Loamhedge (25 page)

Growls of agreement rang out, even from the Dibbuns. Abbot Carrul was taken aback by the warlike mood of the Redwallers, and even more so by Martha's fighting spirit. He held up his paws until order was restored.

“You are right, of course, my friends, but let us not do anything haphazard. There has to be a proper plan to rid our Abbey of these vermin!”

 

Flinky and Crinktail were in no special hurry to run about seeking recruits for Badredd's gang. The pair wandered deep into Mossflower, glad to be away from the bickering and squabbling of the small vermin gang. They rambled onward, consenting with each other to desert their fellow vermin and find a new life together, far away from it all.

Unfortunately, they walked right into trouble and ambled straight into the camp of Raga Bol. A huge, fat Searat with
one milky, sightless eye grabbed the luckless pair by the scruffs of their necks. Both their stomachs churned in fear at the sight of the savage Searat crew. For the first time in his life, Flinky was rendered speechless as he beheld a real Searat captain.

Raga Bol was the complete picture of a barbarian chieftain—from his hooped brass earrings and tawdry silk finery, to his silver hook, gold teeth, curved scimitar and the lethal stiletto he was using to pick at a roasted pike. He spat a fishbone into the fire and picked at his teeth with the hook. Looking both stoats up and down, Raga Bol consulted the fat rat.

“Who are these two barnacles, Glimbo?”

Flinky began stammering out an answer. “If it please, yore 'onour, we was just . . .”

Splat!
Raga Bol leaned forward and struck Flinky a slap across his mouth with the pike. “Did I speak to ye, stoat?”

The hook shot out, catching Flinky's jerkin. He was yanked forward, under the cold glare of the wickedest eyes he had ever looked into.

He felt the Searat's hot breath on his face as the rasping voice growled out, “Guard yore tongue, mudbrain, or I'll carve it out an' feed it to ye. Speak now, wot's in those sacks?”

Flinky's throat bobbed as he gasped out, “F . . . f . . . fruit, sir!”

Raga Bol stuck his stiletto in the sack Flinky was holding. He booted the stoat backward, causing the blade to rip through the sack. Flinky went sprawling amid the fruit which spilled out onto the ground.

The Searat scowled. “Fruit? Is that all ye brought? No booty, weapons, not even a brace o' birds or a decent fish. Just fruit!”

Glimbo wrenched the sack from Crinktail. He emptied it over Flinky, who lay cringing on the ground. “Sink me! This 'un's brought fruit as well, Cap'n. They must be both stoopid in d'brain!”

Gripping hold of Crinktail, Glimbo shook her until her teeth rattled, bellowing in the hapless stoat's face. “Yore stoopid in d'brain, wot are ye?”

Crinktail gabbled out something that sounded like “Stooballainnabrab!”

The Searats crowded round laughing. They tore the jerkins from both stoats, and robbed them of their belts and knives.

Stripped to the fur, Flinky and Crinktail huddled together, eyes wide with terror as the Searats licked their knifeblades and winked wickedly at them.

Raga stroked under his chin, with the polished curve of his pawhook. “The woodlands round here are packed with fruit, an' ye bring me two sacks o' the stuff? Right then, me beauties, I'll tell ye what we'll do. What'd ye like, an apple or a pear?”

Crinktail spoke, her voice quivery with terror. “Apples, sir.”

Raga smiled, showing several gold-capped fangs. “Haharr, apples it is then. Ferron, jam an apple apiece in their gobs, 'twill stop 'em singin' out while they're roastin'!”

Ferron, a tall, gaunt-faced rat, sorted through the fruit until he came up with two large, rosy apples. He strode over to the two victims, but before he could start, Flinky yelled, “Loot! Treasure! Booty an' magic swords!”

Raga's long blade rasped out of its scabbard. Resting the point against Flinky's nose, the captain spoke just one word—“Where?”

The stoat answered speedily, knowing his life depended on it. “Sure, 'tis at the Abbey o' Redwall, sir, only a good ould march from here. All the plunder yore 'eart could desire!”

The swordtip lifted as Raga looked around the ugly faces of his leering crew. “Give 'em back their stuff. Come 'ither, mates. Sit 'ere by me, where I can carve cobs off'n ye if yore tellin' me fibs. I can't abide fibbers, can you, messmate?”

Flinky shook his head vigourously. “Sure those fibbers are the worst ould kind of beasts ever born, ain't that right?”

Crinktail hastened to agree with him. “Fibbers are villains!”

Raga Bol narrowed his frightening eyes and glared at his prisoners, who sat as if hypnotised. Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Aharrharrharrharr! That's wot I like to 'ear, me liddle fishes. Avast there, Blowfly, bring grog fer our messmates!”

Blowfly, a malodourous, greasy-looking rat, brought three gigantic pottery jars and a keg of grog, which he rolled along by kicking it. He filled the jars brimful, issuing one to each of
them. Both stoats quailed at the sight of the fearsome-smelling brew. Bol drained half of his at one huge swig, smacked his lips and winked broadly at them. “Good 'ole seaweed'n'fish'ead grog, ain' nothin' like it! Aharr, Raga Bol can't abide prissy liddle creatures wot don't like grog. Drink 'earty now!”

Gagging and spluttering, Flinky and Crinktail tried to sup the fiery liquor. The Searat crew gathered round, grinning and guffawing as they watched the stoats trying to cope with the grog. Finishing his swiftly, Raga observed his victims closely. “Cummon, buckoes, no shilly-shallyin' there, bottoms up, an' don't ye leave none for the fishes!”

Grog was dribbling down Flinky's chest fur by the time he finished. Something odd was happening to his eyes. In front of him sat three Raga Bols. His head was whirling, and his tongue felt as though it belonged to someone else. He hiccupped. “Heeheehee, hic! Sure, that was a prime ould, hic, droppa grog, hic hic! Ain't that right, hic, eh, Crinky, hic!”

Crinktail gazed woozily at her empty jar and giggled. “Sh'marvelloush! Makesh y'feel like a battlin' badger, heehee, whoops!”

She was knocked flat on her back. Raga, who had kicked her over, stood glaring down at the stoat, his sabre drawn. “Badger, wot badger? Is there a badger 'ereabouts? Have ye sighted a great giant of a stripedog? Tell me!”

Crinktail attempted to rise, but fell flat. She looked up at the Searat captain with owlish solemnity. “Wot badgersh? Heehee, we ain't seen no shtripedogs around 'ere. Don' worry, Bragger Roll, we'll fight 'em all for ye, me'n Shlinky!”

She giggled again, then passed out, senseless. A fleeting glimpse of relief crossed the Searat's face. He turned his attention to Flinky, who was swaying from side to side, and blinking drunkenly. “Ahoy, buckoe, let's talk, me'n you. I'll ask the questions, an' ye give me all the answers. The right ones if'n ye value yore skin! This Abbey o' Redwall, tell me everythin' about it. An' worrabout yore crew, 'ow many strong are they, who's yore leader, wot's 'e like? No lies, now, c'mon!”

Raga Bol's crew listened avidly as Flinky related the entire sorry tale to their captain. The stoat was drunk, but not so
drunk that he didn't know what would please the murderous Raga Bol. A good portion of his story was outright lies. He told of witless Abbeybeasts, and a fabulous treasure, laying great emphasis on the magic sword. Flinky was good at what he did, having spent most of his life lying and pleasing others. The captain and his crew believed the yarn. There followed much winking, nudging, whispering and gleeful rubbing of paws, even from Raga Bol. This was going to be a picnic, an orgy of looting and slaughter. A real Searat's dream come true!

The Searat crew made ready to march. Raga Bol delayed moving, since there was one thing still bothering the captain's mind—the fate of the giant stripedog. Giving orders for the crew to stand ready, he marched back along their trail alone, looking for signs of his assassin's return.

After an hour or so, Raga Bol glanced up at the sky. Dark rolling clouds, coupled with the distant rumble of thunder, presaged the arrival of a sizeable storm. He turned his gaze to the path ahead, where the foliage was swaying in the hot wind. The Searat's keen eyes and ears missed nothing. He saw the shrubbery moving the wrong way at one point and heard the moans and laboured gasping of somebeast coming slowly up the trail toward him.

It was Jibsnout, leaning heavily on an impromptu crutch he had fashioned from a branch. Raga Bol hastened to intercept him, frowning with false concern. “Jibsnout, matey, are ye wounded? Have ye news of the stripedog? Where are those sons of Wirga, 'ave they deserted ye?”

The stolid Searat slumped wearily down, his tongue licking the first fat drops of rain that fell through the woodland canopy. He looked up at Raga Bol kneeling at his side.

“Cap'n, we stood no chance! That stripedog 'ad a squirrel wid 'im, they ambushed us! Two of Wirga's sons were slayed. The other one ran away, though 'e wouldn't'a got far, I wager. I was shot through the footpaw by the stripedog, then 'e took my blade. I thought 'e was gonna kill me, but 'e tended to the wound an' sent me back to ye wid a message, Cap'n. The stripedog sez to tell ye that 'is name is Lonna Bowstripe, an' that 'e's comin' after ye, Cap'n Bol. Aye, yoreself an' all the crew, me too. We're all deadbeasts, d'ye hear me, walkin'
deadbeasts! That big Lonna beast is goin' to slay us one by one, every ratjack of us! Take me word fer it, Cap'n, 'e's a mighty warrior but a real madbeast! I saw it in 'is eyes, they was red as fire. The stripedog'll finish us, all of us, I believe wot 'e said!”

A jagged lightning flash lit up the gloomy woodlands; thunder rattled closer and the rain came in earnest. Raga Bol held Jibsnout close to him, murmuring softly. “Hush now, mate, no stripedog's goin' to harm ye. This storm'll wash out all our tracks, nobeast'll find us then. Besides, we'll be snug inside of a big stone fortress, wid vittles to spare an' more loot than ye've ever clapped eyes on. Hahaarr, 'ow'll that suit ye matey, eh?”

Jibsnout blinked rain from his eyes. “That'll suit me good, Cap'n.”

Bol held him closer, whispering in his ear, “Ye won't breathe a word about no stripedog to the crew now, will ye, me ole mate?”

Jibsnout smiled at his captain. “You know me, Cap'n Bol. None of 'em will 'ear a word from my mouth!”

Raga Bol smiled back at Jibsnout. “So they won't, mate, yore right.”

He slew Jibsnout with a single thrust of his stiletto. Shoving the body into the bushes, Raga Bol sloshed back through the battering downpour, muttering to himself. “They all talks sooner or later, but you was right, Jibsnout. Nobeast'll 'ear a word from yore mouth.”

The storms which had been battering the high cliffsides slackened off to a steady downpour. Fenna popped her head outside the cave, shielding her eyes. “It's hard to see anything properly on a rainy night. No sign of Horty yet, I do hope he's alr . . .”

A monolithic shape loomed out of the darkness, silent as a moonshadow. The squirrelmaid staggered backward as a badger of massive proportions padded in. Over his shoulder lay Horty, draped like a limp rag. The badger carried on past them, to the back of the cave, his deep growl echoing.

“I found your friend, never fear, he'll come to his senses before too long. Be still now until I get a fire going.”

Bragoon's paw stayed Springald from rising. “Be still, Spring, do as our friend says.”

They heard steel strike flint, as the badger's soft breath coaxed flame from the sparks that fell onto the tinder. Soon a pale light flickered. It became a proper fire when the badger added dried grass and twigs to it. He banked it up with broken pine branches, waited a moment, then turned to face the travellers. Bragoon had encountered a badger or two before, but none like this one. Warrior was written all over this giant beast—from the great bow he carried, to the long quiver full of arrows, to the lethal dagger strapped below his shoulder. He wore a simple smock of rust-hued homespun, belted with a woven sash.

But it was his face that denoted his calling. A deep, jagged scar ran lengthwise across the broad-striped muzzle, with stitchmarks pocking either side. The dark eyes remained impassive, reflecting the firelight. The otter judged him to be one of those fated creatures cursed with that malady called Bloodwrath—the red tinge mixed with the creamy eye whites betrayed it. Bragoon had heard tales of such badgers that described them as terrible to behold and unstoppable in battle. The otter held out his paw, flat, with the palm upward, a sign of peace. The badger did likewise. Then he placed his paw on top, making Bragoon's look like the tiny paw of a Dibbun. He introduced himself.

“I am Lonna Bowstripe. This is not my cave, but you are welcome to stay here until the hare recovers. I saw you escape those rats today and knew you would shelter up here. I watched from the hills what a brave thing your friend did. I killed those three rats who tried to capture him—vermin are bullies and murderers, they are no great loss to anybeast. Who are you, why are you in this country?”

The otter bowed respectfully. “I am Bragoon. This is Saro, Fenna and Springald. The hare is named Horty. We are travellers.” He gestured upward toward the plateau on top of the cliffs. “We are seeking a place called Loamhedge. It lies somewhere up there.”

Lonna began stringing his bow. “A dangerous quest, friend. There are many Darrat rats out there still. Their captain was one of the three I slew. You need to reach the clifftops without interference from them. Your journey will be hard enough without rats following you. Perhaps they are camped in the area. I will warn them off. Pass me an arrow, Fenna.”

The squirrelmaid took a shaft, nearly as long as she was, from the badger's quiver. They watched Lonna blunt the point by jamming an old pinecone over it. He held it to the fire until it was blazing and crackling. Testing the air outside the cave, the badger seemed satisfied.

“It's not raining too heavily now, the shaft should burn for a bit before it goes out.” With a single graceful move, Lonna set the blazing arrow on his string, drawing the shaft back until the burning end almost touched the bow.
Whooooosh!
It shot off like a rocket, into the night sky above the dunes.

Throwing back his head, the big beast roared out in a thunderous voice that echoed around the cave and along the cliffsides. “I am Lonna Bowstripe! I eat rats! I will taste the blood of any who are here by dawn! Eulaliiiiiaaaaaaa!”

He returned to the fire as they took their paws from ringing ears and began tending to Horty. Lonna smiled and shook his head as Horty began to stir. “He looks hard to kill—I've heard it said that hares are perilous beasts. This one will be a warrior one day.”

The giant badger looked so large and ferocious in the firelight that Springald could readily understand how the rats would fear him. She enquired politely, “Sir, you didn't really eat three rats, did you?”

The smile still lingered on Lonna's lips. “Nay, little maid, don't believe all you hear. The language of death and violence is all that vermin understand. I'd sooner devour a crushed toad that was four seasons dead than eat rat. I eat only the same food as you do.”

“Eat? I say, did some chap mention eats? I'm famished!”

Bragoon assisted the incorrigible hare to sit upright. “Oh, this 'un's awake, sure enough. Well, how d'ye feel, young famine belly? Oh, ye'd better thank the beast who saved ye. This is Lonna Bowstripe.”

Horty did an exaggerated double take at the huge badger. He winked cheekily. “Good grief, sah, bet you can pack the jolly old provisions away, wot wot?”

They pooled the resources of their packs and were soon toasting yellow cheese and oat scones over the fire. Saro poured dandelion and burdock cordial for the company. Springald split some loaves of nutbread and spread them with honey.

Lonna glanced sideways at Horty, taken aback by the young hare's appetite. “Great seasons, talk about packing provisions away! Where do you put it all? You're a bottomless pit!”

They all burst into laughter at the sight of Horty's indignant face.

Over the next few hours, they exchanged their stories. The five friends told Lonna all about Redwall and its creatures. They also explained Martha's situation and the reason
for their quest. When the giant badger related his own personal history, they were greatly saddened and angry, too. There was a hushed silence when he came to the end of his narrative. Lonna ran his paw down the fearsome scar, tracing it across his still face.

“They will pay with their lives, Raga Bol and all his vermin crew. As sure as the days break and the seasons turn!”

The five travellers did not doubt a word that he uttered.

Lonna rose and replenished the fire. “You must sleep now. Tomorrow will be a hard day's climbing. I think the plateau above the cliffs is no place for the fainthearted. Take a good rest tonight, I'll guard the cave entrance.”

Bragoon uncovered his sword. “I'll keep ye company, Lonna. Two guards are better'n one, an' four eyes can see more than two.”

They sat together at the cave entrance. Lonna could not take his gaze from the otter's sword, drawn to it like a magnet to metal. “That is indeed a wondrous weapon you carry, Bragoon.”

The otter let the firelight play along the blade. “Aye, 'tis so, though it don't belong t'me. Abbot Carrul of Redwall loaned it t'me the day we left. I think he did it not just for our protection, but as a sort o' good-luck charm for the journey. This sword belongs at the Abbey. 'Twas owned in the far olden seasons by a mouse. His name was Martin the Warrior, one o' the founders of Redwall. I was told stories of Martin an' his sword when I was nought but a Dibbun. They say it was forged an' made by a great badger lord, a warrior himself, an' a very skilled swordsmith, as ye can see. He made it from a lump of ore that fell from the sky, a piece of a star, I was told. This badger, he was Lord of Salamandastron, a mountain fortress. Did ye ever hear of that place, Lonna?”

The dark eyes of the giant flashed. “Every badger knows the name of Salamandastron. I will go there myself someday. I feel my days will end there—but only when my score with Raga Bol is settled.”

 

Bragoon sat up with a start, realising that he had dropped off to sleep during the night, something he would never have done in his younger seasons. Dawnlight was filtering into the cave, and
Lonna Bowstripe was gone. As Saro was rekindling the fire from its embers, the three young ones were just waking.

She gave Bragoon a beaker of hot mint tea. “Mornin', matey. Well, our bigbeast left while it was still dark. I saw 'im go, y'know.”

Fenna poured tea for herself. “Lonna's gone?”

Saro nodded. “Aye, you lot were all asleep. Horty's snorin' woke me, sounded like a tribe o' stuffed-up frogs.”

The young hare huffed indignantly at her, but Saro carried on. “I was lyin' there wide awake, watchin' Lonna in the fireglow. He'd picked up the sword o' Martin to admire it. Well, next thing that badger went stiff as a frozen pike, sittin' there starin' at the blade as if it was speakin' to 'im. I watched for a while, then Horty started snorin' agin. So I gave 'im a good kick an' settled back to catch a nap.”

Horty interrupted. “Blinkin' cadess, kickin' a chap in mid slumber? Rank bad manners, I'd say. Hmph!”

The elderly squirrel shrugged. “When I woke up agin, he'd gone.”

Bragoon slapped his rudder against the rock floor. “I'll wager 'twas Martin the Warrior, speakin' to Lonna through the sword. He told the badger where t'find Raga Bol, an' Lonna took off after the villain!”

Bragoon wrapped the sword up reverently as Horty chuckled. “I bet old Raggaballoon wotsisname wouldn't be too pleased with Martin, if he knew. Snitchin' about him to that bally great hulk. I'd hate to be in his way when he feels peevish. Frazzlin' frogs, imagine what old Lonna'll do to that vermin when he catches up with him, wot wot!”

Bragoon began packing his belongings. “I wouldn't like to imagine, mate. That's Lonna's business, an' I'm sure he can take care of it well. But we've got our own problems to tend. Up an' on to Loamhedge, mateys!”

Morning boded bright as they left the cave and began climbing the cliff to its top. It was hard going until the two squirrels, Saro and Fenna, went ahead. Soon they were on top of the cliff. Lowering down a rope, they heaved up all the packs, then secured the rope around a rock, allowing the other three to haul themselves up.

It was a breathtaking panorama from the plateau. Horty's keen eyes spotted a small dark smudge, moving across the scrublands in the distance. He pointed. “I say, you chaps, that could be thingummy, er, Lonna!”

Springald shaded her eyes. “So it could! He's headed northwest, that's the direction we came from. Saro, d'you suppose he's going to Redwall?”

Sarobando felt they were wasting time sightseeing. “I couldn't really say, missy, but one thing's shore, we ain't goin' to Redwall. 'Tis Loamhedge we want. So stop lookin' backwards an' let's go for'ard. Quick march!”

Shimmering flatlands, devoid of vegetation or shade, rolled out before them. Small swirls of dust eddied in spirals on the hot breeze. Sarobando squinted her eyes against the distance.

“Miss Fenna, yore in charge o' the drinks, we'll have t'be stingy with liquid. It might be some time afore we run across water by the look o' things.”

Immediately after the squirrel mentioned drinks, Horty began feeling thirsty. “I say, Fenna old gel, pass me that canteen, there's a good little treebounder. I'm parched!”

Fenna marched right on past him. “We'll drink at midday and not before, so forget about it and keep going.”

The young hare appealed to his comrades. “Wot? Did you chaps hear this heartless curmudgeon?”

Bragoon grinned pitilessly at Horty. “Aye, loud an' clear, mate. Wot's the matter, are ye thirsty already?”

The incorrigible hare clapped a paw to his throat dramatically. “Me flippin' mouth's like a sandpit, an' the old tongue feels like a bally feather mattress. A drink, for pity's sake, marm!”

Saro levelled a paw at him. “Ye drink when Fenna tells ye. Now get a slingstone pebble an' suck it. That'll keep the thirst off as y'march, 'tis an old trick.”

Horty pulled a pebble from his pouch, looked at it in disgust, then put it back. “Permission to sing, sah!”

The otter waved a paw in the air. “Sing y'self blue in the face for all I care, but forget about drinkin'.”

Horty had to dig through his store of ballads and ditties, but he soon came up with an appropriate one.

 

“I knew a jolly old spider, and she always used t'say,

she could dive in a bath of cider, an' swim around all day.

Oh I would like to be that spider,

floatin' round in sparklin' cider,

she'd drink an drink, 'til she started to sink,

there'd be so much cider inside o' that spider!

 

I once knew a friendly flea, to whom I used to chat,

his favourite drink was ice-cold tea, what d'ye think of that?

Oh I would like to be that flea,

sippin' cups of ice-cold tea,

all in fine fettle from a rusty kettle,

'til I drank as much tea as that flea!

 

O cider spider, tea an' flea,

'tis all good manner o' drinks for me.

I'm an absolute whizz for strawberry fizz,

I'll sup old ale 'til I turn pale,

I'd never bilk at greensap milk.