Doomwyte

Prologue

Book One
The Raven

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Book Two
A Prince’s Descendants

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Book Three
Baliss

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

The warm days are past, the dry dust has settled, those long-dead summers, a dim memory, small birds have flown south, cold east wind is dreary, so come ye and sit by the fireside with me. Let’s add a good log, stir up the pale ashes, ’til they glow crimson gold, twixt the grey and the black, I’ll recall to you my adventurous young seasons; together, my friend, we’ll go journeying back. Meet my comrades long gone, whom I’ll always remember, I hope when I’ve joined them, you’ve learned what it means, that a story passed down can live on forever. I’m the Teller of Tales, and the Weaver of Dreams….

They danced and twinkled in the woodlands at night…those little lights.

Blustery and wild were the days of late spring, wet and windy, with little sign of more placid weather. Thus it was that night, when Griv sought shelter from battering rain and buffeting winds out of the east. Redwall Abbey was the perfect place. Tossed about on the dark skies, like a scrap of black-and-white rag, the magpie caught sight of the imposing building as she was swept high over the swaying green of Mossflower woodlands. Skilfully she went into a steep dive, tacking and sidesweeping on drenched wings. Homing in on the Abbey’s west face, Griv sought shelter on the leeside, out of the gale.

She made an ungainly but safe landing upon the sandstone sill of a second-storey dormitory window. What attracted the magpie to that particular spot was the welcome golden light, slanting narrowly from between wooden shutters. Ruffling and grooming her wet plumage, Griv edged along the sill until she was securely lodged, twixt stone and timber, in a corner.

Ever curious, she peered through a slim gap in the shuttering. There were creatures inside, young mice, moles, squirrels and hedgehogs. One, a mouse, only slightly older than the rest, was speaking. He was relating a story to his audience, who were listening intently, hanging upon his every word. From her perch on the window ledge outside, Griv listened also….

The narrator, a young mouse named Bisky, was in full dramatic flow. Leaping up on the little truckle bed, he made a number of gouging gestures above his head. Bisky held out his other paw as though he were thrusting a dagger, relating avidly to his goggle-eyed friends, “One, two, three, four! Prince Gonff stole the four precious stones, which were the statue’s eyes. Aye, mates, old Gonff popped ’em out, just like that, robbed the eyes from the great Doomwyte Idol!”

A Dibbun hedgehog (Dibbun is the name given to the youngest Redwallers) interrupted curiously, “Why did ’e doo’d that?”

Frintl, his older sister, sighed impatiently. “’Cos ’e wuz Gonff the Prince o’ Mousethiefs, dat’s why, sillyspikes!”

Bisky was accustomed to Dibbuns butting in—he carried right on with the story. “Well, there was all manner of ’orrible vermin chasin’ after Gonff, but he just laughed, ha ha, an’ he escaped ’em easily….”

“Wot bees ee gurt Doodley whoit eyeful?”

Bisky looked down at the tiny mole who had poked his head out from beneath the bed. Moles speak with a curious accent, but Redwallers can always understand them. The young mouse smiled. “It’s the Great Doomwyte Idol, a big statue with four eyes. They’re actually precious stones, that’s why Gonff the Prince of Mousethieves stole ’em.”

The mole Dibbun, who was called Dugry, nodded solemnly. “Ho urr, Oi see. But whurr did zurr Gonffen take ee h’ idol’s h’ eyes to?”

Bisky spread his paws wide. “Right here to Redwall Abbey he brought them!”

Dugry thought about this, before asking, “Hurr, then whurr bees they?”

The young mouse explained patiently, “Nobeast knows where the eyes of the Great Doomwyte Idol are, ’cos Gonff hid ’em.”

The little hogmaid Frintl posed a question. “Hah, an’ I don’t s’pose you know where they are?”

The storyteller shook his head. “No, ’cos they’re in a very secret place, but someday I’ll find ’em, just see if’n I don’t!”

A young squirrel, Dwink, who was the same age as Bisky, chortled scornfully. “Yah, wot a load of ole pieswoggle! You made it all up, big fibberface Bisky!” He hurled a pillow, which caught the young mouse in the face. Bisky flung it back, but missed.

“’Tisn’t pieswoggle, Samolus told me it was true!” Dibbuns like nothing better than a pillow fight at bedtime. In the wink of an eye the dormitory was transformed into a noisy battleground. Babes and young ones squealed with merriment as they flung and swung pillows at each other.

Outside on the window ledge, the magpie Griv had heard everything. Regardless of the stormswept night, she flew off, headed for a place where her information might prove profitable. Griv, like most magpies, always had an eye to the main chance.

Back at the dormitory, the pillow fight was at its height, as was the noise. Redwall Abbey’s Infirmary and sick bay were on the same floor as the Dibbuns’ dormitory. Brother Torilis, the Herbalist and Infirmary Keeper, did not bother to knock. Flinging the door open, he strode straight into the scene of chaos. His paw shot up, catching a pillow in mid-flight. A hush fell over the entire chamber, broken only by a volebabe falling from the top of a wardrobe onto a bed, where he lay at rigid attention. A few small feathers and wisps of pillow stuffing drifted silently to the floor, as every young eye became fixed upon the tall, saturnine figure of the squirrel Herbalist. His voice was quiet, but loaded with menace.

“What is going on here?” No answer being expected, or given, he continued, “And who, may I ask, is responsible for this riot?”

The bleak gaze of Torilis swept the dormitory, coming to rest upon the hogmaid Frintl. She could no more resist Torilis’s stare than a baby chick confronted by a hunting serpent. Frintl’s chubby paw shot forth, pointing at Bisky. Words bubbled forth unbidden from her.

“’Twas him, Brovver, a-tellin’ fibby stories, he’s the one wot started it, honestly, Brovver!”

The Infirmary Keeper turned swiftly on the culprit. “I might have known. You, as one of the older dormitory creatures, ought to know better. You should be setting an example, instead of behaving like a madbeast!”

Bisky bit his lip at the injustice of it. Dwink was the one who had started the pillow fight. He tried to explain. “But Bro—”

Torilis’s harsh tone cut across his words sharply. “Silence! Not another word, you young savage! Directly after breakfast tomorrow you will appear on Abbot’s Report!”

Bisky knew there was no point in protesting. Nobeast, particularly a young one, would dare argue with the grave-faced Brother Torilis. Instead, he contented himself with glaring at Frintl.

With a final strict instruction, the Infirmary Keeper swept from the dormitory. “Straight into your beds, and go to sleep immediately, all of you!”

As the door slammed shut, Dwink curled his lip at Frintl. “Why couldn’t you keep yore mouth shut?”

The hogmaid began to blubber and babble at the same time. “’Twasn’t my fault, soon as he looks at me like that I can’t help it….”

Brother Torilis had not gone straight back to his sick bay chamber, he had paused outside the dormitory door. Now his voice rang out like thunder. “One more word and you’ll all be up in front of the Abbot tomorrow. Silence in there!”

The dormitory became immediately quiet, some of the more nervous Dibbuns trying hard not to breathe aloud.

On a moonless night, Mossflower Wood could be a daunting prospect, particularly for travellers who were not familiar with its thickness and diversity. It was made doubly eerie by the storm. In the total darkness, anybeast roaming abroad could be easily unnerved. Winds wailed through the crowded avenues of massive tree trunks. Sometimes the gale rose to a sound like that of a tortured beast, whilst often it subsided to a dirgelike moan. Driving rain caused foliage and twigs to bend in a mystical dance. The patter of raindrops upon broad leaves was said to sound like some phantom, creeping up behind the unwary wanderer. All in all not the best place to be, the woodlands on a stormy night.

These thoughts had occurred more than once to Slegg and Gridj, as they stumbled and floundered their way through Mossflower. The two rats had been lost for almost a day and a night. Their object was to reach the western seashore, which Slegg seemed to know all about. Gridj, the younger rat, was regretting he had ever listened to his companion, and was telling him so in no uncertain terms.

“Which way now, mate, straight ahead, eh? Go on, cabbage brain, straight ahead you said. Huh, an’ we been goin’ straight ahead, all day an’ ’arf the night. Aye, straight ahead in circles!”

Slegg took an optimistic view of their troubles. “Lookit, mate, yore only a young un yet, leave it t’me, I got experience, y’see. If’n we just push on straight ahead, we’re bound to arrive at the seashore sooner or later. I allus sez, no matter where ye are, yore on land, right? So, if’n ye walk straight ahead, then ye’ve gotta arrive at a seashore.”

Gridj sat down on the saturated loam, figuring he could not get any wetter than he already was. “Well let me tell ye wot I allus sez, scraggynose. I allus sez when yore lost in the dark, an’ yore follerin’ yer tail round in rings, then ye may’s well sit right down an’ wait’ll daylight, when ye can see where yore goin’ proper. But don’t yew lissen t’me, go on, straight ahead. I’m stayin’ here!”

Slegg carried on a few more paces, then halted. Shaking his head forlornly, he turned, walked back and sat down with his companion. Animosity had been growing between the pair, so each one held his silence. A short time elapsed, then Slegg felt compelled to speak. He did so in a sulky tone.

“Yew called me cabbage brain, an’ scraggynose. That ain’t right, I never called yew nothin’.”

Gridj sniffed. “Well, I ain’t sorry, see. Wot would yew call anybeast wot got ye lost, eh?”

Slegg shrugged. “Dunno, I’m no good at name callin’, I was brought up decent. Wish I was back ’ome right now, or mebbe sittin’ in a liddle cave by the seashore, on nice, warm, dry sand, wid a fire, too. Cookin’ all kinds o’ fishes in a pot, lobsters an’ cockles, an’ crabs….”

Gridj pointed an accusing paw. “Yew said cockles wasn’t fishes. Lissen, mate, do ye really know wot yore talkin’ about? I mean, did ye ever go t’the seashore? Tell the truth!”

Slegg had never set eyes on saltwater. Instead of answering, he broke out into a song, which he had learnt from a searat when he was younger. His harsh unmelodious voice rang out into the storm.

Slegg was about to launch into another verse, when Gridj halted him with a sharp jab to the ribs. He winced. “Yowch! Wot did ye do that for?”

The younger rat muttered an angry reply. “Y’don’t know who might hear ye, give yore gob a rest!”

Slegg blew rainwater from his snout. “There ain’t the sound or sight of anybeast round ’ere. Huh, I’d be glad t’see ’em if’n there was!”

Gridj’s reply was to clamp a paw about Slegg’s mouth. “Ssssshhh!”

Slegg freed his mouth indignantly. “Don’t yew start shushin’ me, I kin talk whenever I like. Yore gettin’ a bit too big for yore tail!”

Gridj pushed the older rat’s face to one side, whispering, “Will yew stop blatherin’ an’ look over yonder? Over that way, wot can yer see?”

Slegg blinked hard as he peered between the rainswept trees. “It’s a light! Wot’s a light doin’ out ’ere in the middle o’ the night?”

His companion rose stealthily. “I dunno, let’s go an’ take a closer look. Come on, go quietly. That means keep yore big trap shut!”

Slegg got the last word in, hissing, “An’ yew, too!”

They advanced cautiously toward the light, which was little more than a pale, glowing flame. It seemed to hover at eye level, but as the rats came closer, it brightened slightly, and began moving away from them.

Slegg whispered in his friend’s ear, “Wot d’ye make of it, couldn’t be a campfire, could it?”

Gridj was openly scornful. “Hah, have you ever seen a movin’ campfire, idjit? Looks t’me like some kind o’ lantern. Maybe it’s showin’ us the way to someplace warm an’ dry?”

Slegg blew rainwater from his snout tip. “Warm’n’dry eh, I ain’t arguin’ with that. C’mon, mate, let’s foller the liddle glimmer!”

They hurried forward, but the pale flame flickered, then disappeared. Gridj gave his companion’s tail a vicious tug. “See wot ye’ve gone an’ done, thick’ead, yew frightened the pore liddle light away, dashin’ at it like that!”

Slegg retaliated by stamping on his mate’s tail. “Lissen, swinkylip, I’ve took all I’m gonna take off’n yew. Now stop pickin’ on me or I’ll chew yore ear off an’ spit it out where ye won’t find it, see!”

The hostilities were about to escalate—Gridj was pulling a club from his belt—when the light reappeared. It emerged from behind a beech tree, where it was joined by a second light. Both lights twinkled to and fro, as if performing a dance.

Slegg gurgled happily, “Hawhaw, lookit, the liddle fellers are dancin’ fer us!” He held out his paw, hoping that one might alight on it, but the pale flame wavered, moving away again.

As the two rats raced after the dancing lights, a third flame appeared, then a fourth. They stayed just out of reach, weaving merrily around one another. Slegg made an awkward swipe at the nearest flame; it evaded him, wisping off to join its partners. Gridj gave a snort of irritation.