Eulalia! (22 page)

A look of surprise was stamped on the rat's features as the Guosim chieftain's blade pierced his throat. He staggered backward into the stream as Maudie skipped neatly forward, relieving him of the babe. Swinging Yik up onto her shoulders she spoke sharply to him. “Stay there an' hold on tight!” Whirling like lightning, Mad Maudie proved why she was the Salamandastron Regimental Boxing Champion.

Thudbangwallopsmack!

A Brownrat collapsed like a falling brick wall, under four thunderous punches from the haremaid. Luglug had crossed blades with another one, as Maudie spun around, kicking the spear from a vermin's grasp, catching it in midair, and breaking it over its owner's skull.

Little Yik was howling like a wolf, dancing on Maudie's shoulders and tugging at her ears. “Bangbang! Punch 'is nose! Jolly good, more, more!”

As Luglug ran his adversary through, Maudie, who could not duck and weave so well, with Yik dancing and yanking away on her, took a sharp blow to her ribs from a spearbutt. The shrew chieftain leapt in, fending off her attacker. He roared, “Let's git out o' here, miss, double quick!”

They turned and ran back from the streambank. One of the Brownrats took out a carved bone whistle, and began blowing the alarm. Two more vermin jumped from the bushes either side of the fugitives. Fortunately, they were as surprised to encounter the escapers as Maudie and Luglug were to see them pop out like that. Both the haremaid and the shrew kicked out fiercely, knocking their foes aside. They hurtled on their way, with shouts welling behind them from several directions.

“There they go, stop 'em!”

“Stringle, I sees 'em, they're up ahead!”

“Circle out an' cut 'em off, quick!”

Luglug judged by the hubbub building up either side of them, plus the shaking of shrubbery, that they would soon be surrounded. He cut off into the woodlands at a new angle, panting to Maudie, “If'n we don't shake 'em off, we're right in the soup, missy!”

Dodging round tree trunks, the haremaid followed him, with Yik clinging to her ears, thoroughly enjoying his wild ride, squeaking merrily. “Right inna soup, fasterer, mizzymiz, heeheehee!”

Now the pounding of vermin paws was all about them, the area was teeming with mud-coated Brownrats. Then Gruntan Kurdly's shouts were heard. He had joined the hue and cry, and was running his litter bearers ragged, now that his voice was back to normal. “Move yore slop-coated carcasses! Noggo, can ye see 'em, where in the name o' hellgates are they?”

The scout bellowed back, “I can't see 'em, Boss, but they're somewhere round 'ere, I can 'ear a liddle 'un squeakin'!”

Maudie was reaching up to silence Yik again, when she stumbled and tripped. She had the presence of mind to grab the shrewbabe from his perch on her shoulders as she fell. Clutching Yik close to her, she landed faceup in an old, dried-out streambed. Luglug came leaping in after her. Fortunately the trench bottom was padded thickly, with seasons of moss and dead leaf loam. Maudie cast a swift glance up, at the inward-curving banks above them. A sudden ruse popped into her head, she whispered to Luglug, “Get under this ledge an' cover ourselves with loam, it's our only blinkin' chance, wot!”

They rolled under the curve of the overhead bank, and began building up the masses of crisp, brown leaves and damp moss around them. Yik wrinkled his little nose. “Us right inna soup, I not like it 'ere!”

Luglug muttered fiercely, “Give 'im t'me, miss!”

Maudie passed the babe over to the Guosim chieftain.

The intensity of Luglug's tone scared Yik into silence. “Now you lissen t'me, ye liddle pestilence. We're goin' to hide 'ere as best we can, an' just one word, one squeak, even one loud breath from ye, an' I'll paddle yore tail so 'ard that yore teeth'll hurt. Don't speak, just nod if'n ye unnerstand me!”

The chastened shrewbabe nodded vigorously.

The trio lay to one side of the ditch curve, under a blanket of dead vegetation. Two Brownrats came wandering up the middle of the streambed. Maudie tried to breathe quietly as they drew close to the hiding place. Both rats carried spears, which they used to search the dead leaves with, jabbing the points wherever they fancied.

Sssshtukk!

An iron spearpoint almost grazed Maudie's ear as it buried itself in the loam. Gruntal Kurdly gestured irately to his litter bearers as they carried him close to the dry streambed.

“Down, put the thing down, block'eads, d'ye want to tip me inter that ditch, ain't I injured enuff?” The weary bearers placed the litter down gently. In the streambed, one of the Brownrats was raising his spear for a thrust, which if it had landed, would have pierced Luglug's stomach. Kurdly glared irately at the pair. “Wot d'yer think youse two are doin' down there?”

The vermin halted his spear in mid-thrust. “Er, lookin' fer the sh'ews an' that punchin' rabbit, Boss.”

The Brownrat chieftain shook his head in disbelief. “An' pray tell me, d'yer see 'em anywhere?”

The rat let his spearpoint droop uselessly. “Er, no, Boss.”

Dried mud cracked from their leader's blistered features as he bellowed at the hapless pair. “Then stop foolin' about an' git up 'ere! Go an' do somethin' useful, find me some eggs an' boil 'em up, afore I perish from 'unger, ye numb-brained nincompoops!” The two Brownrats scrambled to obey Gruntan.

Maudie breathed quietly to Luglug, “Good grief, mate, that was a lucky break!”

The Guosim chieftain snorted softly. “A lucky break, y'say? Lyin' no more'n a logboat's length from that evil monster, surrounded by a horde o' vermin. Y'don't mind me askin', miss, but do ye call that lucky?”

Aware of the importance of quietness, Yik whispered, “Wot's a punchin' rabbit, miz, the rat called you h'a punchin' rabbit?”

Maudie glared at Yik. “Don't annoy me, cheeky nose, or I may be jolly well tempted to show you!”

The shrewbabe wrinkled his nose insolently. “You punch me an' I bite ya again!”

Luglug placed a paw across the shrewbabe's mouth. He whispered urgently as he saw Maudie's paw clench, “Don't ye dare strike a babe, shame on ye….”

Like lightning, the haremaid's paw shot between Luglug and Yik. She had heard the leaves rustle, and glimpsed the flat-scaled head rearing behind the shrews. In seasons to come, the Hon. Maude Mugsberry Thropple, known to her regimental comrades as Mad Maudie, would recall that she had gained the distinction of knocking a snake out cold, with one punch, that day.

And what a punch it was! A sharp, straight right, which hit the reptile's snout like a flying boulder. The snake's eyes immediately clouded over, the coils relaxed, and it lay amid the loam, like a wet piece of string. Luglug tightened his hold on Yik's mouth, he stared in awe at the snake.

“Seasons o' slaughter, where'd that thing come from?”

Maudie blew on her paw, watching the opposite bank-top with relief. The brief incident had gone unnoticed by Kurdly and his vermin, who were painfully occupied in cracking off the mud, which pulled the stings out as it was removed. The haremaid turned her attention back to the unconscious reptile.

“I say, quite a good-sized brute, doncha think?”

Luglug inched away from the snake, his eyes tightly shut. “Ugh, I wonder why I never smelled it, I kin always smell adders, long afore I sees 'em.”

Maudie lifted the snake's head, inspected it and let it flop back down. “You couldn't smell it because it ain't an adder, old scout, it's a bally grass snake an' a bloomin' whopper of a beast if ever I saw one.”

Luglug nodded agreement, adding, “It's big enough to swallow liddle Yik in one go!”

Reaching out carefully, Maudie broke off several strands of hedge parsley, growing nearby. Plaiting them together, she fashioned a tough piece of halter. “Indeed, this brute most likely had friend Yik firmly on today's luncheon menu. Good job I got the old straight right in first, wot!” She began tying the snake's mouth tight with the tough parsley strands, knotting it securely.

Summoning up his courage, Yik struck the snake's snout with a small, chubby paw, scowling at it. “Yik hit ya, jus' like a punchin' rabbit!”

Maudie corrected him indignantly. “Now just a moment, young feller me shrew, there's no such thing as a punchin' rabbit. I am what is known as a boxin' hare, you little curmudgeon!”

The shrewbabe waved a clenched paw under Maudie's nose. “An' I norra likkle amudjin, I be a Yik!”

Luglug ducked his head into the loam. “An' yore both a pair o' noisy nuisances, 'cos I think the vermin's 'eard ye, an' they're comin' over 'ere to take a look!”

The moles carried the unconscious watervole into the gatehouse, laying him out upon the bed. Fenn Bluepaw sniffed in disgust.

“I take it you'll be removing that…thing from my bed as soon as it comes to. Hmph! Filthy paws and matted fur, I'll have to scrub the counterpane and drape it in the orchard, so a good, clean breeze can dry it!”

Abbot Daucus commented drily, “That's what I like about you, Miz Bluepaw, you're so kind and tender-hearted.”

The squirrel Recorder bristled. “Well, it's not your bed that scruffy beast's laid out on!”

Daucus nodded. “Right, marm, but if you want him off your bed, you'd be better employed by fetching Sister Atrata, instead of being so harsh upon a senseless creature. Once the good Sister brings him around, then we can move him from your bed.”

Benjo Tipps, accompanied by Orkwil Prink, wandered in to view the watervole. Redwall's stout Cellarhog looked slightly rueful. “Mayhap I shouldn't have chucked that bungstarter so hard at him. He might never waken proper.”

Orkwil curled his lip when he looked closer at the patient. “It wouldn't be a great loss if'n he didn't, Mister Tipps. I've had a few run-ins with this 'un, he's a mean-spirited an' bad-tempered ole watervole.”

Sister Atrata entered the gatehouse with Fenn Bluepaw in attendance, still complaining bitterly. “The very idea of it, some raggedy-bottomed, barrel-bellied vole, cooling his paws on my nice, clean bed!”

The Sister silenced her with a single glare. “Yes, thank you, Miz Bluepaw, I've heard enough!” Leaning over the watervole, she opened one of his eyes, giving an instant diagnosis, as she unstuffed a pawful of feathers from the mattress. “Hmm, he's about ready to be wakened. Bring that lamp over here, Orkwil.”

Igniting the feathers from the lamp flame, the Sister let them burn for a moment then extinguished them. Holding the smoldering material under the watervole's snout, Sister Atrata allowed him to inhale the acrid fumes. He shot bolt upright, gagging and gasping. The Sister smiled cheerily. “Up you come now, let's get a dressing on that head lump of yours, and a draught of my belladonna potion. You'll be right as rain before you know it!”

Skipper Rorc stepped in, taking charge of the vole. “Not so fast, matey, you've got some questions to answer. C'mon, let's take a stroll on the walltops, this place smells of smolderin' feathers, phew!”

The watervole hung back, he was in a surly mood. “Got to get me 'ead treated first, after wot that spikepig did t'me.”

The burly otter squeezed his paw in a viselike grip. “If'n you call Mister Benjo Tipps a spikepig agin, I'll put another lump atop o' the one you've already got. Now watch yore mouth, vole, an' keep a civil tongue in yore 'ead when I talks to ye. Out ye go!”

Skipper pushed the vole in front of him. Together with Benjo and Orkwil, they mounted the steps to the walltop. Orkwil strode alongside Skipper, as he and Benjo walked toward the north parapet, keeping the watervole lodged firmly between them. As they drew close to the northwest corner, the vole began dragging his paws, trying to hang back. Skipper shoved him onward, questioning. “Big, fat rascal like you ain't afraid, are ye?”

The vole ducked his head, so that he could not be seen. He crouched along in the cover of the battlements.

Benjo jabbed him in the ribs. “What are ye tryin' to hide down there for?”

Nodding toward the woodlands beyond the north wall, the vole whispered, “They're watchin' us, I'm sure of it!”

The stout Cellarhog hauled him up, above the walltop. “Who's watchin' ye, tell us?”

The watervole wriggled furiously as Benjo held him tight. “The golden fox an' his crew, there's a whole army of 'em!”

Benjo shook him. “Aye, an' yore one of 'em!”

The prisoner's nerve deserted him, he whined piteously. “No, I ain't, ask 'im, that young 'un!”

Orkwil had no sympathy for the vole. “He wasn't one of the fox's crew when I first met up with him, but that doesn't mean much. He's mean an' bad-tempered enough to have joined up with the vermin!”

Skipper stood on the north wall, peering down into the woodland, his keen gaze taking in the path and the ditch. “Well, they don't seem to be nowheres around now. Where d'ye think they've got to, young Prink?”

Orkwil shrugged. “I don't know, Skip, there was a lot o' crewbeasts aboard that ship. If they came chasin' me'n' Gorath, we'd have seen at least a few of 'em by now. Maybe they're hidin', waitin' for daylight.”

Skipper hopped back down onto the walkway. “That don't sound like vermin t'me, mate, skulkin' round in the dark an' attackin' by night's more their style. You was with 'em, vole, didn't ye hear any plans?”

Still held in Benjo Tipps's grasp, the vole sneered. “Of course I didn't, they wouldn't tell me anythin'. But they never injured me like yore Mister Tipps did, nor stole my vittles like that young 'un.”

Ignoring the vole's complaints, Orkwil ventured an idea. “Maybe they've moved position. Let's take a quiet patrol, right round the walls, we might spot the vermin.”

Skipper nodded. “Good plan, young 'un, let's do it. Benjo, if'n the vole makes a sound, teach him t'be quiet, will ye?”

The Cellarhog drew a short stave hammer from his belt. “Why, thankee, Skip, 'twould be my pleasure. Move along now, my ole vole, an' don't even try to breathe aloud!”

Soft moonshadows dappled the walkway, as the four creatures padded softly toward the eastern walltop. From battlement to battlement they moved, with the three Redwallers keeping close watch on the trees and woodland floor outside the Abbey. It was a still and tranquil night. Orkwil was enjoying being back at Redwall, he felt very grown-up, and sensible to his new responsibilities. No more would he be the foolish young borrower of other-beasts' property.

They covered the east parapet, without seeing any sign of life or activity outside, even the watervole was starting to walk more confidently.

Slightly ahead of his companions, Orkwil rounded the corner, onto the southern rampants. He was startled to hear a voice hailing them from below. “Ahoy the Abbey, matey!”

Immediately the vole panicked, breaking away from Benjo's grip, wailing fearfully, “It's them! I told you we was bein' watched, it's the fox an' his crew…. Yowhoooo!” In his excitement, the vole had stumbled and fallen down into the Abbey grounds. He made a distinct thud as he landed. This was followed by silence.

Skipper peered down at his slumped form, whispering to his friends, “Knocked senseless agin, an' just as well, too! That didn't sound like no vermin out there. Matter o' fact, I think I knows that voice. Leave this t'me.” The otter chieftain shouted back in a gruff voice, “Who goes there, be ye friend or foebeast?”

An equally tough-sounding voice roared back at him. “If'n ye've got supper on the table an' a drop o' hotroot soup, then I'll be yore friend for life, cousin Rorc!”

A broad smile spread over Skipper's face, he murmured to Orkwil, “Nip down quietlike an' open the south wicker gate, they're friends down there sure enough!” Skipper leapt up on the battlements, grinning happily. “Well, sink me rudder if'n it ain't Barbowla Boulderdog! Ahoy, mate, who's all the gang ye've brought with ye?”

Barbowla chuckled. “Haharr, 'tis only me liddle family an' some shrewmates I brought along, now don't stand up there chewin' soup all night, Rorc, let us in, will ye?”

Skipper adopted a mock serious expression. “Let ye in? Huh, ye'd eat us out o' house'n'home an' the cook'd resign if I let you lot at our vittles!”

Barbowla's wife, Kachooch, steped forward, paws akimbo. “When yore finished playin' games, ye great pudden, I suggest ye might think of openin' this liddle door down here. We've got a platoon of tired, hungry babes an' prob'ly a horde o' Brownrats on our tails!”

Skipper suddenly became serious. “Quick, Orkwil, open up an' let 'em in! Benjo, run an' fetch the Abbot, tell Marja Dubbidge to sound the alarm bells, we may need defenders on these walls if'n it's Brownrats!”

 

Orkwil was almost knocked flat as he unbolted the south wicker gate, a gang of shrew and otterbabes thundered by him, all agog to see what Redwall Abbey was like. These were followed by the Guosim, and Barbowla's clan. He enquired of the last one in, the squirrel Rangval, “Is that the lot, sir, any more to come?”

The roguish creature slammed the door, and locked it. “Ah shure, there'll mayhaps be another three shortly, sir, a haremaid an' two more shrews. But I think we'd best keep the ould door bolted until they're sighted, in case the rats make it here first, y'unnerstand.”

The Abbey's twin bells, Matthias and Methusaleh, rang out the alarm, disturbing the peaceful night. Within an amazingly short time, the walls were being manned by Redwallers, armed with the first things that came to paw. Rakes, spades, hoes, ladles, window poles and a variety of odd implements.

Abbot Daucas accosted a passing shrew. “Where's your Log a Log, Guosim?”

The shrew tugged his snout respectfully. “Luglug stayed be'ind, Father sir, the haremaid, too, they went lookin' fer a liddle 'un who got lost.”

Daucas signalled to Friar Chondrus. “Take these guests to Cavern Hole, please. See to it that they get a full supper.”

The shrew, who was Osbil, saluted the Abbot with his rapier. “Beggin' yore pardon, Father, but all Guosim who are fightin' fit will be stayin' on yore walltops, in case o' trouble.”

The Father Abbot shook his paw warmly. “The Guosim have always been our brave allies, thank you. Chondrus, just take the babes, old ones and mothers to supper. But have enough food prepared for everybeast defending the walls.”

Abbot Daucas mounted the walltop, where he stood listening to the conversation between Skipper Rorc and his cousin Barbowla.

“I can't say for certain 'ow many Brownrats there are, Rorc, but there's a horde of the scum, an' Gruntan Kurdly's their leader.”

“Kurdly eh, that 'un's been makin' a name for hisself round Mossflower fer a few seasons now. Well, let the rascals come, Redwall's ready for 'em, cousin.”

Daucas interrupted. “I'm told there's still a haremaid, plus two more shrews to come yet, one of them is Log a Log Luglug. Keep an eye out for them, and be sure to get them safe inside quickly, if they're being pursued by Brownrats.”

Skipper made way for a molecrew, who were trundling supplies of rocks, boulders and sling pebbles to the south ern walltop. The otter chieftain thwacked his rudder against the battlements, shaking his head at the Abbot. “Stripe me colours, Father, it ain't enough that we may have a crew o' seafarin' vermin on our paws, but now we got Gruntan Kurdly an' his gang callin' to visit!”

Abbot Daucus produced a sling from his voluminous sleeve, and began selecting stones. “Ah well, Skip, it never rains but it pours, or so they say. Let them all come, friends to receive a warm welcome, and foes to get a red-hot reception, eh!”

 

In the woodlands, a good hour's march north of the Abbey, Vizka Longtooth located his crew, having espied the light from their campfires. The weasel Magger, his second in command, made a place for him by the largest fire. “Yew was right, Cap'n, dere's plenny o' vittles fer everybeast round 'ere. Birds, fish, eggs an' fruit. Glurma! Fetch d'Cap'n summ supper, will ye.”

The greasy old ratcook presented Vizka with two hazel-wood skewers, laden with food, which she had been tending by her fire. “Been keepin' 'em special for ya, Cap'n, dat 'un's a woodpigeon, an' dis 'un's a bream!”

The golden fox tore into the roasted bird, spitting out fragments of feather as he gazed around.
Bludgullet
's crew seemed happy enough, those still not gorging themselves were dozing contentedly in the firelight. Vizka was pleasantly surprised, sea-raiding vermin were usually pretty hopeless at providing for themselves on land. He had expected them to be hungry, and sullen with unspoken complaints. He winked at Magger. “Pore ole Codj couldn't 'ave found vittles like dis, was it yore doin', mate?”

Magger showed his yellow, snaggled teeth in a modest grin. “Aye, Cap'n, me'n Glurma did it twixt us.”

Glurma presented her captain with a beaker of liquid. “Drink up, 'tis only willowbark tea, but Magger sent Dogleg an' Patchy back to der
Bludgullet,
dey should be back by midday wid a keg o' grog for ya, Cap'n.”

Vizka nodded his approval. “Hah, t'ings is lookin' up, mates, ya did good!”

As he ate and drank, Magger moved close to Vizka, speaking in a secretive murmur, “So, wot's da plan fer dat Abbey place, Cap'n?”

The golden fox threw a fishbone into the fire. “I been thinkin', would dis lot be any good at diggin'?”

Magger snorted contemptuously. “Sea Raiders diggin'? Ya mus' be jestin', Vizka, my crew's alright at shipboard tasks, or killin', but I don't see 'em as diggers. Why, are ya plannin' on diggin' inta dat Abbey place?”