Doomwyte (21 page)

There was no question, the goodbeasts had won the day.

Dwink had taken off into the trees at the near side of the clearing, with the hope of capturing a Painted One. If the venture were successful, Bosie and his friends could gain valuable information from interrogating the captive. The young squirrel wrapped Samolus’s long sling about his waist, and set off about his task. Launching himself from a sycamore bough, he sailed through the air, landing heavily in the swaying branches of an aspen. Grappling awkwardly amidst the foliage, Dwink quietly reprimanded himself as he regained control of his balance. “Didn’t judge that un very well, did ye mate? Out o’ practice, that’s yore trouble!”

He perched in the aspen for a moment, letting its swaying boughs settle, hoping nobeast had gotten wind of him. Dwink’s quick eyes detected a movement in a stately elm, several trees from where he was. He moved stealthily, with a swift hop, skip and a jump, landing in the low branches of a spruce. Keeping his gaze trained on the elm foliage, he spotted more twitching in a high fork. Dwink smiled grimly, muttering under his breath, “Hah, that’ll be a scout! Right then, ye painted vermin, let’s see if’n we can’t turn the tables on ye. Stop right there, I’m comin’ for ye!”

Smooth as a streamripple, the young squirrel threaded his way upward, until he reached the top section of the spruce. He was closer now, though he could not clearly make out his quarry. The telltale rustle of leaves told him the other beast was still there, but beginning to move in a sideways direction. Climbing higher, he dropped neatly down into the outspread limbs of a holm oak. Now he was next door to the elm. Unwinding the sling, he loaded it with a stone from his belt pouch. Some of the elm branches were almost touching the holm oak.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Dwink crossed from one tree into the other. His paws were trembling slightly, but he carried on upward, telling himself, “I’ll show the blighter how a Redwall warrior operates!” When he was as close as he could get to the spot where he had seen the last movement of his foe, Dwink threw caution to the winds. Whirling his sling, he raced up the final boughs of the upper tree terraces, roaring the warcry: “Redwaaaaall!” He lashed out at the leafy screen with the loaded sling.
Whock! Thud! Wallop!
Leaves showered about his head as he plunged in. But nobeast was there.

The sling rebounded, jarring against his paw. “Yowch!” Dwink was wringing his numbed paw, when he caught sight of his enemy, off to the right. It was a Painted One, about the same age as himself. The tree rat snickered scornfully, loping off into the tall trees. Dwink went hurtling after him, blazing with anger that he had been fooled by a Painted One.

Now the foebeast seemed to be circling back by a roundabout route, not seeking to disguise his track by stealth or silence. Almost bursting with wrath, Dwink charged after him. Ahead he caught sight of a massive five-topped oak, rearing out of the woodlands. The Painted One went straight for it, bounding onto its broad limbs and springing upward. Dwink leapt onto the same branch where his foe had alighted. Whirling his sling, he shouted up into the high foliage, “I’ve got ye! There’s no place to go but up now, is there, ye villain?”

Suddenly, from far off, a clamour rent the air, warcries, shouts and screams. Dwink halted for one brief moment, wondering why the Redwallers, and Guosim, had engaged with the tree rats. Out of nowhere a thin, tough rope came whipping; the stone attached to its end smashed into the side of Dwink’s head. He collapsed, draped over the bough, senseless.

Jeg, son of Chigid, clambered down to view his work. He was beside himself with glee. He had finally done something worthy of a Chieftain’s son, captured one of the enemy, single-pawed.

Snickering and giggling to himself, Jeg bound his captive viciously tight. Having accomplished this, he secured the rope’s end to the bough, looped the remainder around the squirrel’s footpaws and kicked him savagely. Dwink fell from the oak limb and hung, dangling upside down. Jeg climbed to the lower branch, where he stood facing Dwink, on a level with his face. He began swinging his unconscious victim to and fro roughly, sneering triumphantly.

“Yeeheeheehee! Well now, looka wot Jeg catchered, a shoopid treemouse. Wait’ll Dadda comes back wid the rest an’ sees wot I did. Don’t ya see, daftbeast, dis is our territ’ry. Painted Ones knows every leaf an’ every tree round ’ere. Didya think ye was gonna catcher me?” He struck Dwink’s face with his open paw as he spoke. “Well, didyer, eh, didyer, bonebrains?”

Dwink gradually recovered his senses, only to find that the world was upside down. He was being jostled roughly, from side to side. He struggled to release his limbs as Jeg’s face confronted him, grinning wickedly.

“Yeehee, awaked now, have ye?”

As he swung closer, Dwink acted instinctively, biting at his enemy. Jeg leapt back, avoiding the squirrel’s snapping teeth. “Yaharr, missed me!” He spun Dwink around, jumping on his back and leaning down heavily, jerking him about painfully. “Wanna try agin, do ya? Heeheehee, Jeg’s gonna have have fun wid this un!”

The added weight caused the young squirrel to gasp. “Ummff! Ye painted little coward, just wait’ll I get loose!”

Jeg jumped down and faced, his prisoner. “But ya can’t get loosened, can ya! Likkle treemouse, yore all mine, I kin do anythin’ I want wid ya.” Jeg broke off a twig; he began tickling Dwink’s nose none too gently with it. The distant sounds of battle had ceased now. Jeg noticed it, too. He began taunting, “Ya friends are all slayed now.”

Dwink snarled a reply. “Hah, that’s what you think!”

Jeg’s tone became almost reasonable. “Chah! My dadda’s Chigid, big Chief, he got lotsa warriors, lotsa, lotsa dem. More’n yore friends got.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “All ya pore mates be dead now, all slayed!”

Dwink came back stoutly, “Oh, no they won’t, it’ll be your scummy lot who’ll be slain!”

Jeg struck him with the twig he was holding. He did not like being contradicted; a malicious gleam entered his eyes. “I say yore lot be slayed, not mine. One more word outta yore shoopid mouth an’ I’ll slay ya, treemouse!”

Aware of the peril he was in, Dwink wisely refrained from replying. But this only served to madden Jeg. He strode around his captive, lashing out with the twig, working himself into a dangerous rage.

“If I say they all be dead, then they all be dead, see! Heehee, no, yore right, they not all dead, you be still alive…. So?” Dwink smelled the tree rat’s rancid breath as he leant close, speaking slowly and deliberately. “So you gotta get slayed, an’ Jeg’ll slay ya!”

Dwink felt himself go cold with fright. It must have showed on his face, because Jeg sniggered, and began enlarging upon his evil plan. “Now, wot’s the best way to slay a silly treemouse, eh? Mebbee stick a blade in ya. Or loose der rope, an’ let ya drop right down to the floor on yore ’ead, would ya like dat?”

Dwink dangled upside down. His ears were starting to ring with pressure; he felt dizzy and breathing was becoming an effort. Owing to the recent blow he had taken, the young squirrel began slipping back into a stupor. Jeg’s voice receded into a distant drone. Jeg was in his element, describing in lurid detail various cruel methods of execution for his victim, each more sadistic than the last.

Wholly unconscious, Dwink found himself in the midst of a nightmare. His vision was clouded blood red, inhabited by purple and dark crimson foebeasts. He was still suspended by both footpaws. Painted Ones leant close, leering and grinning evilly as they whispered of the horrible fate that awaited him. Dwink felt close to death, alone amongst enemies, with no friendly face to reassure him.

Then he spied the light, a warm, golden radiance approaching him. The hideous images of the vermin faded, scurrying off into dark shadows. Suddenly, like a bright summer dawn, Martin the Warrior was with him. The legendary Redwall hero spoke soothingly through Dwink’s fevered dreams.

“Your time is not yet come, be brave, young one. Friends are near, you must live. The Painted One is cursed to suffer a fate worse than anything he can devise for you. Live long, friend…. Live!”

Defeated and dejected, the Painted Ones were forced to descend into the clearing. They were disarmed, searched and ordered to be split into groups, each lot to be secured for safe conveyance to the five-topped oak. Samolus took charge of the operation efficiently.

“Nokko, form your prisoners in one tier. Rope ’em together by their necks, an’ post guards round the villains. Skipper, Tugga, do the same with your groups. I’ll take this last bunch myself!”

Tugga Bruster put in his objection immediately. “Who put you in command, eh? I ain’t takin’ orders off no ould mouse!”

Bosie placed a heavy paw, none too gently, on the Guosim Log a Log’s shoulder. “Ye’ll do as yore bid, bonnie lad. Ah’ve taken aboot all Ah’m goin’ tae take from you. Samolus is takin’ his orders from me, an’ Ah’m commandin’ this expedition. So, one more word against mah authority, an’ Ah’ll drop ye in yore tracks. Do ye get mah drift, bucko?”

Tugga Bruster saw that the Highland hare was not joking, so he swaggered off, bawling orders at his shrews. “Straighten the scum up, make sure those ropes are properly knotted! Dubble, where are ye off to, git back here, now!”

However, the young shrew had also taken enough from his bullying father. He joined Bisky and Spingo. “I’ll go with you two, if’n ye don’t mind.” He trooped off with them both, as Spingo tipped him a mischievous wink.

“I know where the five-topped oak is, cummon, mate, we’ll get there ahead o’ the others, an’ get first crack at the loot!”

Grinning, Bisky shrugged as he remarked to Dubble, “This maid’s got loot on the brain, we’d best go along, just to see she doesn’t land herself in any trouble.”

Spingo shot him a comical scowl. “Lissen, Redwaller, you’ll be in trouble if’n ye don’t stir yore paws, now shift yerself!” They set off at a lively trot, which soon had Bisky and Dubble panting to catch up. The Gonfelin maid skipped ahead of them, singing a mocking little ditty.

Puffing and blowing, Bisky put on an extra turn of speed, muttering to Dubble, “I wonder what Abbot Glisam and Brother Torilis would say to that?”

Dubble stumbled into a bush; he emerged spitting out leaves and berries. “Who are they?”

The young Redwaller replied between gasps, “You’ll find out when we get to the Abbey, mate!”

Spingo waved a paw ahead. “There’s the oak, see!”

Bisky had always reckoned himself to be a good runner, but this Gonfelin maiden was something else. Spingo broke into an all-out sprint, careering off through the shrubbery and round the trunks of tall, ancient trees.

Jeg was crouching at the base of the massive oak, coaxing a small fire into life. He blew on it, adding dead pine twigs and dried moss until the flames spread. Looking up at the unconscious form of Dwink, hanging head down, the young tree rat gave an evil snigger.

“Yeeheehee! Wait’ll ya see wot I’ve thought up, treemouse. I calls it Jeg’s Warm Welcome. Heeheee!” He got no further, because something hit him from behind. Jeg went belly down onto the flames, due to Spingo leaping on his back. Using him as a springboard, the Gonfelin maid leapt up and caught a low branch. She was yelling happily.

“Yeehaarrr! I made it, first ’ere! Now where’s all the loot hidden?”

Bisky and Dubble heard the screeches. Bulling through the undergrowth, they came hurtling onto the scene. Jeg was beating at his smouldering midriff, performing a crazy dance, he banged head-on into Bisky, knocking him flat. Even in his panic, Jeg immediately recognised his former prisoners. Hardly pausing to take breath, the tree rat bounded off into the woodlands.

Spingo was sawing away at Dwink’s bonds with a small dagger. She called down to them, “Looka this, there’s some pore squirrel strung upside down ’ere. Lend a paw, mates, mebbe he knows where the loot’s hid!”

Bisky took one look. “Great seasons, it’s Dwink! Wait there, Spingo, I’m comin’. Hang on, Dwink!”

Dubble grabbed Bisky’s paw; his eyes were like chips of ice in a winter storm. “Did ye see who that was? Jeg, the dirty liddle scum who had us strung up in that tree!”

Bisky pulled free of his friend. “That’s a Redwaller up there, I’ve got to go an’ help him!”

The young Guosim dashed off, calling back, “Right, you do that, mate, I’m after that filthy villain. I took an oath I’d meet up with him again someday. See ye later!”