Loamhedge (31 page)

Down on the lawn, Raga Bol turned and strode away from the scene of his defeat. The Searat Rojin limped up to him. “Cap'n, there's no way we kin get at 'em. Those beasts ain't as simple as they look.”

Bol carried on walking without even looking back at Rojin. “Have ye only just realised that? Call the crew off. There's got t'be a way into that Abbey, an' I'll find it. Ye can take my oath on it, 'cos I ain't movin' from Redwall. 'Tis mine, d'ye hear me? Mine!”

 

Somewhere southeast, deep along a woodland trail in Mossflower Wood, Flinky stopped running. Breathless and shaking, he collapsed to the ground. The little gang of escaped vermin flopped down beside him. Badredd slunk at the back of the group, with nobeast paying him the slightest attention. Gone were his days as gangleader. Now all the vermin looked to the stoat, Flinky, as their saviour. He had taken them out of the Searats' clutches.

Panting hard, Crinktail clutched her mate's paw gratefully. “We did it, we got away!”

Halfchop grinned fondly at Flinky, his new hero. “Kachunk!”

Understanding what his pal meant, Plumnose nodded in agreement. “Wodd duh we doo's now, Flink?”

The triumphant stoat was never stuck for words, despite
trying to regain his breath. “Ah well, Plum, we can't run anymore tonight. Let's just stow ourselves under those bushes an' take a good ould rest while we lay low there an' 'ide. Tomorrer we'll 'ead south, where nobeast will ever find us agin. Sure, we'll find a comfy spot where there's plenny o' vittles growin', clean water an' grand weather. That'll do fer us, a good plan, eh?”

Juppa's voice was full of admiration. “Aye, that it is. We're with ye all the way, Chief!”

Rolling beneath the bushes, Slipback settled down amid the leaf mold. The rest joined him, with Flinky still chattering on.

“Ah, sure, we musta bin mad, lettin' greedy ould fools an' oafs lead us. Ferget all the magic swords, sieges an' great abbeys. Wot more could a body want than layin' round in the sun all day, fillin' yore stummick wid vittles an' never an argument twixt the lot of us anymore. After wot we bin through, I reckon we deserves a taste o' the good life, mates!”

Owing to the size of his nose, Plumnose was gifted with a keen sense of smell. His voice carried a note of disgust as he called out in the darkness beneath the bushes. “Duh, sumthink smells h'awful round 'ere!”

Juppa gave vent to a horrified gurgle. “Yurgh, wot's this?” She shot out of the bushes on to the other side of the trail. Wringing her paws, the weasel performed an anguished little dance.

“There's a deadbeast in there! Yukk, I put me paw on its face. Creepy crawlies were all over its eyes!”

A mad scramble ensued as the gang ran out from beneath the bushes, shuddering and dusting themselves down.

Flinky was the first to express an urgent desire. “Let's get outta 'ere, run mates! We'll keep goin' 'til it's light, then I'll pick a better spot. Keep goin', don't stop fer nothin'!”

Their sounds receded south into the distant woodlands, until everything was still and silent once more. The only things that moved were the insects crawling over the lifeless carcass of Jibsnout—lying stretched beneath the bushes where Raga Bol had flung his slain body.

 

Around the midnight hour, two others came along that same path. The Searats, Glimbo and Blowfly. It was the latter who searched the ground closely for signs of the fugitives.

Sceptical of ever finding them, one-eyed Glimbo complained volubly. “Wot'n the name o' Hellgates do ye expect to find in this forest at night? We ain't even got a lantern!”

Blowfly wheezed as he heaved his bulk upright. “I got good blinkers, don't need no lantern. I've tracked 'em this far, an' I'll keep on 'til I lays paws on dat scurvy liddle crew!”

He unwound a long whip from about his flabby waist and cracked it. “I'll teach 'em t'run away. They'll be lucky to 'ave a hide to their backs by the time they git back to the Abbey!”

Glimbo watched him track on a piece, then come to a halt. Blowfly inspected the ground carefully, going back and forth over the same piece, muttering and cursing.

Glimbo relaxed, leaning against a tree. He scoffed sarcastically, “Ye've lost our liddle pals, I thought ye would. Nobeast kin track anythin' at night through 'ere. Give up, mate, let's git back t'the crew. They're prob'ly inside that Abbey now, grabbin' the loot an' plunderin' the place. Yore wastin' time out in a forest when we could be back there snatchin' our share.”

Blowfly gave him a surly glare. “Huh, 'tis alright fer you, I'm the one t'blame for lettin' them escape. 'Tis me who Cap'n Bol will take it out on. I can't go back empty-pawed!”

His companion did not agree. “Aw c'mon, Bol won't be frettin' over a few runaway fools. The cap'n 'as other things t'think about. A kick in the tail an' a few 'ard words is the most we'll get. Huh, we've 'ad plenny o' those afore now. Belay there, shipmate, wot are ye doin'?”

Blowfly looked up from his task of striking flint to steel. “Wot I shoulda done awhile back, makin' a torch. I'll find these runaways, just ye wait'n'see!”

Glimbo seated himself with his back against the tree trunk. “Well, ye can find 'em on yer own, 'cos I ain't goin' anywheres. When ye come back this way widout 'em, gimme a shake. I'll be right 'ere, takin' a nap.”

Blowfly held up the burning torch he had fashioned. Silent and stubborn, he trudged off alone into the night.

 

Lonna Bowstripe saw the glow from between the trees where he sat resting. It appeared like a small floating island of light in the darkness. Silent as a wraith he arose, becoming one with the forest as he stood motionless against the elm trunk. Blowfly walked by within a paw's reach of the big badger. Staring at the ground, the Searat mumbled bloodthirsty curses as to the fate of the lost fugitives. Lonna saw his face in the torchlight, and a trigger went off in his mind. He recalled brief flashes of the night he had been attacked by the Searats. Blowfly's coarse, ugly features were instantly identifiable. Swiftly, the badger strung his bow and stole up behind the unsuspecting Searat.

Blowfly was jerked back as the tightly strung bow trapped his neck between wood and twine. The big badger managed to catch the torch before it fell.

Craning his head around painfully, the Searat caught a glimpse of his captor and spoke almost indignantly.

“Yore dead!”

Lonna drew him in until they were face-to-face. Only the pressure on the bow held the Searat upright, his limbs having turned to jelly.

With torchlight flickering over his scarred features and the light glinting in his vengeful eyes, the giant badger resembled some beast straight out of a nightmare.

Blowfly's tongue suddenly ran away with him. “It was Bol . . . it wasn't me . . . I wasn't nowhere near ye. I swear me oath on it, I never did nothin' . . . Gurgg!”

A sharp tug on the bowstring silenced him. Lonna's voice left the Searat in no doubt that lies would not save him. “So you never did anything, you were nowhere near, it all had nought to do with you, you are innocent of everything?

“How many times has that same excuse been made? Think of every bully, cheat, plunderer or murderer before you who has lied with those same words. Once a villain is caught with no pack around him, then everybeast is to blame, except himself, of course. He will lie, betray and cheat to save his hide. But sometimes there is justice in the world, and fate catches up with him. So speak truly to me, or you will die slowly. You have my word on it—and I never lie.”

Blowfly sighed with relief. He told Lonna all he needed to
know, and he spoke truly. The big badger kept his word: the Searat did not die slowly. A single, mighty jerk of the bow, and Blowfly died quicker than he had ever expected to.

Awakened by flaring torchlight, Glimbo yawned and stretched his paws. “Betcha never caught 'em, I told ye afore y . . . Ukkk!” The Searat's paw shot to his neck. Blowfly's long whip was tied around it, holding him fast to the tree he was sitting against.

A deep, forbidding voice warned him, “Be still, vermin!”

Automatically he raised his other paw, trying to free his neck. There was a hissing sound, like an angry wasp. An arrow of awesome length buried its point deep in the tree trunk, a hairbreadth from his neck. Glimbo froze.

Lonna revealed his face in the torchlight, laid another shaft on his bowstring and unhurriedly explained his purpose to the petrified Searat. “You will take me to the Abbey of Redwall. I am going to release you, but play me false, you'll wish you hadn't. Is that understood? Speak!”

Glimbo's good eye rolled about alarmingly in its socket—he was completely terrified. “Unnerstood!”

The badger drew a long knife from his arm sheath and severed the whipcoils with a swift stroke. The Searat shot off like a hare at top speed. Lonna drew back the bowstring, homing in on the fleeing figure.

“Never mind, I'll find my own way.”

Fenna lowered her head quickly. More thin, sharp reed lances whipped viciously by. “Don't they ever run short of those things?”

Without raising himself, Bragoon hurled off a slingstone. “There's always reeds aplenty on riverbanks. They just cut 'em an' point one end—it makes a good throwin' lance, sharp an' dangerous. I've used 'em meself in the past.”

Saro suddenly rolled in beside Springald. “Aye, but ye weren't much good with lances, too 'eavy pawed.”

The otter scratched his rudder. “Where did you come from, mate?”

Saro smiled, secretly enjoying the surprise she had in store. “I found a bend in the river down that way, an' guess wot else I found?”

She signalled with her paw. Suddenly Springald found herself being jostled by a score of shrews who had crept out from behind trees and bushes to join them in the shelter of the log.

The otter uttered a delighted growl. “Guoraf shrews . . . Great!”

Saro pointed to Jigger. “Aye, Guoraf shrews, an' who does this 'un remind ye of, Brag?”

The otter inspected Jigger's face, noting the beard he was starting to cultivate. “Wait, don't tell me, are ye a kinbeast to Log a Log Briggy, young 'un?”

Jigger expertly caught a reed lance as it flew by. As he cast it back downhill, he was rewarded by a reptile's scream. “Briggy's me old daddy. You must be Bragoon, the mad otter. Daddy's tole me about you. Pleased t'meetcha!”

Fenna whispered to Saro. “What's a Guoraf shrew?”

The squirrel explained, “That's just the first letters of their tribename.
G
uerilla
U
nion
o
f
R
oving
a
nd
F
ighting
S
hrews. They're good friends an' fearsome warriors. Sometimes I think that they do all their far rangin' just lookin' for fights. Me'n Brag have battled alongside of 'em once or twice through past seasons.”

When everyone was acquainted, Jigger outlined the plan. “We've got to 'old on, 'til me dad an' the others get set on the far bank. Then when we 'ears the signal, we charge an' cut loose at those reptiles on our side.”

Bragoon mulled it over. “Sounds like good sense t'me, mate. This crowd down below ain't goin' anyplace. They're tryin' to outwait us, an' slay us all when we makes a move t'leave.”

Jigger peered over the log and ducked a few lances. He thudded the ground with his club, chortling eagerly, “Reptiles'll stan' about waitin' fer ages in the sun. Well, I 'ope they enjoys their sunbath, 'cos we'll be givin' 'em a different kind o' tannin'. Hahaha!”

Saro spotted slight movements in the bushes on the far hillside. “Looks like ole Briggy's gettin' the lads into position. Won't be long now.”

Without any prior warning, Horty came skipping blithely out from beneath the overhang. He ran by the log, speeding downhill and calling back to them, “Shrews, eh? Where'd ye meet that flippin' lot? I feel much better now, chaps. Who's for a jolly old paddle in the shallows, wot?”

When three lances came zinging at him, the young hare stopped, but the weapons had pierced his ridiculous headdressing. He ground to a halt, only paces from the dumbfounded reptiles.

“Great blinkin' seasons, have a flamin' care where you're chuckin' those things. A chap could get injured by them!”

Knowing that the plan had been ruined, Bragoon, Saro and Jigger, followed by their fighting force, came bounding
downhill. At the bottom they found, to their shock, that the reptiles were lying prostrate, facedown in front of the young hare. Horty stood posing majestically, the three lances transfixing his turban.

Saro glared at him. “Wot were ye thinkin' of, ye great idiot? Lollopin' off right into the middle of the enemy like that!”

Horty gave her a scathing glance. “Hold your tongue, marm. These chaps are just showin' their respect to me. Hawhaw, they must think I'm the Great Hortyplonk, descended from out the bloomin' sky, wot!”

Springald scoffed in his face. “Then they must be bigger idiots than you! D'you realise you could've been killed?”

As she spoke, there was a whooping warcry from the far bank.
Logalogalogalooooooog!
Briggy had commenced attacking the reptiles over there.

The reptiles laid out in awe of Horty lifted their faces. When they saw the score of shrews brandishing their clubs, they rose, backing off into the shallows.

Horty took a few paces toward them. “I say there, old scaly-skinned chaps . . .”

Hissing and squeaking, the reptiles fled into the water.

The young hare turned to Jigger, who was looking rather crestfallen. “Oops, sorry about that, old lad. Were you goin' to give those bounders a good drubbin'? I didn't realise. Oh well, never mind. Come on, we'll pursue 'em into the river an' deal 'em a few severe whackin's, wot!” He trotted into the shallows but was immediately set upon and hauled back by four shrews.

Horty protested vehemently. “Wot the . . . ? I say, unpaw me, little sirrahs, I'm not scared of a few mangy reptiles, by the left, I ain't!”

Jigger remarked caustically. “Oh, we know ye ain't, lop-ears. But it's not the reptiles that's the danger on this stretch o' the river. Watch!”

He picked up a lance and went into the shallows, holding the weapon out into the water at paw's length. Suddenly it began to shake and vibrate. When Jigger pulled it out, the tip was ripped and ragged. A small fish, which seemed to consist of only big, needlelike teeth, was clinging doggedly to it. Jigger flicked the creature back into the water.

“ 'Tis the fish that are the slayers 'ere!”

The reptiles were being swept downriver, shrieking unmercifully as the water about them reddened.

Horty sat down in a collapse on the bank, looking pale about the gills.

“Oh corks, I feel quite ill all of a sudden!”

On the far bank, the reptiles were taking a colossal walloping from Briggy and his command. They had tossed a big logboat sail over their foes, capturing most of them beneath the spreading canvas. Some of the Guorafs held the ends down, while others galloped about on the sailcloth, dealing great whacks with their war clubs to any bump that appeared—be it head, tail, back or limb. Gradually the canvas subsided and was still.

Log a Log Briggy waved over to them, his stentorian bass voice booming over the waters. “Stop there, friends, I've sent a crew to git the boats. They'll pick ye up an' bring ye over!”

 

It was a glorious evening on the far bank. Six logboats lay prow on to the bankside, as the travellers sat among their shrewfriends.

Horty sniffed the air appreciatively, his whiskers atwitch at the aromas of cooking. “I say, old Briggathingee, is that supper I detect? Jolly nice of you chaps, wot!”

Briggy pulled a mock glare at Bragoon. “So, ye had t'bring a starvin' hare along with ye this trip. I'll wager that lollop-lugged young famine maker can shift a tidy few platefuls, eh?”

Horty smiled primly. “Oh, I just nibble a bit here'n'there, y'know, sah. Actually I've not been feelin' too chipper of late. But if the scoff's as good as it smells, well, I might persuade myself to try it, wot.”

Jigger looked askance at him. “Lissen, mate, if'n ye want to sail wid the Guorafs, ye've got t'be a big eater an' a great bragger, like Drinchy 'ere. Ain't that right, Drinch? Show the harebeast 'ow 'tis done.”

A fat, powerful-looking shrew stood up, smirking, then launched into Riverbraggin, an art much admired among the longboat crews. Drinchy thumped the ground with his club and commenced roaring, “I wuz borned on a river in a thunnerstorm, an' wot did I do? I ate the bottom outta the boat an'
fought six big pike who tried to eat me! Though I wuz on'y a babe, I scoffed three of 'em, an' tossed the rest on the bank an' fried 'em for me brekkist! Aye, mates, I'm Drinchy Wildgob, the roarin' son of a roarin' son who killed 'imself tryin' to feed me. I can outeat, outchew an' outswaller anybeast alive—includin' long-pawed, flop-eared, fancy bunnies!”

Finished with his mighty brag, Drinchy bowed as the shrews cheered him raucously.

Saro nodded to Horty. “I think you're bein' challenged, young 'un. Think you can do better than Drinchy?”

Horty stood up, bowing elegantly to Saro. “Marm, my dander has risen since the remarks that chap made about me. We of the Braebucks are not backward in coming forward. I shall accept this curmudgeon's braggin' challenge, forthwith!”

Without further ado, Horty bounded up, spreading his paws dramatically and yelling like a madbeast. “I'm the son of the howlin' hare! I was born on a winter's night in a gale. My parents took one look at me, chewin' on the chimney, an' left home! There ain't a cauldron big enough to hold my dinner, not one in all the land! I've ate every jolly old thing—fried frogs, toasted toads, boiled badgers, roasted reptiles, an' shrews, too! Shrew stew, shaved an' shrivelled shrews, shrew soup an' simmered shrew! I've got a stomach of iron an' a mouth like a steel trap! I'm the Horrible Hortwill Braebuck, an' nobeast steps over my line! Even little fat wretches with bellies like balloons an' spiky fur an' names like Drinchy! D'ye know what the Horrible Horty likes for supper? Daintily diced Drinchy . . . with lots o' gravy. Yaaaaaah!”

The Guoraf shrews battered the ground with their war clubs, a mark of the highest honour they could show anybeast. Then they hoisted Horty up on their shoulders, cheering him twice around the camp.

With a look of thorough humbleness, Drinchy shook the young hare's paw fervently. “Well, I more'n met me match there, mate. Ye must be the best bragger ever born, ye made me look like a beginner.”

The triumphant Horty was gallant, even in victory. “No hard feelins, Drinch old lad, but mind your language in the future, wot!”

A magnificent supper was served, as befitted shrewcooks,
who were renowned across the waterways for their culinary skills. Huge portions were served up to Horty. The shrews gathered round, gazing in awe as he downed one dish after another.

“Mmmm yum! This is top-hole tucker, wot wot. Pass some more o' that skilly'n'duff, please. Oh, an' lob more honey over it, I like it that way. I say, is that actually rhubarb'n'blackberry crumble? . . . Where's me blinkin' spoon? Drinch, old scout, would y'be kind enough to fetch more shrewbeer—not that little beaker, gimme the jug!”

Bragoon chuckled. “Look at young Horty, he's in 'is element there. They'll get tired o' servin' before he does of eatin', mark my words, Briggy!”

The shrew chieftain watched Horty admiringly. “That 'un should've bin a shrew, mate. I saw 'im march straight inter that reptile crowd widout turnin' a hair. They'd already throwed three javelins an' spiked 'is hat. I tell ye, Bragoon, it takes a brave beast to do that!”

The otter poured himself another beaker of shrewbeer. “Or a ravin' idiot! I'll tell ye the truth of it all someday.”

Horty was on to a wild grape and almond pudding. “Never had this before. My word, it's rather toothsome, wot. Send the old cook out, an' I'll give her a kiss!”

A small, toothless, grizzled male shrew stumped out from behind the cauldrons hanging over the fire. He grinned. “H'I'm the cook round 'ere. Wot was it ye wanted, sir?”

Horty choked on a mouthful of pudding. “Wot, er, oh nothin', granddad. Excellent scoff, wot. Top marks, well done an' all that. Back to the old fire an' keep on cookin'. Eh, wot!”

Log a Log Briggy called to his shrews. “Ye can let those reptiles free now, I reckon they've learned their lesson. If any of the slimy-skinned lot give ye any bother, give 'em another drubbin' an tell 'em you'll sling 'em in the river. That should scare 'em!”

He sat down with Bragoon and Saro, winking fondly at them. “Now then, mateys, wot brings you two t'these parts, eh?”

They explained the mission for Martha's cure and their quest for Loamhedge.

Briggy stroked his beard. “Hmm, Loamhedge eh? I've 'eard tell o' the place. But ye'd 'ave to cross the great gorge to git anywheres near where the stories say the lost Abbey o' Loamhedge lies. Did ye bring some kind o' chart along to 'elp ye find it, or are ye just trustin' to fortune?”

Bragoon produced the chart from Matthias's journal. “It's been mostly luck to date, but we do 'ave this.”

Briggy rummaged a battered single eyeglass from his belt pouch and held it to his eye. “My ole peepers ain't wot they used t'be, I got to use this monocle t'see. Right, wot've we got 'ere?”

He perused the dilapidated parchment thoroughly. “Hah, I know this country, 'tis sou'east o' where we are now. I've seen these two rocks an' all. They're called the Bell an' the Badger's 'ead, great big lumps o' stone they are. Wot's this, a large tree called the Lord o' Mossflower? Huh, that was long gone in the seasons afore my father's grandfathers. Blowed down, or collapsed more likely, when the earth trembled.”