Loamhedge (22 page)

The Sister's voice shook with barely controlled anger. “Och, jist let me get mah paws on those rascals. Ah'll give 'em somethin' tae remember me by!”

Buffle strained against the pillowcase knotted at his neck. “Goourr, 'ascals!”

A look of fear crossed the haremaid's face. “What's happened, Sister?”

Setiva began trying to release Buffle. “Ooh! Those Dibbuns, Muggum, Shilly an' Yooch. They've gone missing. All the rest o' the wee ones were fast asleep, except Buffle. D'ye see what they did? Trapped 'im in this auld pillowslip so he couldnae follow 'em. Where in the name of all fur have they got to?”

Buffle pulled a paw free and pointed out the Abbey door.

 

Junty Cellarhog ran his paw around the inside of his bowl and licked it. “Ah, apple'n'blackberry crumble, mate, nothin' like it!”

Toran gazed longingly back toward the Abbey. “Aye, pity we're on wallguard all night. If the Abbot sends out a relief, there might be some left when we get off duty.” Toran's keen eye suddenly noticed three small, white-clad figures trundling across the lawn in his direction. Two were waving sticks and one swinging a ladle. He peered hard.

“Look there, mate, that ain't no relief!”

It was at that moment when things began happening fast.

Framed in a shaft of golden light from the Abbey door, Martha and Sister Setiva were pointing to the Dibbuns and calling aloud to them. “Come back here this instant, or you're in real trouble!”

The trio split, Muggum running south and the other two hurrying off to the north.

Toran saw them and chuckled. “Escapin' Dibbuns, eh? They won't get far . . .”

Junty interrupted him roughly. “Look, vermin!”

Badredd and his crew were sneaking quickly out across the lawn, trying to grab Muggum, who was heading for the pond where he planned on hiding in the reeds. The little mole was completely unaware of the enemy. Sister Setiva had come out onto the Abbey steps. As soon as she saw the vermin crew, she began dashing to save Muggum.

Junty was already hurtling down the gatehouse wallsteps, calling back to Toran, “Get the other two little 'uns inside!” He shouted at the shrewnurse. “Stay where ye are, Sister. I'll bring that Dibbun in!”

With his paws, Toran swept up the giggling Shilly and Yooch—this was all one big game to them—then the ottercook turned and pounded toward the Abbey door.

Slipback came within a paw's length of grabbing Muggum, when Junty fetched him a massive whack to the chest, laying the weasel out flat. Then the big Cellarhog seized the molebabe and ran as fast as his footpaws would carry him, with Badredd and the crew hard on his heels. Without stopping, Junty snatched up Sister Setiva from where she had been standing in his path, rigid with fright.

Thud! Thud!

Two arrows from the bows of the ferrets buried themselves in the Cellarhog's broad back. He staggered slightly but kept running. Muggum was screeching, the hedgehog's sharp spines were sticking in his paws as the molebabe tried to struggle free.

Toran sped into the Abbey, dropped both of the other Dibbuns into Martha's lap. “Get ready to slam the door shut!” He panted as he turned and ran back outside to help Junty.

One arrow grazed Toran's cheek, another hit Junty in his right shoulder. Toran shot past the Cellarhog, whirled hard, and caught Crinktail across the face with a huge smack of his rudder. He turned and pushed Junty, with both his burdens, up the steps and into the Abbey, roaring, “Bar the door!”

Redwallers, who had come pouring out of Cavern Hole to see what all the commotion was about, assisted the haremaid in slamming and barring the door in the face of the charging vermin crew. Two more arrows made a hollow sound as they flew into the strong oak timbering. A crash and a tinkle sent
Foremole and Brother Weld hurrying to the lower windows.

Toran urged others along with him. “Get tables an' benches! Barricade the lower frames before they get in!”

Badredd waved his broken cutlass. “Keep at it there, crew, we've got 'em on the run!”

Flinky watched a dining table blocking a broken window. He muttered out the side of his mouth to Juppa. “Keep slingin' rocks, but let 'em barricade those windows. They'd eat our liddle gang if'n we got inside. We'd be well outnumbered, mate.”

Juppa looked puzzled. “Well, if'n we ain't goin' in, wot's the next move?”

Flinky had served under lots of different vermin chiefs, all a lot smarter than Badredd. He winked confidently at the weasel.

“Lissen t'me. If'n we ain't goin' in, well they ain't gettin' out. Did ye see that great orchard we passed as we came through?”

Badredd came marching around, prodding Flinky with his broken blade. “Wot's that sling doin' empty? Keep chuckin' rocks at those windows until I tell ye to stop. Both of ye!”

Flinky loaded a large pebble into his sling. “Ah, we'll be doin' that, yer 'onour, right away. I was just tellin' ould Juppa here what a clever move ye made.”

Badredd was eager to know just what the clever move was. “Aye, well that's alright. You explain it to 'er, she was never too bright. Go on, tell the long-tailed oaf.” The small fox stood listening to Flinky's explanation.

“Hoho, we've got the sillybeasts locked up tight now. Prisoners in their own Abbey, 'tis called a siege. There's only a limited supply o' food an' drink in there. Take us now, the chief knows we got the orchard an' the pond. They'll either starve t'death in the Abbey or surrender after awhile. Ain't that right, Chief?”

Only a moment before, Badredd thought he had lost the encounter, but the realisation of what Flinky had just said made him shudder with delight. So that was what a siege was all about.

Keeping a straight face, the fox nodded wisely. “Aye, 'tis a siege, sure enough. Now you two keep slingin'.” He swaggered
off, shouting orders to the other vermin. Juppa watched him go. “A siege, eh? What a clever idea!”

Flinky launched another stone but missed. He jumped neatly aside as it bounced back at him. “Ah sure, the ould chief is full o' clever ideas, especially when some otherbeast thinks 'em up for 'im. Little fool, he couldn't find his bottom wid both paws!” The weasel and the stoat loaded their slings again, laughing hilariously.

 

Martha had pulled herself from her chair. She sat on the floor, both eyes shut tight, clutching Junty's paw to her cheek as she rocked back and forth. The Cellarhog was lying where he had fallen, face up. Muggum was wailing as Sister Portula pulled spikes from his side and paws.

Sister Setiva was similarly engaged. “Och, ye've got some fine sharp quills on ye, mah guid Cellarhog. Ah'll be with ye soon as I've got them out o' me. Hauld him still, Martha, how is he?”

With her eyes still shut, Martha kissed his limp paw. “He's dead, Sister. Junty is dead!”

A squabbling flock of starlings, disputing rights to an ants' nest, woke Jibsnout in the hour following daybreak. With a cavernous yawn, the big Searat heaved himself upright. He cast a jaundiced eye over the three sons of Wirga who were curled up together, sleeping beneath a wych hazel.

Jibsnout cuffed the trio roughly, stirring them into wakefulness. “Up on yer hunkers, whelps, we're on the move again!”

The three smaller rats rose reluctantly, one of them glaring balefully at the Tracker and hissing. “We only lay down an hour afore dawn.”

Jibsnout smirked. “Aye, 'tis a shame, ain't it? Move yerself, snotty snout, an' don't argue wid me. If'n I say ye march, then ye march, so button yer lip!”

Quivering with anger, the smaller rat picked up his little spear—each of his brothers carried one, too. Jibsnout had seen them use the deadly weapons, but not as spears. Although they were actually hollow rods, the spearpoints could be removed, transforming them into blowpipes through which poisoned darts could be shot with lethal accuracy. The big Searat stroked his long dagger fondly and moved closer to the sons of Wirga. He fixed the angry one with a cold stare.

“Go on, mamma's liddle rat, use it, I dare ye. Think yore brave enough t'slay me, eh?”

Lashing out swiftly, Jibsnout knocked the spear from the smaller rat's paws. Whipping out his blade, he menaced the other two. “Just try raisin' one o' those things against me, an' poison or not, I'll rip yer throats out! Well, come on, ye gutless wonders, who's ready fer a fight t'the death?”

The sons of Wirga stood silent, their eyes cast down. Jibsnout curled his lip scornfully, turning his back on them. “Hah, I thought so! There's more backbone in an egg than in youse three put t'gether. Scringin' cowards!”

Each of the three blowpipes was already charged with a poison dart. Silently slipping the head from his spear, the rat whom Jibsnout had insulted placed the hollow rod to his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he prepared to propel the dart.

Zzzzzzip!

A long arrow struck the little rat, driving him back a full four paces. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Diving to either side, the remaining two sons of Wirga sought cover. Lonna emerged from out of the trees, fitting another shaft to his bowstring. The badger's eyes were red with the light of vengeance, the snarl on his scarred, stitched face transforming him into a terrifying apparition. Frightened though he was, Jibsnout, a seasoned fighter, acted swiftly. Wielding his dagger, he dashed forward, hoping to get so close to his adversary that the bow and arrow would be rendered useless.

Lonna was in a dilemma: he could see one of the Searats glancing around a treetrunk, ready to fire a blowpipe, and Jibsnout thundering toward him. With lightning speed the badger acted. Falling into a crouch, he fired his arrow, but only narrowly missed being shot himself as a poison dart whipped by overhead. Jibsnout roared in pain as the arrow transfixed his paw to the ground. As Lonna rose, taking another shaft from his quiver, the Searat who had fired the dart fled off into the woodlands.

The remaining son of Wirga came from behind a fir tree, certain that he could not fail to hit a target as big as the badger. As he placed the blowpipe to his mouth, Figalok the squirrel appeared directly in front of him, hanging by her tail from an overhead branch. She grabbed the opposite end of
the vermin's blowpipe and blew hard. Clutching his throat, the horrified rat fell writhing to the ground, choked on his own poison dart.

Figalok dropped out of the tree, nodding to Lonna. “Chahaah, gotta be plenny quick wirra Searatta!”

The big badger put up his bow, striving to master the Bloodwrath that was coursing through him. “You saved my life, friend, but I'll have to thank you some other time. One of the Searats got away. I must hunt him down now while his trail is still fresh.”

The squirrel gestured at the wounded Jibsnout. “Warra 'bout dissa one, ya goin' to slay 'im?”

Jibsnout crouched over, his face creased in agony. The arrow that had pierced his footpaw was buried half its length into the ground. He glanced up at Lonna, expecting no mercy from him.

“If'n yore gonna finish me off, make it quick, stripedog!”

The badger strode over and grasped the arrow. With a sharp tug he pulled the arrow out, growling at Jibsnout. “I'm no Searat, I don't kill defenceless beasts!” Ripping the sleeve from the rat's frayed tunic, Lonna grabbed a pawful of damp moss and dockleaves.

The puzzled rat watched his enemy binding the wound up tight. “Ye mean yore lettin' me live?”

The badger hauled him upright, slamming him against a tree. “My name is Lonna Bowstripe. Take this message to Raga Bol. Tell him that he and all his crew of murderers are walking deadbeasts. I will find them and slay them, one by one. Even you. Now begone from my sight and deliver my message to your captain. Tell him I am coming, nothing will stop me!”

Lonna and Figalok watched Jibsnout limping painfully off until he was obscured by the trees, then together, the two friends took a brief meal. The squirrel wielded a blowpipe spear and poison darts taken from the slain Searats.

“Chahaah! Me betcha dis keep Ravin away from squirrel. Lonna Bigbeast, ya goin' after dat Searatta who runned away? Me go witcha, we find 'im afore tomorra.”

But the badger would not hear of it. “No, my friend, you have your own home and kinbeasts to protect. This is something I must do by myself. I am sworn by my own oath to rid
the earth of Raga Bol and all his vermin. But I thank you for saving my life, Figalok!”

The elderly squirrel took his paw. “Chahaaw, so be't, Lonna, ya are d'true warrior. Ya saved us fromma Ravin, glad Figalok could save ya, too. Me no ferget ya alla me life, always think of ya!”

Averting his eyes, Lonna inspected the long dagger he had taken from Jibsnout, pleased that it was a good blade. When he looked up again, Figalok had gone, vanished into the treetops.

 

The Searat's trail had gone off to the southeast. Lonna picked it up and followed the tracks. As he walked, the badger fashioned a holder for his dagger, fitting it to his upper left arm close to the shoulder. By late afternoon, the dense woodlands thinned out into pine groves and sandhills. In the distance, Lonna could make out a dark shape to his left on the horizon. The trail of Wirga's remaining son was running parallel to the mysterious mass. Just before sunset, the badger crested a rise which afforded a clear view of the country he was travelling through. On the one side, the hills bordered a vast, dusty plain, almost like a desert wasteland. On the other side, the odd dark mass reared up into a towering line of forbidding cliffs. After awhile it grew too dark for tracking. Reaching the cliff face, Lonna sighted what he knew was a cave. He climbed up and made camp there for the night.

There was no need for a fire. The night was still and warm, with heat waves drifting in from the plain. Knowing he could pick up the Searat's tracks at dawn, Lonna sat in the cave entrance, eating an apple and some dried fruit. He gazed up at the night sky, where a sliver of moon, resembling a slice of russet apple, was surrounded by myriads of stars twinkling in the firmament. The words of an old song rose unbidden to his mind.

 

“When weary day does shed its light,

I rest my head and dream,

I ride the great dark bird of night,

so tranquil and serene.

Then I can touch the moon afar,

which smiles up in the sky,

and steal a twinkle from each star,

as we go winging by.

 

We'll fly the night to dawning light,

and wait 'til dark has ceased,

to marvel at the wondrous sight,

of sunrise in the east.

So slumber on, my little one,

float soft as thistledown,

and wake to see when night is done,

fair morning's golden gown.”

 

Since Lonna had no recollection of his parents, he surmised that the lullaby had been taught to him by Grawn, the old badger who had reared him.

 

Lonna stayed that night in the cave on the cliffside. As day dawned he spotted a tiny puff of dust, on a hilltop off to his right. The big badger knew instantly that it was his quarry. The Searat must have spent the night amid the hills, not far from the cave. Pausing only to grab his bow and quiver, Lonna set off in pursuit.

He had travelled no further than the base of the first foothill when he was faced by a small patrol of ten Darrat rats. Their leader eyed him insolently up and down.

“Dis be Darrat land. You give me bow'n'arrers, stripedog. We take ye to Hemper Figlugg!” He grinned at the other rats, murmuring to them, “Much Burcha Glugg, eh?”

Had it been ten rats or twenty, Lonna did not like either their manner or their disposition, so he charged them without warning. They went down like ninepins under the giant badger's onslaught. Seizing the leader of the patrol, Lonna hurled him bodily into the other rats. Then the big badger was among them like a whirlwind—punching, kicking, butting, thrashing them with their own spears. So surprised were the Darrat that they fled in panic, kicking up sand widespread as they scuttled off amid the hills.

Lonna picked up his bow and quiver. Then, throwing back his great striped head, he gave vent to the fearsome warcry of hares and badgers. “Eulaliiiiiaaaaaa!”

However, with much more urgent business to attend to, he let the Darrat be, and didn't give chase. Instead, Lonna set off swiftly on the trail of the Searat.

When the Darrat saw they were not being pursued, they halted on the plain beside the foothills. The patrol leader limped up, carrying half a broken spear. He watched the big badger crossing a hilltop, some distance off.

Turning to his subordinates, who were sitting licking their wounds, he snarled, “We was sent to catcher rabbert, mouse an' squirri', not stripedog! Huh, let High Kappin catcher that 'un—'e be over dat way wid many Darrat!”

The Searat saw Lonna coming after him. Deserting the hills, he dashed out onto the dusty plain. It was a mistake, the last mistake he was ever to make. The badger's arrow found him. Once Lonna had the range, nobeast could outrun a shaft from his big bow. Though Wirga did not know, she had lost all three of her sons.

Lonna sat down in a hollow amid the hills and made breakfast from the food in his pack.

 

Out on the flatlands the five travellers pushed forward, keeping the distant cliffs in view. They marched shoulder to shoulder because, as Saro had pointed out, that way they would not be eating one another's dust. Since their rescue, Springald and Fenna were paying more attention to Bragoon and Saro. Seasoned campaigners both, the squirrel and the otter were ever ready to share their knowledge with the younger, less experienced trio.

Horty was feeling rather chipper now that any immediate danger was past. He struck up a jolly marching song, to which he himself had written the lyrics. As was usual with hare songs, it dealt mainly with food.

 

“Oh wallop me left an' stagger me right,

an' buffet me north an' south,

if I could teach a stew to walk,

it'd march right into me mouth!

To pasties an' pies of convenient size,

I'd beat a tattoo on me drum,

so jolly forceful, each tasty morsel,

tramp over me gums to me tum!

 

As each of 'em trips in through me lips,

all skippin' along to the beat,

why all of a sudden I'd grab a fat pudden,

an' leave it no way to retreat!

 

Form up in line, you vittles so fine,

watch y'dressin' that salad back there,

a quick salute to trifle'n'fruit,

then charge down the throat of the hare!

 

Quick march! One two! Scoff 'em all! You an' you!

Left right! Left right! Here comes supper for tonight!”

 

A grey, black-flecked Darrat scout came loping into the camp in the foothills of the high cliffs. He threw himself flat in front of High Kappin Birug, the Darrat leader. Pointing back to the scrubland, the rat scout shouted, “Burcha Glugg!”

Birug dashed past him to the top of a hill. He crouched, peering at the small dust cloud with the travellers marching in front of it, not half a mile away. Smirking with satisfaction, Birug turned to the others who had followed him.

“Hemper Figlugg, trus' me, ho yar, I know dey only go one way. Run for bigrocks. We wait, they be come to us. Burcha Glugg!”

Darrat vermin shook their heads in admiration of Kappin Birug's cunning. One of them piped up. “Hemper be 'appy to see Burcha Glugg come back.” The more excited of the Darrat leaped up and down, waving spears.

Birug growled a warning at them. “Keepa 'eads down, idjits!”

 

Horty glanced up at the sky. “Cloudin' over up there, chaps. We might have a spot of jolly old rain before nightfall, wot?”