The Outcast of Redwall Part 11

Both hares stood in the cave entrance. They bowed to the badger.

"Welcome to your mountain, Sunflash the Mace, Lord of Salamandasiron."

The high sun above watched as the badger and the hares went together into the mountain on the sh.o.r.es below.

Skarlath the kestrel had watched all from the crater peak of the mountain fortress. Fierce pride welled in his breast for the badger who had given him back his life all those long seasons ago in a winter forest. Then, without a backward glance, he soared off into the blue, winging northeast to seek out Swartt Sixclaw.

BOOK TWO.

A Broken Trust

18.

n.o.beast in living memory could recall a winter as long and harsh as the one that followed the brief, hot autumn, though some had predicted it earlier, judging by the great number of berries that were seen on tree and bush at harvest time. Shrieking northeast winds drove the snow into deep drifts, and great, ancient trees were riven, split from root to tip, felled by ice that sought out any weakness in their trunks. Overnight, the west-flowing river stood still, frozen solid. Bushes lining both banks poked bare skeletal twigs at the hostile sky, as if pleading for the release of spring. Bitter and intense, the cruel season took savage toll of anybeast weakened by its ravages. It was a winter of death, hunger, and despair.

The great horde of the Warlord was held prisoner, trapped amid a freezing world of whiteness. They erected crude shelters in the woodland surrounding the riverbank. Sustenance and morale were at their lowest, stifling any ideas of desertion or mutiny as effectively as the snows that shrouded the earth.

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Bluefen, daughter of Bowfleg and wife of Swartt, gave birth to a ferretbabe, after which she faded and died, like a delicate spring flower suddenly embraced by severe frost, though it was said that she had never been a strong creature. Unlike the babe, a young male, tough as a deep-rooted weed and marked with the legacy of his father Swartt, six tiny claws showing on the left forepaw. The Warlord lived up to his t.i.tle the Pitiless One, neither grieving after his wife nor caring for his son. Bluefen was buried with scant ceremony in a shallow hole hacked into the stone-hard earth, while the babe was given to an old female rat to nurse and guard. Swartt acted as though the whole thing was no concern of his.

Nightshade, the vixen seer and healer, had erected a separate shelter as far from the vicious-tempered Warlord as she dared, though she was constantly on call, applying heated poultices and nostrums to her master's damaged six-clawed paw, which pained him agonizingly in cold weather. Hordebeasts crouched and trembled in their own meager dwellings, listening at night to Swartt's anguished cries as winter tortured his withered paw. Any horde soldier with a grain of sense kept clear of the Warlord when he was like this, for the ferret's temper was unpredictable. Once the pains had subsided, Swartt would sit in his fir-bough lean-to, staring into the fire, sleepless, cursing the name of Sunflash the Mace. Revenge was what kept Swartt Sixclaw alive through that winter. The thought of vengeance upon his foe was like food, drink, and sleep to him, as he planned what he would do on the day he had the badger at his mercy. And so the horde existed through that long winter, starving, freezing, and waiting for spring.

Skarlath spent his winter among friends. Snug in the warmth and good cheer of the Lingl-Dubbo cave, the kestrel enjoyed himself hugely. Knowing Sunflash was safe inside the mountain of his heart's desire and that no horde could march in such a terrible season, the faithful bird had no worries. His time was spent making cheese with the help of the molewife Lully, playing with the young ones, brewing ale with Uncle Blunn, helping Tirry and his wife, Dearie, cook wonderful meals with the food they had stored in their supply chamber, and eating, always eating. The fierce bird even learned to sing a few songs and dance to the gurdelstick, though as one of the little molemaids remarked, "Hurr, you'm a gettin' so gurtly fattinged 'twill be a wunner if ee be able to fly c.u.mms ee spring toime, hurr hurr hurr!"

Skarlath chased her twice round the cave. "Kreeh! Impudent little rip, if I am too fat to fly then I'll fall right out of the sky on top of you!"

The old squirrel Elmjak bustled in, carrying two pails of snow to be melted down on the fire. He stamped his paws as Aunt Ummer unwound a long heavy scarf from his neck. "Yurr, zurr Ellumjakky, 'ow be et owt thurr today?" she enquired.

Elmjak seated himself by the fire, allowing the molemaids Nilly and Podd to towel the snowdamp from his bush and back. "Well, let me tell thee, good friends, I think winter has now done its worst, and spring will soon be here."

Tirry Lingl looked up from a bowl of barley broth. "What makes you say that? Have you seen a sign, Elmjak?"

Opening his paw, the squirrel presented two tiny flowers to the delighted molemaids. "See, little missies, the best sign of all-two new snowdrops. I found them right outside the cave in a bare patch sheltered by the rock, mayhap the cave's warmth must have helped 'em a bit, but there they are, two tiny beauties, just like you pair."

Dearie Lingl poured water into a small jug. ' 'Ooh, ain't they just about the prettiest, most welcome sight after a long winter, snowdrops! Put 'em in the jug 'ere, it'll please our eyes t'watch 'em open. Come on, Auntie Ummer, out wi' yore 144.

gurdelstick an' sing of spring to the liddle flowers!"

Skarlath preened his wing feathers, a bit self-consciously.

"Er, er, I've thought up a springsong. If I sing it could you manage to pick up the tune, Auntie Ummer?" The fat old mole winked as she tw.a.n.ged her gurdelstick's string. "You'm sing et, zurr 'awkburd, oi'll catch ee up!" The kestrel had often joined in choruses, but this was his first solo attempt, and he clacked his curved beak nervously.

"I went off to my bed on one dark winter's night, When the ground was all snowy and covered up white, And snug in my blanket I started to dream That the ice had all melted away from the stream.

Ooooh! Flip plop, hear the water drop, And larks take wing as the buds go pop!

And the sun do shine as the birds do sing, Throw open wide the gates of Spring!

Then I dreamt that I felt all the earth come awake, And the sky was as blue as a clear mountain lake, And through that old dream a good sound ringing true, 'Twas the heralding song of a happy cuckoo!

Ooooh! Flip plop, hear the water drop, And larks take wing as the buds go pop!

And the sun do shine as the birds do sing, Throw open wide the gates of Spring!

Fol de rol de lair oh lair oh, Hail the newborn day, Spring has made the weather fair oh, Winter's gone away!"

Skarlath buried his head modestly in his wing feathers as he bowed, and they cheered him to the echo, encouraging him

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to sing his song twice over. The small hoglets and molemaids danced as the gurdelstick kept rhythm with the singing kestrel. In the days that followed, Elmjak's prediction proved true. The sun showed itself, weakly at first, then the cheeping of the hardy birds, who had borne winter's brunt, began. Warmth started to pervade the land, unlocking the streams to chuckle over the stones with gladness, causing the icicles to weep tears and shorten their lives, melting the crusted white from limb and bough, lengthening the happy hours of daylight.

For the first time in many moons, Swartt felt the lancing pains recede from his paw. He repainted his face and teeth, put a new edge on his sword, and emerged from the crude pine-bough shelter roaring, "Up on yer stumps, you lousy layabouts! Nightshade, take six scouts an' see what it's like up ahead! Aggal, Scraw, Muggra, kick some life into this skinny slobjawed mess! We break camp now! Westward with the river! Keep up or be slain!"

Like a single great beast the horde moved west, churning up mud on the banks of the racing river, grabbing anything that came to paw in their hunger: gra.s.s, green twigs, withered roots, worms, dead frogs, and any insect that moved. Somewhere at the rear of the marchers, the ferretbabe whom n.o.beast had bothered to name tore greedily at a pawful of dead gra.s.s as it bobbed and swayed in a bark sling on the old rat's back. Tiny sharp teeth gnawing, quick sly eyes darting to and fro, making never a sound as it watched for the opportunity of its next meal.

Four days later, Skarlath sighted the horde below as he ranged the northeastern skies. His brief sojourn with old friends cut short by the arrival of spring, the kestrel was once more soaring the breeze, searching, watching, nothing below missing his keen gaze. He had gone in search of the enemy and, unerringly, he had found them. The horde had arrived at 146.

a place where a wide, well-trodden path intersected the river. The path ran from north to south; there was a ford at the river junction.

Perched low down in a horse chestnut tree, the kestrel kept himself well hidden and listened to a dispute that had sprung up between the Warlord and his Captains.

The weasel Muggra was all for following the river. "You said yerself, foller the river west, that way we don't go gittin' lost again."

Swartt's hand was straying dangerously close to his sword hilt. "Lost? Who ever said that I got me own army lost? Well, speak up, fatmouth-was it you?"

Muggra wanted to back down. He wished he had never spoken, but Swartt was not letting him off easily. Muggra shrugged. "I never said you got us lost, not me, all's I said is why go down that path when you said t'foller the river."

Swartt drew his sword casually, glancing at the other Captains. "What d'you lot say, foller the river with Muggra, or go south down the path with me? Or would you like to go and find that traitor Balefur and see if he survived the winter?''

All silent, they directed their eyes at the ground. Rumors of Balefur s coming to a horrible end had been circulating.

The Warlord smiled nastily at his weasel Captain. "Not much support from yer mates there. Righto, let me settle this argument. I'm Warlord, I command you all, an' I say we go south down the path. Is that all right wid you, Muggra?"

The weasel was nodding dumbly when Swartt struck, slashing him across his footpaw with the curved sword. Muggra screamed and sat down, hugging his injured footpaw.

Swartt lifted the chin of the Captain on his sword point until their eyes met. "So you win. If yore against marchin' down the path, then you don't 'ave to, mate, y'can hop! Now up on yer paw an' let's see yer hoppin' out front there. I'd hop fast 147.

if I was you, 'cos if y'dorf t I'll use me blade agin, but next time it won't be on yer paw!"

Without further argument the entire horde started marching south down the path. Swartt shot a glare in the direction of Nightshade, whose face was the picture of disapproval, and snarled, "Now don't you start, vixen. One word from you an' y'can join ole Muggra fer a hop!"

Skarlath had seen and heard enough. In time he would report the horde's movement to Sunflash, but first he felt it important to warn others, particularly the occupants of the big redstone building he had sighted some days back as he was searching for signs of Swartt. It was a large construction and looked newly built, a fine dwelling-place for whatever creatures chose to live there. Unfortunately it stood square on the pathside. Swartt Sixclaw and his horde could not possibly miss it if they marched four days south down the path.

19.

Extract from the writings...o...b..rlom, Recorder Mouse of Red-wall Abbey and grandson of Timballisto, who was friend to Martin the Warrior.

I wish that I had known Martin the Warrior, but alas he is gone with the other heroes who helped to build this beautiful Abbey. My grandfather Timballisto (peace be upon his memory) used to tell me tales when I was a tiny Dibbun, stories of the wild old times. He would often sing songs or recite poems about the warriors who fought and helped to form our order, battled against tremendous odds, and made this Redwatl, this way of life for all of us whom they would never live to see. But that is the way of things, and we revere their names now, knowing they sleep in peace after a task well done. Only one remains amongst us; they say she is a living miracle, Bella the Ancient of Brockhall.

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Outcast ofRedwall 149.

I had always known that female badgers have a great life span, but I have heard even the most senior of our elders say that the silver badger will go on forever. Poor creature, she is the most loving of beasts, almost blind with age now, a snail could move faster than she. Bella never talks of the old days. Abbess Meriam says that is because it is too painful for her. Long ago Bella lost a son of her own; n.o.beast knows what became of him. Now she cares for our young, the Dibbuns, and all the Abbeybabes are very fond of her. I myself have seen her send a wailing babe to sleep with merely a stroke of her paw upon its head. I hope that she will be with us for many long seasons yet; they say a badger may live almost four times as long as others, let us hope this is so.

Tonight there is to be a feast; we will be celebrating the memory of the great ones, Martin, Gonff the Mouse-thief, Columbine, Dinny the mole, Abbess Germaine, Ben Stickle, my own grandsire Timballisto, and a list of heroes, friends, and Redwallers too long to mention. There will be no sadness, but great joy in our Abbey-how could we be unhappy to recall those who live forever in our minds? It would shame their memories for us to weep at table!

But enough of my ramblings. I'm so absentminded that I missed lunch today, but that is soon to be remedied, for I hear the gruff tuneless singing of my friend Togget, grandson of Dinny. He never forgets to bring me a snack if he misses my face at table.

"Ho a b.u.mblybee ee'm a wunnerful burd, Sings a song loike you'm never hurrd, Ho a fuzzbuzz fuzzbuzz fuzzbuzz buzz, That's all ee'm ever duzz duzz duzz!"

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Togget trundled into the gatehouse, bearing a tray covered with a cloth, then, bowing low, he whisked off the cloth neatly. "If n 'tweren't furr oi, maister Barlom, ee'd starve-'n'unger gurtly. Veggible zoop, 'Tober Ale, apple'n'cheese furr ee!"

Barlom took them gratefully from his friend. "What would I do without you, Togget? How can I repay you for your constant kindness to a dusty old Recorder?"

The mole's heavy digging claw reached out for Barlom's quill. "Let oi make writin' marks in ee gurt book, zurr."

"Hmm, well all right, just one, right here at the bottom of the page where n.o.beast will notice. Dip your pen, Togget."

Togget licked the quill point several times before dunking it deep into the inkwell. Smiling broadly, the little mole flourished the quill and bent to write at the foot of the page. Barlom smiled as he watched him. Eyes scrunched, tongue sticking from the side of his mouth, Togget concentrated on writing a big scrawling X. He dotted it with a full stop.

"Thurr, that be et, moi name!" he announced.

Barlom shook his head as he retrieved his quill pen. "That's not your name. You're called Togget, that says 'ex.' "

The mole nodded sagely. "Aye, h'ex, that be moi mark, oi be gudd at makin' et, hurr!"

Alongside the cross, Barlom wrote the name Togget. "There, that's how you write your name, see."

The mole patted his friend's paw sympathetically. "Sum-toimes oi wunner why they'm callen you a cleverbeast, maister Barlom, you'm no gurt writer o' moi name, hurr no! Ho well, oi'm off t'wake ee Friar oop now. Gubbye, zurr."

As soon as Togget was gone, Barlom burst out laughing.

Young Bryony watched Togget approaching as she sat sunning herself against the great Abbey wall. The pretty little mouse-maid wore a mob cap askew, and her white ap.r.o.n was stained 151.

with berry juice. She patted flourdust from her paws as she rose to meet her friend, complaining, "Ole Bunny's still snoring, I can't wake him."

Togget waved a paw in the air as if creating a spell. "You'm leave thatbeast to oi, moi dear."

Friar Bunfold was sleeping in his favorite place, an old wheelbarrow in the orchard. His bulging stomach rose and fell with each snore, the leaves of an overhanging pear tree trembling with every exhalation of his breath. Bryony covered her mouth to stifle a giggle as her molefriend shook the fat mousefriar by his sleeve urgently. "Coom on, ole zurr, wakey oop, ee toald oi to wake ee if'n ee gurt cake was a burnen in ee h'oven!"

Bunfold fell out of the barrow with a start. "Cake burning, where, what cake?''

As Togget and Bryony ambled back off to the kitchens the mole nodded ruefully. "Dearie me, but oi do tell whackin' fibbers, tho' et did wake ole Bunny oop, hurr hurr, that et did!"

Cheerful Redwallers called out to Bunfold as he bustled through Great Hall on his way to the kitchens.

"Good afternoon. Friar. What's for dinner tonight?"

Exercising his dry wit, Bunfold gave a mock scowl at a young squirrel. "Boiled frog an' toasted clouds for you, Brugg, m'laddo!"

Brugg made a face, playing along with the Friar. "Yukk! Sooner have lightnin' soup an' ditchwater!"

Togget managed to pull Brugg's tail as he pa.s.sed. "Loight-nen zoop'n'ditchwatter, oi'll see wot oi c'n do for ee, maister, bo urr!"

Bryony giggled helplessly at the face Brugg made, and gasped, "Don't be sad, Brugg, I'll see if I can bake a little thundercake to dip in your lightnin' soup, hahahaha!"

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The Abbey kitchens were all abustle, clouds of steam wreathing the woodlanders as they dashed to and fro. A huge hedgehog wife called Myrtle waved a ladle at a large cake that lay on a stone cooling slab, saying, "D'you want to slice it now, Friar? It baked well."

Selecting a flat, thin slicing knife, Bunfold winked at her. "Burnt cake eh, well let's see. Togget, bring the cherry conserve. Heartwood, is that meadowcream ready yet?"

Heartwood, a reliable old otter, dipped his spoon into a pottery bowl and sampled the golden mixture. "Stirred gently to a turn, Friar matey, ready as ever!"

Lifting the bowl, Bunfold was forced lo execute a nimble sideskip for two tiny otters scooting past with a laden trolley, both yelling in deep olderbeast voices, ' 'Gangwaaaaay, watch y'backs there, mates!"

Bunfold arrested their progress, catching both by their ap.r.o.ns as he halted the trolley with a quick footpaw. "Whoa there, steady up, Dibbuns. What's all this?"

The otter twins, Blatt and Scrimmo, waggled their tails respectfully at the Redwall Friar.

"b.u.t.t'n mushrooms, matey, sir!"

"Aye, an' watershrimps too, sir, matey!"

Bunfold sorted through the snowy white mushrooms and inspected the netful of almost transparent watershrimp. "Good work, Dibbuns. Did you gather these?"

"Sir, this very mornin' out in the woods, matey."

"Our mum 'elped us too, she said to bring 'em straight t'you."

Bunfold rummaged in his ap.r.o.n pocket and, pulling forth two candied chestnuts, he gave the otters one each. "Champion stuff! Don't forget an' thank your mum for me. They'll make great pasties for the feast this evenin'. Want to stay and watch me cut'n'fill this big cake?"