The Sable Quean (38 page)

Gliv nodded as she tied the dressing securely. “Aye, I was one of those who did his dirty work.”

Vilaya posed the question. “Then why are you helping me now? You probably don’t even like me. What’s your name?”

The stoat raised the sable’s head, bringing a beaker of water to her lips. “Drink this, but take it slowly. I’m called Gliv. I don’t like you, Vilaya, but I’ve got my reasons for helping you. Zwilt thought he’d slain ye. I stopped him choppin’ yore head off by sayin’ I’d bury ye for the worms an’ insects to eat. I will, too, if’n ye don’t get over that wound.”

The sable pushed the beaker away. “Don’t fret—I’ll live. So, in what way did Zwilt offend you, Gliv?”

The stoat’s eyes hardened at the memory. “He had my mate, Lugg, killed. Lugg was his loyal servant. Zwilt should never have sent him into the water to battle with the giant eel. It was Zwilt’s fault. I blame him for Lugg’s death. He was a big, trustin’ lump of a stoat, but Lugg was my mate. I loved him.”

The sable winced as she lay back and relaxed. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

Gliv stared into the flickering fire. “Yore goin’ to kill Zwilt soon as y’get well. I’ve seen ye use that poison blade, an’ I knows ye want him dead now. You got yore reasons—I got mine. I don’t care, as long as I can live t’hear the death rattle in Zwilt the Shade’s throat! That’ll be yore thanks t’me for savin’ yore life, Vilaya.”

The injured beast spoke imperiously. “Vilaya is my name, but to one such as you I am the Sable Quean. You will address me as Majesty!”

Gliv curled her lip scornfully.

“Huh, Quean o’ nothin’ is wot ye are t’me. When ye slay Zwilt an’ command the Ravagers agin, then I’ll call ye Majesty. But right now, yore just a beast carryin’ out my orders so that ye can stay alive!”

Gliv watched Vilaya’s paw straying toward the slender thing she kept slung about her neck. The sly stoat held up the little poisoned dagger in its crystal sheath. Dangling it from its necklet, she shook her head mockingly.

“No ye don’t, Vilaya. I’ll take care o’ this liddle toy until the time comes.”

A wry smile hovered about Vilaya’s lips. “My my. You are a crafty stoat!”

Gliv nodded. “Aye, an’ yore a dangerous sable, so betwixt us we’re the right pair for the task. Now, git some sleep, ’cos as soon as ye can stand without fallin’ over agin, we’ll be on the trail of Zwilt the Shade.”

On the streambank, the small fire burned down to grey ash in the woodland night. Two creatures went to sleep, each dreaming of deathly revenge.

 

Morning broke overcast and sullen, with the rain silencing birdsong. This mattered little to Oakheart Witherspyk, who had the security of Redwall Abbey to oversee. Donning an old cloak and putting his flop-brimmed hat on over the hood, the portly hedgehog mounted the west gatehouse steps. Trudging up onto the battlemented walkway, he looked left and right, blowing rainwater from his snout tip. He snorted disapproval to the leaden skies.

“Bah! Not a single beast on sentry. Where in the name o’ spikes’n’spillikins are they?”

He strode the ramparts in high dudgeon, knocking down unattended cloaks, which were propped up on poles to give the appearance of a heavily guarded Abbey.

Granvy the Recorder emerged from the gatehouse, pulling on his hooded cloak. He shouted to the Witherspyk patriarch, “What’n the name o’ seasons are you doing up there in this weather? Get down here before you get soaked!”

Oakheart gestured theatrically about him. “There’s not a confounded guard up here. Where’ve they all gone, may I ask?”

Granvy set off across the rainswept lawn. “Everybeast is where any creature with a grain o’ sense should be right now—taking breakfast inside. Come on!”

Great Hall glowed warmly with myriad candle and lantern lights. The air was redolent with cheerful sounds of Redwallers breaking their fast. Friar Soogum and his helpers bustled twixt the long tables, ladling out hot oatmeal and honey. Fresh fruits, golden-crusted ovenbreads, hot mint tea—an array of delicacies to please even the most jaded palate—graced the tables. Abbess Marjoram sat with two Dibbuns perched on her lap, trying to teach them rudimentary manners.

“No no. Put the beaker down. You can’t eat and drink at the same time—finish what you have in your mouth first.”

She saw Oakheart stamp in and fling off his wet cloak. “You look drenched, Oakie. Come and have some hot food!”

The hedgehog shook water from his hatbrim. “Hot food, is it, marm? How could I sully my dutiful lips with hot food when my blood runs cold at the thought of all those deserters!”

Foremole Darbee dipped an oat farl into a bowl of melted cheese. He wrinkled his button snout at Oakheart. “Doozurrters, zurr? Whut do ee mean?”

The portly hog shook a damp paw in a circle, denoting the outer walls. “Our sentries, m’dear sir. All those volunteers who are supposed, at this very moment, t’be protecting all we hold dear from vermin onslaught! I make it my morning chore to check the walltops, an’ d’you know, there’s not a single guard to be seen up there!”

Sister Fumbril commented blithely, “Why, bless y’spikes, Oakie, is there a vermin onslaught goin’ on out there? Nobeast told us!”

A ripple of laughter echoed from the diners. Oakheart stemmed it by pounding a paw upon the table. “That’s just the point, don’t ye see, marm? There could be a vermin attack, even as you’re jokin’ about it. Where would we be then, eh?”

Abbess Marjoram nodded gravely. “Point taken, Mister Witherspyk. You are quite right! Attention, everybeast. All those supposed to be on wall duty, leave what you are doing and get back up there on guard immediately, please!”

Baby Dubdub waved a honey-smeared paw, echoing Marjoram. “Meejittly, please, meejittly!”

Young Rambuculus rose sulkily. “But it’s rainin’ out there. Can’t we wait’ll it stops?”

His sister Trajidia leapt up, declaiming, “Alas, to pour shame upon the noble name of Witherspyk with churlish remarks. To your post, O errant brother!”

She was about to sit down again when Grandmother Crumfiss prodded her. “Aye, an’ you, too, missy—off y’go!”

Oakheart mounted the wallsteps with the guard detail behind him. On reaching the walltop, he was surprised to see Skipper leaning on a battlement.

“Great seasons, Skip—where did you pop up from?”

The Otter Chieftain pointed to the east wickergate. “I was down checkin’ the wallgates. Aye, an’ I took a turn round these ramparts. I would’ve raised the alarm sharpish if’n any vermin showed up.”

Rambuculus smirked at his father. “So it was alright for us t’have breakfast, see!”

Skipper tweaked the insolent young hog’s ear. “No, it wasn’t, young un. What if’n I’d chose to join ye, eh, what then? Yore pa’s right. Stick to yore duty, obey orders an’ ye can sleep easy at night, remember that!”

The guards took shelter under the old long cloaks, brandishing makeshift weapons as they patrolled up and down. Bartij peered out into the rainswept woodlands. Skipper caught the big hedgehog’s sigh.

“Wot’s the matter, mate? Ye don’t look too happy.”

Bartij shook his head as Auroria Witherspyk stumbled on the hem of a cloak, dropping her make-believe spear with a clatter.

“Look at ’em, Skip. They’re nought but young uns playin’ a game. Oh, I grant ye they might look like warriors from a distance. But they ain’t! So wot d’we do if a couple o’ hundred Ravagers comes marching up?”

The otter blinked rainwater from his eyelids. “I dread t’think, matey, I dread t’think. Let’s just cross our paws an’ hope it don’t come down to that.”

Cellarmole Gurjee came ambling up the wallsteps.

Bartij nodded to him. “Gurjee, ’ow are ye gettin’ on with that weapon ye were plannin’, the big cattypult wot throws rocks. Is it ready yet?”

The Cellarmole shrugged. “Not yet et b’ain’t, Bart. Hurr, ’tis a gurt ’eavy tarsk. Y’see, me an’ ee molecrew, we’m gotten ’er near ready, but us’ns got to getten et up out of ee cellars.”

Closing his eyes, Skipper leaned his head on the battlement. Foremole Darbee joined them.

“Yurr, you’m feelin’ alroight, zurr?”

Skipper explained. “The siege catapult, Gurjee tells me yore moles are buildin’ it in the winecellars. Tell me, Foremole, wouldn’t it have been better t’build it up here, where we’ll be usin’ it from?”

Foremole Darbee nodded his velvety head. “May’aps you’m roight, zurr, tho’ et bee’s turrible weather t’be a-wurkin’ out o’ doors.”

Bartij took Skipper to one side, whispering to him, “It ain’t the rain, Skip. Wot Darbee means is that moles an’ high places don’t go together, see?”

The Otter Chieftain nodded understandingly. “Yore right, of course. Lookit Darbee an’ Gurjee, they’re goin’ down the wallsteps already. I should’ve thought o’ that. Moles are frightened o’ heights. It ain’t their fault, just their nature.”

Oakheart, who had been privy to the incident, made a helpful suggestion. “Ahem, pardon me, friends, but wouldn’t it be better for the moles to unjoint the thing? I’m sure if we had all the relevant parts, then we could assemble the catapult up here, what d’ye think?”

Foremole Darbee caught the gist of Oakheart’s scheme. He touched a digging claw to his snout three times at the hedgehog (a mark of high esteem and admiration amongst moles). “Oi thankee, zurr. You’m gurtly woise!”

The Witherspyk hog bowed deeply. “An unexpected compliment, my dear sirrah. I’ll go and see if the Abbess can spare any creatures to help with the transportation of your weapon’s parts.”

 

Zwilt the Shade had been driving his Ravagers hard. He had almost reached the southern walls of the Abbey by midday, despite the worsening rainfall. The tall sable called a halt in the southern fringe of Mossflower woodlands. From there he could make out Redwall’s south wall. It was barely visible through the sheeting rain curtain. Zwilt beckoned a Ravager to his side. Fallug, a tough-looking weasel, was not too bright, though he was trustworthy. On the march to the Abbey, Zwilt had been forming a plan, to which the inclement weather was an unexpected boon. He outlined his orders to Fallug.

“Listen, now, I’m putting you in charge of half of these Ravagers. How does that suit you, my friend?”

A smile formed on the weasel’s hard, knotty features. “Suits me fine, Lord. Am I a gen’ral or summat?”

Zwilt managed to return the smile. “You can be a captain for now, Fallug. Once I take that Abbey, then you can be a general. Now, listen. Take spearbeasts and any who carry an axe. I need a tree, a good, big, solid one. Go away from Redwall, so you won’t be heard, pick a beech or an elm. When you’ve chopped it down, trim it off but leave plenty of bough stubs so it can be carried.”

Fallug racked his brain for a moment, then caught on. “Goin’ to burst yore way in through the front door, Lord?”

Zwilt patted the weasel’s shoulder. “Exactly, Captain. So make sure you get a tree that can do the job. Can I leave that to you . . . Captain?”

Proud of his new title, the weasel threw out his chest. “Aye, Lord, ye can trust me!”

Zwilt nodded. “I do. Now, once you have the tree—or should I say, the battering ram—carry it out of these woodlands but try not to be seen. Take it over the path and across the ditch. Travel out on the flatlands a couple of miles, stay low. Out there, that’s where I’ll be with the rest. Directly on a straight course to reach the big gate at Redwall. Understood?”

Fallug saluted. “Unnerstood, Lord. A tree shouldn’t weigh too much with fivescore Ravagers t’carry it.”

Another idea occurred to Zwilt. “Better still, once you’ve got the tree, wait until nightfall before you bring it to me. That way you won’t be seen.”

With the rain still providing cover, Zwilt set out from the woodland fringe along with his warriors. Outwardly, he was the same enigmatic, tall sable that his Ravagers feared and obeyed. However, inwardly, Zwilt the Shade was quivering with anticipation at the prize which lay ahead. Unlike Vilaya, he did not need slaves and subdued woodlanders to serve his needs—an army of two hundred was sufficient. Zwilt had always followed the trade of death, and plenty of slaughter was what he was looking forward to.

24

Diggs lay flat on his back, staring wide-eyed at the magnificent figure of the badgermaid who had him pinned down with a single paw. Never short of an answer or explanation, the tubby hare smiled winningly up at her.

“Er, beg pardon, marm, but could you repeat the question?”

She increased both the pressure of her footpaw and the volume of her voice. “I said, tell me where my friend is, if you want me to spare your life. Where is he? Speak!”

Being the resourceful creature he was, and fearing for his young life, Diggs took what he considered to be the appropriate course of action. He bit her footpaw sharply.

The huge badgermaid roared, instinctively raising her footpaw. Diggs shot off like a rocket, straight back into Althier. Heaving the broken front door upright, he blocked the entrance with it, yelling out in panic, “I say, steady on there, old gel. I’m not a bloomin’ foebeast—I’m a friend. I’m searchin’ for some young uns. Why d’you want to jolly well slay me, wot?”