward, murmuring under his breath, ‘Do as your Lord says, Pen. Go on, don’t question him when he’s in this mood – he’s dangerous!’
The young hare did as she was bidden, bobbing a curtsy to the badger Lord as she passed him.
The hares waited in silence until Urthstripe stood. His gruff voice was heavy and doom-laden as he spoke.
‘Sergeant Sapwood and Big Oxeye are gone. I could not make out what way they were slain, but there were over a hundred vermin against them. No two hares were with me longer, or served Salamandastron more loyally. First Windpaw and Shorebuck, and now Sapwood and Oxeye. It has come to this, my friends.’ His paw crashed down on the tabletop. ‘We are starved and surrounded by a vermin horde, trapped inside our own fortress!’
The booming echoes of the badger Lord’s voice died away as he glared down at the tabletop, the dark eyes becoming blood-flecked with rage. His paws clenched and unclenched, and a fleck of foam appeared at the side of his jaw as he pounded the table with each thunderous word.
‘My mountain held under siege by a blue-eyed weasel and his brat!’
The chair behind him clattered on to its side as he swept out of the dining hall.
In the shocked hush that followed, Bart Thistledown set the chair upright and commented lightly, ‘Well, I’m glad I’m not a blue-eyed weasel, chaps. Yes indeed!’
Pennybright shared the water and apples with Lingfur and Barfle on the crater top. They gulped the water down but ate the apples sparingly, making each bite count, chewing hungrily.
Lingfur finished his apple first. ‘I’m still hungry, Pen. Phwaw! What I wouldn’t give for a big beaker of mountain-pear cordial and a plate of hot oat scones with honey to spread thick on ’em!’
Barfle chewed away at the core and apple pips. ‘Greensap milk I’d like, with hot oatmeal and a whole blackcurrant pie, all to myself.’
Penny closed her eyes longingly. ‘D’you remember those little cheese and onion pasties that Windpaw used to bake? I’d love to have one of those right now, with a flagon of new cold cider that’d been cooling in the bottom caves for two days, all sparkly and light gold!’
‘Oh, what did we start talkin’ about scoff for?’ Lingfur nibbled the soft wooden stalk that his apple had hung from the tree on. ‘It only makes you even worse hungry than you are now!’
Suddenly a battered and sandswept figure hauled itself wearily over the crater top. It was none other than Big Oxeye, alive and well.
‘Cheer up, young Ling. I never knew when you weren’t bally well hungry, wot?’ His familiar chuckle boomed out around the mountaintop. ‘Have some pears. They’re a bit hard, but I don’t suppose a young feedbag like you would care.’
The three young hares gave a yell of horror at the ghastly apparition and fled down the crater steps as if a demon were chasing them.
Big Oxeye dropped the two woven reedbags he was carrying and looked down at his sand-crusted body. ‘Hmph! Suppose if I clapped eyes on me right now I’d be frightened out o’ me wits!’
They gathered around the table in the dining hall as Oxeye related his marvellous escape.
‘Hoho, you should’ve seen old Sap, floatin’ off t’ sea like he was born on the briny with not a care in the world. Next thing, here comes a bunch of those vermin yahoos, right nasty lot I can tell you. So I ups spear an’ slays one or three, just t’ let ’em know I mean business, doncha know. Blow me, there must’ve been more than a bally regiment of the stinkers. They stabbed an’ whacked at me with cutlasses an’ whatnot. As for me, did m’ best to give a beastlike account of a Long Patrol scrapper, an’ then I tripped and went under the water. D’you know, I could never swim until that moment, as true as I’m here, I tell you, chaps. I went under an’ right off started swimmin’ like a bloomin’ fish underwater. Just kept goin’, wot! On an’ on I swam until I ran out of jolly old fresh air, so I came up an’ there they were, far away, all arguin’ an’ hackin’ at each other like billyoh. So I took a good deep breath, dived an’ swam some more – must’ve done that a dozen times until I got clear away from Ferahgo’s lot. From there it was quite simple really, I just rolled meself in the dry sand to give me a coat of camouflage and hoofed it back here. Oh, I stopped off an’ gathered a few supplies on the way back – thought you chaps might be gettin’ a bit peckish. I say, where’s His Nibs old Urthstripe?’
Bart Thistledown pointed a paw upward. ‘Probably in the forge room beatin’ some poor chunk of metal to a powder. He’s got one of his rages boilin’ up. You’d best go an’ report that you’re alive, Ox.’
Oxeye popped his head round the doorway of the forge room and called out in a loud voice, ‘Big Oxeye, sah! Reportin’ for duty, sah! All present an’ correct an’ quite alive, contrary to popular rumour, sah!’
The forge was cold and the room deserted. Oxeye wandered about until he noticed one of the window apertures had been unblocked. The big hare sighed with despair at the sight that greeted his eyes as he looked out of the window.
Fully clad in badger war armour, Urthstripe was pounding over the shore towards Ferahgo’s encampment. Brandishing his giant battle spear aloft, the badger Lord of Salamandastron hurled out his challenge to the foe:
‘Come and meet me, Ferahgo – you and your brat together. I will fight you in paw-to-paw combat or any way you choose! It ends here today, weasel. Come and meet death! I am Urthstripe the Strong, born in the dark of the moon! Lord of the mountain! Slayer of vermin! Eulaliaaaaaaa!’
Migroo had died beneath the spear of Big Oxeye, so the other prisoner guard, Feadle, was held responsible for the escape of the two captives. His lifeless body hung, bound to a stake, in front of the entire horde. Ferahgo put away his killing knife and took out his skinning knife as Urthstripe’s roars reached his ears across the beach. Ignoring the weasel he had just slain, he sheathed the knife and issued hasty instructions.
‘Crabeyes, station archers in the rocks around where we fight. Badtooth, get forty spearbeasts and be ready to strike whenever you see the badger’s back. Klitch, come with me and do as I say!’
Klitch was in a foul mood. He had been responsible for the victories they had won so far, but because of his youth the army was more inclined to obey Ferahgo. Accordingly his father had swiftly assumed position as Master of the horde. Klitch sat sullenly on a rock, curling his lip at Ferahgo.
‘Huh, another of your cockeyed plans. It’ll end in disaster like all the others, you’ll see.’
The Assassin dragged his son bodily from the rock and shook him. ‘Young fool, you don’t know everything. I’m going to set up an ambush for the badger. Just watch me and do as I tell you. This will work. I killed the badger Lord of all the Southwest Lands and his wife the same way, seasons before you were ever born. Now get yourself a weapon and follow me!’
As the word spread around Salamandastron, windows and openings were unblocked. The hares crowded to the viewpoints, watching in dismay.
Big Oxeye had assumed command in Urthstripe’s absence, and his word was law. ‘Lord Urthstripe is out to settle this himself. He’s challenged the two weasels to double combat. When they meet we must stay here out of it – this is between Urthstripe and the two weasels, a Duel of Chieftains. Not even the vermin of the horde are allowed to interfere in a battle of honour, so stay at your posts and watch. That’s an order!’
Down at the tideline, Ferahgo and Klitch stood in a smooth sea-washed area of sand, a semicircle of rocks at their backs. Urthstripe faced them. Raising the visor of his warhelm, he tried hard not to laugh aloud with joy. This was what he wanted, the moment he had been waiting for. Ferahgo had armed himself with a mace and chain in addition to his knives. Klitch wore a short sword and carried a pike. Urthstripe leaned on the haft of his great battle spear; it was half as tall as he himself was, forbiddingly heavy and thick with a leaf-shaped blade and barbed crosstrees jutting out.
The badger nodded at them. ‘Let us get things straight before we settle this. If you win then the mountain is yours, but you must let my hares leave unharmed. If I win, your army turns around and marches off back to wherever you came from. Agreed?’
Ferahgo pawed the golden medal on his chest and replied levelly, ‘As Master of the horde, I agree. So does my son.’
Klitch swaggered about, jabbing the air with his spear as Urthstripe continued, ‘Nobeast must interfere – this is a Duel of Chieftains and must be fought under the rules of honour. Agreed?’
‘Agreed!’ Ferahgo’s blue eyes shone with fervour and sincerity.
Urthstripe lowered his helm as he spoke the final words.
‘No quarter, no surrender. To the death!’
Under the mid-afternoon sun the three combatants closed in on each other.
Under that same sun the creatures of Redwall took their ease. Young ones played and tumbled on the lawn while the elders rested in the cool shades of the orchard. The Wild King MacPhearsome perched on a beech stump, sound asleep in the summer heat that he seldom felt among his icy crags and mountain wilderness.
Friar Bellows nodded with admiration. ‘Very good, very good. What a magnificent giant of a bird. I’m glad he’s sleeping, because while he is he’s not eating!’
Tudd Spinney leaned on his stick and chuckled. ‘Oh, he’s got a rare appetite, that one, but I’m a thinkin’ that he’s entitled to it. We’d all be dead as doornails but for yonder bird. What d’you say, Hollyberry?’
The old Infirmary Keeper had been half dozing off. He shook himself and looked around, blinking. ‘Oh, er, what? Indeed, whatever you say, Mr Spinney. I was just wondering whatever became of young Samkim and Arula. I was very fond of those two little rogues, y’know.’
Abbess Vale sniffed, brushing away a tear with her habit sleeve. ‘Oh dear, it seems ages ago since they both sat out here at our Nameday feast. I do hope they are safe. Samkim was a bright-eyed little fellow and Arula was a dear funny mole.’
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ Furgle brushed an ant from his paw and lay back in the shade of a spreading pear tree. ‘When I met them they seemed like two sensible and resourceful young beasts. Maybe they’ve settled down elsewhere and found a new life for themselves.’
