Loamhedge (39 page)

Fenna, however, still had a question that needed answering. “But we saw the place, there was absolutely nothing down there but bones, powdery wood and dust. How did you come to find it?”

Bragoon paused briefly before launching into his explanation. “It was at the bottom o' that stone thing where Abbess Sylvaticus lay . . .”

Springald interrupted. “The plinth, you mean?”

Saro nodded. “Aye, the plinth, that was it. We was about
to leave the place, when I took one o' those torches off'n the wall, 'cos our torch 'ad gone out. Well, I stubbed me footpaw on the bottom o' the plinth, an' one o' the stones came loose. Brag pulled it out an' there 'twas, lyin' as safe an' neat as ye like, be'ind a stone all that time.”

Fenna pursued her enquiry. “But why hadn't it turned to dust like everything else down there?”

Bragoon picked something that resembled a tiny pellet from under his pawnail. “See . . . beeswax. It was wrapped tight in dock leaves covered with beeswax. I tell ye, it was difficult, separatin' that liddle roll o' paper from the beeswax, but we did it!”

Toobledum poured them more drink. “Well done, mates, you found wot you was questin' for. I'm 'appy for ye, one an' all!”

Horty humphed. “Three scones on a wall, ridiculous, wot?”

Saro pulled Horty upright. “I've had enough o' this nonsense. Toobledum, bring me some 'ot water, not too 'ot, mind. Brag, lay Horty on one side, wid that muddy ear upwards, an sit on 'im. I couldn't put up with 'im talkin' rubbish all the way 'ome!”

Horty guffawed. “Hawhawhaw! Walkin' cabbage an' a bone? Poor old Saro's finally gone off her rocker, wot!”

Sudden panic struck as Bragoon pushed Horty down and sat on him. “What the . . . ? Gerroff me, you great plank-tailed bounder! Good grief, what's that nutty old squirrel doin' with a jug o' steamin' water? Help, somebeast, help! They're tryin' to kill me! Murderers, assassins! Boilin' me blinkin' brain, an' just 'cos I scoffed three flamin' bowls of stew? Spring, Fenna, strike the cads with rocks'n'clubs, save me!”

But no help was forthcoming. The otter held him tight whilst Saro washed out his ear with warm water. A moment later it was all over. Toobledum gently treated the young hare's cleaned-up ear.

“There there, Sir Horty, ye'll live t'cook agin. This is an ole dormouse remedy, my special ointment. I makes it wid sanicle, feverfew an' a few secret herbs. So, 'ow does that feel, young master?”

Horty relaxed, closing his eyes blissfully. “Bloomin'
marvellous, old top, me ear is at peace an' very comfortable. Amazin' thing, too, I can hear again!”

Saro wiped mud and moss from her paws. “See, we never killed ye after all.”

Springald muttered under her breath. “Pity.”

Bragoon whispered back to her. “Shame we missed our chance.”

Fenna's eyes twinkled as she chuckled along with them. “Just think of the food we'd have saved without a hare to feed.”

Horty opened one eye and fixed them with a baleful stare. “I heard all that, you rotters!”

They burst into laughter; even little Bubbub did a squeaky giggle.

Dawn of the following day saw the travellers bidding farewell to the dormouse and his lizard.

Fenna hugged the pair fondly. “Why don't you come with us to Redwall? You'd both be very welcome there.”

Toobledum's hat wobbled as he shook his head. “Nay, pretty miss, me'n likkle Bubbub wouldn't ever leave Loam'edge. We ain't got much, but 'tis 'ome to us.”

Saro stroked the little sand lizard one last time.

Bragoon clasped the old dormouse's paw warmly. “As ye wish, matey, take care of each other, an' live happy. Good-bye an' good fortune to ye!”

Standing on the hilltop above the valley, the five travellers looked back. Bubbub was shaking his tail as Toobledum waved his hat and shouted, “Fare ye well, one an' all, an' take our good wishes with ye!”

Fenna wiped her eyes as they marched off into the wastelands. “Those poor creatures, it must be terrible for them. Living that lonely life, and with so little to eat.”

Bragoon ruffled her ears affectionately. “Aye, they're both goodbeasts, Fenn. But don't ye go believin' all that ole dormouse told ye, miss. Yore too young an' soft'earted.”

Horty took a pull from his canteen, filled with fresh water from Toobledum's well. “Steady on, I liked Toob an' Bub. Bit unkind to talk about the old chap like that, wot?”

Springald agreed with him. “I think so, too. They've only
got each other for company, and they shared what little they have. Why shouldn't we believe what Toobledum said?”

The otter cast a wry glance at his old friend. “That dormouse is a hermit, he likes bein' alone. As fer not havin' much in the way o' vittles . . . tell 'em, Saro.”

The aging squirrel explained. “When I was swillin' Horty's ear out, I watched Toobledum goin' to fetch that special ointment. Hah, the ole fogy didn't think I could see 'im. He went into a corner an' lifted a floorstone. Do ye know wot was underneath it? A cellar, packed from wall t'wall wid vittles. Drinks, dried fruits, veggibles, nuts, enough t'feed an army fer ten seasons. That's 'ow short o' food Mister Toobledum was, mates. Brag saw it, too!”

Horty stopped in his tracks. “Well, the flamin' old fraud, wolfin' down all our grub an' tellin' whoppin' fibs about havin' none himself. What a blinkin' cheek!”

Fenna could hardly believe what she had heard. “That's a shameful thing to do, the old liar!”

Springald was about to add to their condemnation of Toobledum, when the otter cut in. “Don't be too 'ard on the ole feller. Vittles an' drink is precious in this region. If ye've got none, yore a deadbeast. Toobledum was only thinkin' of hisself an' liddle Bubbub. We were just passin' visitors. Now that we've gone, he's got to provide for 'imself an' his mate. 'Tis called survival. Ye don't go dashin' to the first beast ye see an' offerin' them a cellarful o' grub, ye takes care of yore own first.”

Fenna held up her paws. “Alright, we understand, Toobledum's only doing what's best for himself and Bubbub. Please don't rub it in by telling us we're only young and we'll learn.”

Saro winked knowingly at her. “Wouldn't dream of it . . . young 'un!”

 

A raven flew out of the great gorge. Soaring high, it hovered on the evening thermals, a dark sinister shape framed against the setting sun for a brief moment. Then it swept off southward. Down below, standing at one of the three cave entrances, a cloaked figure watched the bird's departure, then turned and went into the tunnel. Pushing through the mass of dark creatures, the cloaked one made its way to where the
sulphurous flame burned constantly, a tall column of fire, giving off its acrid stench.

Kharanjul, the Great Wearet Slayer, stood waiting for the news his guard captain brought. The cloaked creature lay flat on the rocky floor and lifted its face.

“It is as ye said, Mighty Lord, the travellers are even now returning, to sully thy abyss with their presence!”

Kharanjul's hideous face stared impassively down at the captain. “Did Korvusa say when they would arrive in my domain?”

The speaker lowered his eyes from the Wearet's piercing gaze. “The bird said that they would reach the gorge rim in the second hour of darkness, Great Slayer.”

Kharanjul's trident pointed at the messenger. “Take a score of my creatures across, to the other side of the long tree. Hide there and await my signal.”

Accompanied by twenty spearbearers, the captain marched out, prepared to cross the tree trunk that spanned the forbidding drop.

The Wearet's harsh voice grated out, echoing around the cavern. “None of the trespassers must be slain, they are to be taken alive . . . to die at my pleasure!”

The dark masses rose, spearblades glinting as they chanted, “Blood of the Wearet runs in thy veins, O Mighty Kharanjul. Ruler of the Abyss! Lord of Life and Death!”

Abbot Carrul sat soaking up the warm morning sun at the orchard entrance. Folding his paws across his stomach, he smiled at Old Phredd, sitting across from him at the breakfast buffet table. The ancient hedgehog Gatekeeper was chatting away to a bumblebee, which had landed on the rim of his beaker.

“Dearie me, have you seen the mess those vermin made of my gatehouse? There's scrolls, books and parchments scattered about on the floor. One would think a herd of wild beasts had been living there. Hmm, they have really, haven't they?”

The bee buzzed, vibrating its tiny wings. Phredd pointed a bony paw at it. “Oh, that's easy for you to say, my friend. But the curtains have been ripped, the cupboards flung open and the bed linen will have to be scrubbed twice before I use it again. Thrice, even!”

Carrul reassured his old friend. “Don't worry so! Stretch your paws and enjoy being outdoors in our own Abbey again. We've time aplenty to put everything right, Phredd—the remainder of summer and all the autumn.”

Foremole Dwurl and a crew of his worthies trundled up to the table. The mole tugged his snout in respectful salute. “Me'n moi moles've cleared opp all ee gurt 'eap o' rubble wot was blocken ee h'Abbey door h'entrence, zurr. Et bee's ready furr use naow, arfter they'm scrubbed ee wuddwurk daown!”

Carrul beamed gratefully at the Foremole. “Well done, Dwurl, come and have some more breakfast. There's lots of it left here, do help yourselves.”

Dwurl and his molecrew, needing no second invitation, fell to with a will.

“Thankee, zurr. Much h'obliged oi'm shurr!”

Toran and Martha came running across the lawn. The ottercook called out, “Gangway, make room there, mates, two more 'ungry workers comin' in for second brekkist!”

Carrul indicated two spaces either side of himself. “Well, what have you two been up to? I haven't seen you since first serving at dawn.”

Martha cut herself a slice of fruitcake. “Unblocking the windows in Great Hall, Father. Brother Gelf says he's got extra panes in the attic storeroom. The Dibbuns have gone up there to sort them out with him.”

Foremole Dwurl looked up from his mushroom pastie. “Hurr, better'n sennin' they'm likkle villyuns into ee h'orchard to 'elp wid ee fruit'n'berries. Hurr hurr, they'm loike to h'eat umselfs sick afore sundaown!”

Sister Setiva was next to put in an appearance. “Och, ye should see the state o' yon dormitory, it's no fit for worms tae crawl in. Ah'm goin' tae need some bonny helpers tae make et habitable again. Martha lassie, have ye seen that braw badger taeday?”

The haremaid shook her head. “No, Sister, last beast to see him was Granmum Gurvel. He took a few scones from the kitchen and hurried off. Wonder where he's gone?”

Toran supplied the answer. “Lonna said he'd sworn to wipe out all the Searats. A few of 'em escaped yesterday by the wallgates. I saw 'im fillin' up his quiver, an' waxin' that big bow, after we left the walltop last night. I thought better of askin' 'im where he was bound.”

Martha poured pennycress cordial for the ottercook. “I don't blame you, mate. Lonna can flare up like lightning. If and when he returns, I won't be pressing him about where he's been. I pity those Searats, though. If it were me, I'd have let them go. They've learned their lesson, and a hard and bloody one it was, too!”

Old Phredd spoke to a bowl of oatmeal he was finishing.
“Ah, but Martha isn't him, is she? Big badger warriors like that are different from anybeast. If he swore to wipe out all those Searats, well that's just what he'll do. Every one of them, down to the last rat!”

 

The last rat was, in fact, running for his life, out on the western flatlands. His tongue lolled from one side of his mouth as he looked over his shoulder at the distant figure of the avenging giant. Lonna was standing still, a long distance away. The Searat stopped as well, collapsing in a heap, his limbs wobbling and trembling uncontrollably. Then he bared his stained fangs at the sky and laughed breathlessly.

“Haharrharr . . . Done it! Can't get me now, stripedog . . . Outta yore range now . . . I escaped ye . . . stripedog!”

The big badger grunted with exertion as he leaned down on the bow, bending it so that he tightened the string by taking another loop around the end of the thick yew wood. He shed his quiver. Going through the arrows, Lonna selected one. Then, holding it to his eye, he peered down the shaft to check that it was straight and true. Spreading both footpaws, Lonna gripped the ground firmly, wetted his upper lip and raised his head to feel which way the breeze was blowing. Satisfied, he looked toward the Searat, gauging the distance. Then he placed the shaft on his bowstring and drew back. The string was resting against one scarred ear, the bow strained in a mighty arc to its full capacity. After glancing once more at the distant Searat, Lonna elevated the bow slightly skyward and let fly.

The Searat rose upright, waving his sword at the tiny figure out on the flatlands. “Outran ye, stripedog! I beat ye, didn't I?”

A distant, blood-curdling cry answered him. “Eulalillllaaaaaa!”

The arrow came like a thunderbolt out of the blue.

Lonna strode out to view his last work of vengeance. Spread-eagled on the coarse grass, the Searat lay faceup. His eyes were wide open, staring at a sun that he would never see again, the long arrow standing out from the centre of his forehead.

The badger gazed down at the last rat of Raga Bol's once mighty crew. “Nobeast can outrun Lonna Bowstripe's arrow. Nobeast!”

Unstringing the bow, Lonna placed it lengthways across his broad shoulders, resting his paws on the weapon. Turning his back on the Searat, he strode east through the high summer midday to Redwall Abbey.

 

Night had fallen as the travellers neared the great gorge. They were weary after marching since early morning that day.

Bragoon called a halt within a short distance of the rim. “We'll take a breather, but without any fires. Eat'n'drink wot ye need, 'cos we'll be leavin' the rest behind.”

Horty slumped down gratefully. “I say, what's the point of leavin' bloomin' good scoff here? Silly if you ask me, wot!”

The otter spoke in a low voice to the three young ones. “Keep yore voices down 'til we're on the other side o' that gorge, mates. I didn't like the place last time we crossed it, an' I likes it even less now. We've got to travel fast'n'light when we crosses that big tree trunk, so keep yore wits sharp!”

Saro had the rope. She tied a short, thick piece of wood crosswise to one end of it. “Those broken staves we stuck atop o' the other side should still be in place. If'n I throws it right, this chunk o' wood will lodge atween 'em, an' we can climb up sharpish.”

Springald cast a worried glance at the pair. “You two don't like that gorge one little bit, do you? Don't fret, we'll cross it as quick and quiet as you like.”

Saro tested the knot she had tied around the wood. “Aye, you do that, Spring. I'll be in front of ye, an' Brag'll bring up the rear. Just do as yore told, an' everythin' will be alright. I don't like that gorge any more'n Brag does. That place has a bad feel to it!”

Fenna's voice was small and shaky as she tried to make a joke. “Don't worry about us. We're young and we've got a lot to learn, but we're willing to listen to experienced old fogies.”

Grasping her paw, Bragoon smiled in the darkness. “That's the spirit, missy. Right! Up on yore hunkers, mates. Let's get ye safe back to Redwall.”

Drawing the sword of Martin from behind his shoulder, the otter led them off toward the rim.

Horty took one rueful glance at the small heap of provisions on the ground, then uttered a small sigh. “What a flamin' waste. Ah well, this is it, chaps, off we jolly well go!”

The edge of the chasm loomed up, sooner than they had expected. Saro found the same boulder she had used on the previous trip. Making a wide loop in the rope's free end, she placed it about the big stone, lowering the end with the wood attached into the gorge below. Bragoon went first. Climbing carefully, he reached the ledge in front of the three cave entrances. He held the wood, so that it would not clack against the rock wall. Springald came next, followed by Horty, then Fenna. Saro was last to descend. She flipped the rope deftly, catching the end as it unlooped from the boulder and dropped down.

Before Bragoon stepped onto the tree trunk, he pressed something into Fenna's paw and whispered, “Shove this in yore belt pouch, no questions.” Without a word, the squirrelmaid stuffed the object into her pouch, then followed the otter out onto the tree trunk bridge.

Total silence and engulfing dark reigned in the yawning chasm. Holding one another's paws, the five travellers edged slowly forward, step by step. They were almost across to the far side when a harsh, evil laugh sounded out from behind them.

Suddenly the lights of many smoking torches lit up the gorge. Saro turned, gasping at the incredible sight.

 

Kharanjul stood on the trunk, backed by an army of vermin, each holding a torch in one paw and a spear in the other. They were mainly ferrets and weasels, with a scattering of large rats among them. Everybeast's fur was thickly daubed with a sickly yellow-and-green substance, giving them a sinister, spectral appearance. But it was the horrific form of their leader that stood out.

The Wearet swung back his cloak, revealing a misshapen but powerfully bulky torso. As he gestured at them with a big, three-pronged trident, his monstrous face split into an ugly grin. “Stop where ye stand, trespasser! You belong to
Kharanjul, Lord of the Abyss! I will punish you for intruding on my domain!”

Saro pushed Horty forward. “Keep goin', we're almost across!”

Bragoon was about to jump from the log onto the opposite ledge, when a score of vermin rose up in front of him.

The captain, a tall weasel, snarled in his face. “Stand still! Obey the Great Lord of Life and Death!”

The otter laughed, then slew him with a single swordthrust. Catching the captain's spear as it fell, Bragoon tossed it back to Saro. “Keep 'em busy, mate. Redwaaaaaallllll!”

Hurling himself from the tree trunk, Bragoon roared like a madbeast as he dealt out death and destruction with the sword of Martin the Warrior. “Heeeeeyaaaaaah! Grab some spears, young 'uns! No pack o' fancy-talkin' vermin are goin' to stop us Redwallers!”

Horty seized a long spear and was suddenly in the thick of the battle, whooping and bellowing. “Forward the buffs, give 'em blood'n'vinegar. Chaaaaarge!”

Belting a weasel flying into the abyss, the young hare stood shoulder to shoulder with the otter—cutting, thrusting and slashing. Springald and Fenna armed themselves with fallen spears. They turned to help Saro, but the aging squirrel would have none of it. Single-pawed, she held the centre of the log bridge, letting none pass. Using her spearblade, she slashed at a ferret, flaying his footpaw. He hopped off into midair and vanished screaming.

Saro yelled at the two Abbeymaids. “Take this rope an' see if ye can fix it t'the top. Then go an' help Brag an' Horty. I'm fine right 'ere, they can only come at me one at a time!”

They obeyed her immediately. As they jumped off the tree trunk, a big rat charged Springald, but he vanished over the rim with a yowl of dismay when Fenna pushed him with her spearbutt.

The squirrelmaid was momentarily stunned. “I've just slain somebeast!”

Springald shouted. “Good! Mind your back, Fenn!”

The mousemaid deflected a spear with her own. She thrust
and saw the look of surprised horror on the vermin's painted face as he fell dead.

Steeling herself, Springald stood back to back with her friend. “Keep fighting or we're deadbeasts!”

Bragoon and Horty fought their way through to the side of the two maids. The otter despatched a charging weasel, then shouted, “Gimme that rope, Spring. You three, cover my back!” Grabbing the rope, he whirled it and flung it up, but it fell back. Bragoon whirled it once more, gritting his teeth against the swordblade held between them. This time his throw was good; the chunk of wood lodged between the two broken staves which they had fixed into the plateau. The otter swung his weight onto the rope, testing it. The rope held firm. He turned to the three young ones.

“Come on, mates, up y'go! Horty, take this sword, 'tis too short for fightin' spears with. Pass me yore spear an' get climbin'!”

Horty gave him the spear and took the sword, but the hare refused to climb up. There were six vermin left to face on their side. Slaying one with a slash to the throat, Horty shook his head. “Let Spring an Fenn go, I'm stayin' here with you, sah. True blue an' never fail, that's us Braebucks, wot!”

The otter whacked a vermin over the skull with his spear, then kicked him swiftly into the abyss. Blood was flowing from a wound on his forehead as he turned on Horty furiously. “I said, git up that rope, hare. Do it now!”