Rakkety Tam (21 page)

Sister Armel whispered in the molebabe's ear. He grinned, replying, “Hurr hurr, that bee's ee h'Abbot, marm!”

The Recorder ticked her scroll. “Very good! We all call the Abbot by the title Father. Correct, stand over there!”

Mudge waved at Humble. “Oi daon't call ee Farther, zurr. Oi allus calls ee h'Abbot, duzzent oi!”

Humble smiled absentmindedly as he murmured to Burlop, “It should be almost dark outside now.”

The young Cellarhog patted his elder's paw. “Don't worry yore 'ead, Father. The Long Patrol will take care of everythin'. Come on, up ye go, 'tis yore turn.”

“Here's your riddle, Father.” Sister Screeve chuckled, then continued. “Oh, I've got this name all mixed up! It says ‘Read well baby' on my parchment. What should it say?”

Humble looked distracted. His mind was on the vermin and the hares outside. “I'm sorry, Sister, I've no idea.”

Armel encouraged him. “Oh, come on, Father, it's easy. What do we call this lovely place where we live?”

Humble answered without thinking. “Redwall Abbey. Why?”

Wandering Walt applauded loudly. “Well done, zurr, that bee's ee h'answer. Redwall Abbey!”

Screeve pointed her quill at Armel. “Any more helping with answers, Sister, and it's straight up to bed with you!”

The Dibbuns roared with laughter at the idea of an Infirmary Sister being sent off to bed like a naughty babe.

 

Darkness had descended outside. Captain Zerig signalled the two scouts from the shelter of the trees. “Go now, an' take care ye are not discovered.”

Checking their weapons, the big, hard-eyed foxes made for the south wall in utter silence. Skilled at the art of concealment, they both moved like drifting cloud shadows over the grassy sward, using every hump and hollow as they crept toward the outer ramparts.

Tergen murmured to the brigadier as he observed their every move, “Kyuuurh, they come now. Two foxes—one will go to the left, the other right. Other vermin stay hidden.”

Crumshaw kept his head low. “Scoutin' the Abbey out, eh? Sergeant, take Folderon with ye, go t'the left. Cap'n Fortindom, you take Cartwill an' take the fox on the right. I want at least one of the scum alive. I intend sendin' their leader a stern warnin'. Off y'go!”

Both Graddu and Fargil stopped at the south wallgate. They tested it and found the small wicker door locked tight. Then they parted company, searching the high walls for possible pawholds to climb and checking the earth at the wall base for soft soil or possible tunnels.

Captain Derron Fortindom was renowned in the Long Patrol for his skill with the sabre. He had fought honourably in many campaigns. Removing his cloak, he watched Cartwill easing open the locks on the small east wallgate. Fortindom slid out into the surrounding woodland, murmuring to Cartwill, “Lock this door an' stay inside, young 'un. Open it only when y'hear my voice again.”

Cartwill gripped his javelin eagerly. “But Captain . . .”

Derron Fortindom shook his head. “Those are my orders, obey 'em!”

Cartwill barred the gate, then hurried up the east steps to join some others who were spread out along the walltop.

Kersey, the runner who had lost her twin, gritted her teeth. “I'd give that scum what for if I was down there now!”

Another hare reassured her, “Don't fret, mate. The vermin ain't been born who could cross blades with Cap'n Fortindom an' live t'tell the blinkin' tale!”

Fortindom still had the sabre belted to his side. He leaned casually against a sycamore trunk, almost invisible in the darkness, watching as Graddu, inspecting the walls, drew closer. He allowed the fox to pass him by a few paces before stepping out into the open to address him.

“Tut tut, all alone, wot. You must be a bold 'un! Where's your gang, scumface?”

Graddu whirled around to face him, curved sword in one paw and a short axe in the other. He began circling Fortindom, bared fangs showing in an evil grin. “A big rabbit, all to myself? Such luck! I had to share the last one I ate, down upon the beach!”

Fortindom drew his sabre and moved, countering his circle. “Aye, it took enough of ye—a hundred to eight, wasn't it? Ssssssdeath!”

The hare captain moved like chain lightning, his sabre flashing up and across. The severed axe handle fell to the ground, almost in unison with the stricken fox. Fortindom wiped his blade upon Graddu and stepped over his carcase. Cartwill came dashing down the steps with Kersey close behind. They wrestled the doorlocks open and stood staring at the captain in dumb admiration.

He pulled Cartwill out into the woodlands, rapping an order at Kersey. “You, miss, bar the door. Come with me, Cartwill. We'll go around the outside in case the other one's runnin' away from Sergeant Wonwill. We may be able to cut the vermin off. Step lively now!”

 

The hares on the west wall stood with Folderon and Wonwill, peeping over the battlements as they monitored the progress of the remaining white fox along the outer walls.

When the sergeant heard the main gates rattle slightly, he whispered to the hares around him, “Quick'n'quiet's the drill now, mates. We got to take this vermin alive. Stick to my h'orders now, young 'uns.”

Fargil the fox had his curved sword through a gap in the centre of both gates, using it as a lever to release the long wooden bar. Then, without warning, the gates opened, swinging inward. Fargil found himself facing a lean, grizzled Wonwill and ten young hares. Instinctively he turned to run, but Captain Derron Fortindom already had a sabre point to his throat. “One move, sirrah, an' ye'll be crowmeat!”

Sergeant Wonwill knocked Fortindom's blade aside. “Brigadier's orders, Mister Derron. Put up yore sabre, sah. This 'un's mine. Sentries, form a ring!”

Swiftly, the hares made a circle around Wonwill and the big fox. Holding up his paws to show he was unarmed, the sergeant addressed the hulking Fargil. “Yore a big, tough-lookin' murderer. Come on, let's see wot ye can do! An unarmed beast should be about the right mark for the likes of a bully like you!”

Fargil had his curved sword ready, but he pulled a long dagger from his belt, charging at Wonwill double-bladed. The sergeant skipped to one side, his clenched paw punching the fox's shoulder twice.

Rap! Rap!
The dagger clattered upon the path. With his numbed paw held limply by his side, Fargil let out a bellow of pain, swinging his sword back in an effort to cleave his opponent's skull.

Whoooofff!
The wind was driven from him by a hard right to his stomach. The fox was bent almost double. Crouching, Wonwill delivered two hard uppercuts to the vermin's face. Stepping on the swordblade, the sergeant
trapped it against the ground. He grabbed Fargil, hauling him upright by the ears. “H'up ye come, me bold buckoe. Let's see wot sort of a shape ye can make!”

Fargil's fangs almost bit the tip of Wonwill's nose, but the hare's forehead shot forward like a battering ram.
Crack!
Minus a few teeth, the big fox lay stretched unconscious in the centre of the circle.

Wonwill kicked aside his enemy's blade, staring woefully at Fargil. “Huh, I was just gettin' into me stride when he goes an' lays down on me. Vermin—no backbone, no grit, eh!”

The young hares applauded him lustily.

“Oh, well-hit, Sarge. That taught the blighter a lesson, wot!”

“Rather! Big clod didn't know his bottom from breakfast when ye decked him. Y'must have a head like a bloomin' boulder, Sarge!”

Fortindom stirred the prone fox with his sabre. “Nice job, Sergeant, but personally I wouldn't soil me paws on scum like that. A blade's the only cure for vermin, wot? Righto, chaps, drag him inside an' close the gates. I suspect old Crumshaw will want a word with him when he wakes up.”

 

Down in Cavern Hole, Burlop had tapped his keg of strawberry fizz. He poured out beakers for one and all, whilst Sister Screeve and Jem distributed Friar Glisum's fresh-baked pies and tarts. The riddle contest had ended with a unanimous decision that everybeast should share in the prize. Abbot Humble was still looking worried and preoccupied when Sergeant Wonwill entered, accompanied by several young hares.

Humble immediately accosted him. “Any news of the vermin attack, Sergeant?”

The veteran saluted smilingly. “Bless yore 'eart, Father, there ain't no need t'worry. Brigadier says for you to rest easy. The h'emergency is h'over!”

The home-loving Abbot heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Seasons be praised! Would you and your hares like to share supper with us? There's plenty for all, Sergeant.”

Wonwill accepted the invitation gratefully. He enjoyed the unexpected treat as Dibbuns gathered around him, exclaiming, “Sarjin', we haved a riggle concert!”

The sergeant took Mimsie the mousebabe on his knee. “Ye don't say, missie, a riggle concert! Wot's that?”

Sister Armel refilled his beaker with fizz. “She means a riddle contest, Sergeant. It was good fun.”

Perkle the hogbabe climbed up with Mimsie, who gazed up at Wonwill's leathery features. “Joonow h'any puggles or rizzles, Sarjin?”

Sister Screeve interpreted. “Perkle is asking if you know any puzzles or riddles, Sergeant. Well, do you, sir?”

Wonwill was captivated by the Abbeybabes. With no family, outside of the regiment, he found the little ones an endless source of wonder and delight. “Oh I knows 'undreds of 'em, beauty. Shall I sing one for ye? I h'aint no great singer, but I'll 'ave a try.”

Humble intervened. “Don't bother the Sergeant, Perkle. He's had a hard evening. I expect he's tired.”

But Wonwill reassured the Abbot, “No, no, Father. Singin' for the little 'un's no bother. I'd sooner be 'ere singin' for the babbies than out there knocking the stuffin' out o' vermin. Right, 'ere goes!”

The sergeant sang an old tongue twister, which was new to the Dibbuns, but all the older Redwallers joined in each chorus heartily.

 

“There once was a frog an' his name was ole Glogg,

He lived in a log on top of a bog.

He loved plum pudden an' gooseberry pie,

but if anybeast dared to come near him he'd cry.

 

Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an' pie he'd loudly cry!

Wot a hard terrible life!

 

To his abode down the road came a toad,

bearin' a load as she puffed an' blowed,

‘I'm tired of this bundle atop of my head,

I'm almost half dead but I'm fit to be wed.'

 

Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an' pie he'd loudly cry!

Abode road toad load! Head dead fit t'be wed!

Wot a hard terrible life!

 

He took both her paws an' pulled her indoors.

She swept the floors an' did all his chores.

Her bundle came open, ten tadpoles jumped out,

‘Oh good day to ye, dad.' They all gave a great shout.

 

Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an' pie he'd loudly cry!

Abode road toad load! Head dead fit t'be wed!

Dad! Dad! The frog's gone mad!

Wot a hard terrible wife!”

 

Abbot Humble patted the sergeant's back. Amid the cheers and whoops, he called to Wonwill, “Thank you, friend, and all your gallant hares, thank you for everything—from everybeast in this Abbey!”

Morning brought with it a sky of light-washed blue, with not a cloud to cross the sun's passage. Already Captain Zerig was awake. He bit into a hard green apple, pulled a wry face and spat out the mouthful of sour fruit. He threw the rest of it at Freeta, who was still sleeping. She sat up rubbing her face. “What was that for?”

The fox captain pointed to the open sward between the south Abbey wall and the trees where the vermin lay. “See thy scouts, the two who were so good an' reliable?”

Fargil was stumbling on all fours through the grass with the slain Graddu tied across his back. Freeta kicked some nearby ermine into wakefulness. “Rouse thyselves an' help them, quickly!”

They scurried out and dragged the two big foxes back into the woodlands. Vermin crowded around, severing the bonds from the pair. Thrusting his way through the onlookers, Zerig's contemptuous glance shot from the carcase of Graddu to Fargil, who was lying on his back. Zerig shook his head at the sight of Fargil's battered face. “Well, tell me how this befell thee?”

The big fox mumbled from between his swollen lips, “Water!”

The white fox captain returned his plea with a sharp kick. “Report first, an' tell me all. Speak!”

Fargil stumbled through the events of the past night haltingly. When he reached the account of his fight with Wonwill, Zerig stopped him scornfully. “Do ye mean to say that a single rabbit did this to thee with only his paws, whilst ye were fully armed?”

Fargil sobbed brokenly. “Aye, Captain. They are called hares, not rabbits. He could have slain me, but he spared my life to bring ye a message from their leader, one they call the Brigadier.”

Freeta came forward, administering the beaten fox a few sips of water from her canteen. “Say on, what did this Brigadier hare tell thee?”

Fargil managed to sit up shakily. “He said that if we stay in this place we will all die. His warriors have sworn vengeance on Lord Gulo and all who follow him. Captain, he gives ye until the setting of the sun to be gone from Redwall Abbey!”

Zerig thrust his chin forward belligerently. “Or what?”

Fargil repeated Crumshaw's words as accurately as he could. “ ‘Or he shall meet ye on the west flatlands to give ye blood'n'vinegar, with no surrender.' Then one, a Captain like thee, also said to make sure I told thee this. He said that whether we stand and fight, or choose to run like cowardly scum, the hares of the Long Patrol will not rest until we are all staring at Hellgates through dead eyes, an' our bones lie bleaching in the sun.”

A hush fell over the vermin. Fargil and Graddu had been two fearsome fighters, but now one lay dead and the other was reduced to a beaten and pitiable creature.

Sensing the mood of his followers, Zerig drew his curved sword and tested its edge by licking the blade, an obvious show of bravado. “Hah! Threats mean little to the warriors of Lord Gulo. We came not from the lands of ice beyond the great sea to be frightened by the words of rabbits!”

Fargil stood upright. He began pacing to the left, toward the path, his voice rising as he replied to Zerig's boast. “Those beasts are not rabbits, they are hares, fighting hares! Ye did not face them, Captain, I did. An' I know they are well able to carry out their vow of vengeance. Only a fool would stay here—ye will all die!” He turned and broke into a shambling run. Zerig snatched a spear from an ermine and flung it with swift accuracy. An easy target, Fargil now lay dead—his body slumped facedown with the spear's shaft protruding from between his shoulders.

In a great show of swaggering, Zerig pulled out the weapon, tossing it back to its owner. The fox captain's sword waved in an arc over the rest of the vermin. In a harsh and commanding voice, he ground out an ultimatum. “Run now if ye want to join Fargil!”

The ermine and foxes stood motionless. Zerig pointed his blade at the Abbey and proclaimed boldly, “When Lord Gulo arrives here, we will be sitting inside that place, eating the flesh of our enemies. I give ye my word on it!”

 

The vermin were scouring the woodlands for anything they could make a meal of, when Freeta came to where Zerig sat at the tree fringe. “Well, Captain, will ye meet the hares on the flatlands at tomorrow's dawn?”

Zerig snorted. “Do ye take me for an idiot? What beast would carry out his foe's orders?”

Freeta chewed on a grass blade. “Thou art a bravebeast, Zerig, but thy sense often deserts thee.”

Zerig snatched the grass from her lips. “How so?”

The vixen plucked another stalk, replacing it. “Had I questioned Fargil, I would have asked him certain things: How many creatures did he see at the Abbey, what was the number of fighting beasts and who looked like the peaceable ones? Another thing, before he was captured, did Fargil see a way in—a loose gate, a wall that would be easy to climb, maybe a good spot where a tunnel might be dug? There was more I would have asked him. Did they have vittles an' drink aplenty in there, enough to withstand a
siege? Now ye have slain Fargil, many questions still need answers.”

Zerig knew the sly vixen had the advantage of him. “So, what do we do now, Freeta?”

She shook her head teasingly. “Oh no, what do
you
do? I am not a Captain in command, that is thy decision.”

Zerig narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “What do ye want? Tell me!”

Freeta spat out the grass stalk. Her face hardened before she replied. “Two things—revenge on Gulo for my mate Shard, and half of everything we gain!”

Zerig smiled, realizing it was now his turn to tease. “A tall order, but I fear Gulo, not you. He will come to this place, do not doubt it. So why should I cast my lot in with thine?”

The vixen played the captain like a fish on a line, drawing him in with her reasoning. “That Abbey is the key to all, Zerig. Without the right plan, not even Gulo and ten times our number could conquer such a place. Gulo is blood, fur and bone, like anybeast. He cannot break through stone blocks with fang and claw. I am not returning to the lands of ice to fear Gulo and serve him. If we were inside that fortress, he could not harm us. Think of it, we could live in ease and plenty, as the creatures in there do now. You are in command, the others will follow you. But we need more brain than brawn. I have the brain!”

Zerig stared up at the south ramparts. “And ye have a plan to get inside there?”

Freeta nodded decisively. “I have an excellent plan!” She held out her paw. “But it must be carried out by we two. If we work together, the victory will be ours!”

Zerig clasped her paw tightly. “I am with ye!”

 

Friar Glisum and Brigadier Crumshaw were in the pantry, sampling some of last autumn's russet apples and discussing their merits over October Ale and mature cheese.

Kersey came dashing in, her words pouring forth at
breakneck pace. “Beg pardon, sah, but our hawk reports three vermin outside the south wall. They're carryin' a flag o' truce. I think they want to parley, sah!”

Crumshaw wiped his lips fastidiously on a spotted kerchief. “Oh, do they indeed! Well, lead on, young 'un, let's see what the scoundrels have t'say for themselves, wot wot!”

Sergeant Wonwill was at the bottom of the steps with three other hares, restraining the angry goshawk. He saluted smartly. “Sah! This 'ere 'awk wanted to h'open the south wallgate an' slay the vermin. I 'ad to convince 'im that 'e couldn't do it to beasts under a flag o' truce, sah!”

The brigadier marched past Tergen, tapping his beak with the swagger stick. “Know how y'feel, m'friend, but despatchin' the foe under a flag o' truce 'tis not done in the best o' circles, old chap. Bad form, doncha know, blinkin' bad form, wot wot!”

The goshawk squawked up the steps after him, “Yaakaaaarrr! Kill all vermin, Wotwot—not talk . . . kill!”

Crumshaw polished his eyeglass and squinched his cheek around it. He sniffed, gazing in disgust at the trio of vermin with their stained and tattered scrap atop a spearpole.

Zerig called up to him, “Be ye the one they call Brigadier?”

Crumshaw leaned on a battlement, his voice dripping disdain. “At y'service. An' who pray am I addressin'?”

Zerig drew his sword and rapped his chest with the blade. “I serve Gulo the Savage. I am Captain Zerig!”

The brigadier did not sound impressed. “Are ye, indeed? Then some blighter ought to teach ye the rules o' war'n'combat, thickhead. Ye don't come to a parley under a flag of truce bearin' arms. Chuck that frogsticker away, or I won't bandy words with ye. Go on, sling it!”

The white fox captain shot Crumshaw a murderous glare, but he put the sword down upon the grass.

The brigadier snorted. “Hmph, that's better, wot wot. Now state y'business, sah!”

Zerig tried to look as tough as he could under the circumstances. He pointed skyward, announcing, “At tomorrow's dawn, we will slay ye an' eat ye!”

This statement seemed to improve the brigadier's mood. He smiled. “Well well well, good on ye, old scruff. Y'mean to say you actually accept our challenge, wot wot?”

Freeta, who was standing beside the ermine spearholder, smiled back at Crumshaw. “You are old. We will have to roast ye a long time before ye are tender enough to eat.”

Crumshaw pulled a face of mock horror at the vixen. “Atrocious table manners, marm. Still, I hope I taste as good as that poor wretch you made your flag of truce from!”

Zerig glanced at the grisly strip of Fargil's hide which served as the flag of truce. He bared his fangs. “He was an enemy. The warriors of Gulo the Savage come from a land where enemies are eaten. When dawn comes, we will eat you!”

Crumshaw twirled his moustache casually. “Listen, laddie vermin, my Long Patrol are a pretty tough lot t'chew. I've a feelin' they'll stick in your flippin' throat, wot! Tchah, enough of all this twaddle. Run along now an' take your last sleep. See you at dawn out on the west flats. Don't be late now—I can be jolly hard on latecomers. Off y'pop now, bye bye!”

The brigadier suddenly dropped down behind the walltop as four arrows zipped by overhead.

Wonwill came bounding up the steps. “Are ye alright, sah? Dirty scum, firin' arrows over a flag of truce. Wait'll I gets me paws on 'em!”

Crumshaw marched briskly down the wallsteps. “Wouldn't have expected anything else from those cads. I feel sorry for their mothers. Imagine havin' t'bring up bounders like that lot! Wot wot!”

 

Sister Armel and Ulba molemum were escorting some Dibbuns down to Brother Demple's vegetable patch. With the hares staying at the Abbey, there was a constant demand from Friar Glisum for more salad greens. They were
startled by a mighty roar from the walltops. It was the Long Patrol's battle cry. “Eulaliiiiaaaaaaa!”

Young Kersey came by, waving a javelin. For the first time since her brother's death, she was laughing. Brother Demple emerged from behind a berry hedge, dusting earth from his paws. He called out to Kersey, “Are we being attacked, miss? Shall I get the little ones indoors?”

The young hare twirled her javelin in the air and caught it. “Oh no, sir, it's the Patrol. We're goin' to do battle with the vermin, tomorrow dawn, out on the flatlands. Forward the buffs an' no surrender! Eulaliiiiaaaaaaa!”

Sister Armel was horrified at Kersey's obvious enjoyment. “How can she laugh and cheer at such a thing?”

Ulba molemum shook her velvety head. “Oi doant know, moi dearie. We'm peaceable creeturs whom knows nuthin' o' killin' an' slayin'!”

Brother Demple watched the hares leaping with joy on the walltops. “Aye, 'tis a mystery sure enough, Sister. But we're simple Abbeybeasts, an' they're warriors, born to the art of war. Fightin' is in their blood, y'see.”

Mudge the molebabe struck up a boxing pose, as he had seen Sergeant Wonwill do. “Oi bee's a gurt wurrier, zurr!”

Brother Demple could not help smiling at the little fellow. “Oh I'm sure you are, Mudge, but you're too young, and us Redwallers know little of fightin'. Hmm, so I suppose we should be grateful for the hares.”

Armel shrugged. “I suppose so, Brother, but why do creatures have to fight?”

Demple picked Mudge up and placed him on his shoulder. “Because there's always good and bad in the land, and goodbeasts have to protect their friends an' families from evil ones who want nothing but to conquer an' destroy.”

The molebabe patted the gardener's head. “You'm roight, zurr!”