[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain (34 page)

News that Leatho was in the clutches of the enemy went out like wildfire. A Council of Clans was called immediately. Gathering in the cave behind the waterfall, everybeast listened in stunned silence as Banya retold the story. The moment she finished speaking, there was an angry uproar.

Ould Zillo had to pound his rudderdrum to restore order. “Ahoy now, hold yore gobs! Shoutin' never got a body anywhere. Kolun Galedeep, let's hear from ye!”

Wielding his long paddle, the big otter addressed the clans in the only way he knew—blunt and direct. “I ain't here to palaver or argue. We've got to free our mate Leatho, an' the sooner the better!”

Kolun gripped the paddle tight, his voice ringing out like steel. “Aye, an' I'll tell ye somethin' else, too. I ain't surrenderin' my missus an' young 'uns up t'be slaves for a mangy cat! If they want war, we'll give it to 'em!”

Zillo banged his drum furiously to be heard over the thunder of approval from the clan warriors. “Sure that's all well'n'good, but wot'll be happenin' to the wives an' babes if'n we lose the battle?”

Deedero raised her voice firmly. “Hah! We'll survive like we always have. Every one of ye owes too much to Shellhound. No foebeast's goin' to starve him to death whilst there's one of us left alive! Leatho never left any of us in the lurch, he was always more'n ready to fight our cause. Lose the battle, is it? Lissen, Kolun me dear, you go an' win that battle, an' don't come marchin' back t'me without Leatho Shellhound!”

Brandishing a lance, Banya Streamdog leapt up. “Streamdogs! Wildloughs! Wavedogs! Streamdivers! Riverdogs! Streambattles! Gather yore weapons! Rouse the clans! Eeeeeee aye eeeeeeeeh!”

As an avalanche of sound shook the cavern, Deedero nodded to her husband. “There's yore answer, wot are ye waitin' for?”

Big Kolun hugged his missus. “A nice bowl of hotroot soup an' a big kiss from you, my 'eart's delight!”

Narrowly avoiding a whack from her rudder, Kolun was swept up in the stampede for the entrance. Any reply that his missus called out was drowned by echoing clan warcries. Lances, slings, bows, spears, blades and all manner of arms bristled from the warrior horde as they bounded uphill out of Holt Summerdell.

 

It had been a long, hot day. Leatho watched from his high prison as the westering sun set in a blaze of crimson glory. His paws ached abominably from where the ropes cut cruelly into them. The last moisture he had tasted was when the warlord emptied the bucket of water over his head. He licked thirstily at his dried lips and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain from his wounded head, which denied sleep to his weary body. As the evening dragged daylight to an unhurried close, the outlaw fought mentally to avoid thoughts of food or drink.

When dusk fell, Leatho's head drooped forward, his eyes no longer able to stay open, his entire body feeling dizzy and light as air. Then a torpor overcame him: All pain receded into a dull throb. His body slumped against the ropes, and he passed out.

A mouse warrior, armed with a fearsomely beautiful sword, was at his side, holding his paw. Then, like a pair of leaves in an autumn breeze, they were travelling through the air. Below him, the outlaw could see Green Isle unfolding, its loughs, hills, streams and woodlands. The mouse warrior directed his gaze to where the Great Sea lapped the pale-sanded shores, his voice gave counsel to the dreaming prisoner.

“To die is easy for you, Shellhound, but you were ever a fighter. Do not let life slip away whilst there is hope. Behold the High Queen bringing a new dawn to Green Isle. Keep repeating her name. Rhulain! Rhulain!”

Leatho saw her then, the tall ottermaid clad in her green cloak and shining breastplate, marching purposefully. Queen of Green Isle! The High Rhulain!

The vision was shattered suddenly as the cage struck the wall and banged about crazily. Leatho woke only to look up and see the Lady Kaltag battering at the bars with a spear from above. Her face was twisted into a vengeful sneer as she shrieked at him.

“Murderer! Now you will pay for slaying my son Jeefra!”

Raising the spear high, she thrust downward at him.

Choked and blinded by thick clouds of billowing dust inside the stairwell, Skipper Banjon took a flying leap upward. The tough otter grabbed onto a pawhold in the rough sides of the stone funnel. Buffeted by falling slats of rotted wood, he caught the sounds of wild screams and cries coming from the room above. He drove himself frantically onward, scrabbling and clawing at rocky outcrops and splintered stair ends until he managed to haul himself onto the lopsided landing. Without a second thought for his own safety, Skipper hurled himself at the door, bursting into the room. Grubbing dust from his eyes, he found himself confronted by a fearsome sight.

In one corner, Girry had bravely placed himself in front of Abbess Lycian and Sister Snowdrop, shielding them both. The centre of the room was dominated by a huge male gannet, which was shrieking aggressively. As the bird turned to face him, Skipper noted that one of its legs was lame and that the wing on the same side flopped awkwardly. The gannet's bright-blue ringed eyes focussed on the newcomer. Throwing back its big, cream-capped head, the bird opened its long, sharp beak and gave voice to an ear-splitting scream. “Yaaarrreeekeeekeeek!”

Skipper showed no fear but stood quite still, staring intently at the fierce bird. Calmly, he spoke to his friends. “Stay there, mates, don't make a move or a sound 'til I tell ye. I ain't got a clue wot a gannet's doin' up here so far from the sea.”

“Keekaaaheeee!” Pointing its beak at the otter chieftain, the gannet hobbled toward him swiftly.

Skipper was forced to dodge backward but continued speaking. “I think that bird's been injured an' driven in here by a storm, maybe the same one that brought the osprey to us. Now I don't want to alarm ye, but it's a big gannet, an' it must be starvin'. I reckon it'll have to kill to eat soon. So, anybeast got an idea wot t'do next?”

Girry kept his voice to a low murmur. “I was trying to steer it out of the window until it turned and cornered us. It got in that way, so it must be able to make its way out by the same route.”

Skipper chanced a quick glance at the open window with its broken frame and flapping rags of curtaining. “Good idea, young 'un, but we need somethin' to help with the job, maybe to use as a shield.”

The Abbess came up with a swift solution. “Skip, just behind you, to the left, there's an old bed against the wall, all broken and battered. I think the bird must have used it to rest on. If we could get behind the bed, it could be useful as a barrier. We may be able to force the bird out of the window with it.”

The gannet made a stab at Skipper with its sharp beak, but he dodged to the right, narrowly escaping it. “Aye, that's wot we'll do, marm. I'll decoy this villain to one side. Soon as it moves, you three make a dash for the bed. Right, here goes, mates. Redwaaaaaalllll!”

Skipper launched himself at the bird, feinted to the right and thwacked its good leg with a powerful swipe of his rudder. It gave a surprised squawk as it fell in a flurry of feathers. Seizing their chance, Girry, the Abbess and Snowdrop raced to the bed. Skipper backed off hastily and joined them. Heaving the cracked old frame of timber and burst mattress upright, they got behind it.

Sister Snowdrop yelled exultantly, “Charge, mates. Charge!”

Holding the bed in front of them, they bulled straight into the gannet, catching it square on. With its damaged wing flapping loosely and its lamed leg not able to gain any purchase, the bird was driven back and bundled through the window in a mad flurry of black-tipped white feathers. It tried clinging to the sill, screaming and hissing, but the Abbess and Girry kicked at it until it had to let go.

Leaning out of the window, the four Redwallers watched as the gannet made a bumbling attempt at flight but lost height immediately. The huge bird fell onto an outward sloping roof below, then rolled off and plunged earthward, still flapping about like a huge, rumpled quilt. A thickly blossoming rhododendron, growing beside the Abbey wall, finally broke the bird's fall. From there, it tumbled to the lawn, where it flapped about, apparently unhurt.

Dusting off her paws, little Sister Snowdrop called down to the fallen gannet, “There! Let that be a lesson, you great plumed bully!”

Abbess Lycian put a paw to her brow and sat down with her back against the wall, exclaiming, “Whooh! Dearie me, I'm all atremble!”

Gallantly, Skipper helped her up. “You did fine, marm, just fine. An' you, too, Girry!”

Sister Snowdrop nudged him indignantly. “Excuse me, but did I take no part in all this?”

Skipper laughed as he threw an affectionate paw around the old mouse's shoulders. “Oh, you did better'n all of us, Sister. Yore a rough ole customer, an' I wouldn't like t'cross yore path up a dry stream on a dark night, no marm!”

Snowdrop smiled sweetly. “You're a dreadful flatterer, sir!”

A shout echoed up through the ruined stairwell. It was Brink. “Ahoy, Skip, is everybeast alright up there?”

The otter chieftain called back down to his friend, “Right as rain, matey! We'll be down as soon as ye throw a rope up to us.”

He turned to the Abbess. “Well, did ye find wot ye were lookin' for up here, marm?”

Lycian cast a reflective eye over the deserted bedchamber. “Not just yet, Skip, but I have a feeling that we soon will. Sister Snowdrop, do you have a copy of the rhyme?”

The old mouse tapped the side of her head. “No need, Mother Abbess, I can remember every word. It goes like this.

Skipper nodded admiringly. “Well done, marm! Wish I had a memory like that. So, ye've found this place, the top attic. Next thing to look for is the limb of what once was a tree. What d'ye think that'll look like?”

Girry gave a prompt reply. “Oh, I've already guessed that—it's Corriam's lance. It's probably made of wood, so it must have once been the limb of a tree. Right?”

Skipper agreed. “Right, young 'un, but have ye sorted out the rest o' the riddle?”

Girry pursed his lips, endeavouring to look wise. “Er, not right now, sir, but I soon will, never fear.”

Sister Snowdrop smiled fondly at her young friend. “No need to, I've already done it, Girry. I've been repeating that rhyme to myself for so long that some of it's starting to actually make sense. When I saw the bed, it began to click into place.”

The little Sister smiled smugly until Abbess Lycian spoke to her rather sharply. “Well? Don't stand there grinning like a ferret at a feast, Sister. Tell us!”

For answer, Snowdrop went to where the bed had stood against the wall. She lay down on the floor, facing the window.

The Abbess sighed impatiently. “What are you doing now, trying to get your habit dustier?”

Snowdrop ignored the comment and began her explanation. “I was wondering what ‘a third of a lifetime' had to do with our search. Then I remembered. We have three parts to each day—one third is used for work, the second for eating and enjoyment, the third part is set aside for sleep. So, for a third of her lifetime, Sister Geminya would be lying in her bed, which was about here, right? I'm lying on my side, just as she might have. So, what could she see from her sideways position?”

Girry spoke up. “The window and the curtains, I suppose. Though the curtains are nothing but tattered rags now.”

Snowdrop continued, “Yes, but a long time ago they could either block out the night or let in the daylight. Now tell me, what holds the curtains up?”

Skipper shrugged. “Prob'ly a curtain rail.”

Without warning, Girry gave a great leap. He went bounding up the windowframe and tore the curtain rail from the staples which held it. “Geminya used it as a curtain rail. This is the lance of Corriam!”

Skipper scratched his whiskers in bewilderment. “Sink me rudder, it's been layin' up there in full view all the time. How did ye guess that was it, young 'un?”

Girry brandished the ancient weapon triumphantly. “I never guessed anything, Skip, I worked it out a moment ago. You know how good I am at anagrams. Well, listen to this: ‘Tell me what we call coward (in at).' Well, what would you call a coward?”