Marlfox (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  The rat Wilce bowed to her mistress. ‘I know what to do, my lady.’

  Lantur re-entered the bedchamber and installed herself in a chair. ‘Rest, O Queen, I am here to protect you.’

  Janglur and Rusvul stood in the battlement shadows, watching the moonpatched landscape of open field which skirted half the south wall. Each of the squirrel warriors gripped a massive yew longbow, with a grey-feathered arrow on its string, half as long and heavy again as a normal shaft. Something moved near the woodland fringe.

  ‘Here they come, mate, two of ’em,’ Rusvul murmured. ‘Over by that high sycamore.’

  Janglur followed his friend’s direction, sighting the enemy. ‘Aye, I’ve spotted ’em now, water rat an’ a Marlfox. See the liddle glow? They’re carryin’ a piece of smoulderin’ rope. Let ’em get closer afore we take a shot.’

  The vixen Vannan bent double, taking advantage of every bracken patch and groundswell. Beside her the rat Dakkle kept pace, blowing lightly on the glowing end of towrope to rid it of ash.

  ‘Don’t blow too hard,’ Vannan cautioned him, “twill burst into flame. Leave it now until we’re at the wallgate.’

  Dakkle uncrouched slightly as they moved forward, raising his head a fraction to survey the walltop. ‘Looks fairly quiet up there, marm. We’ll warm things up a bit for them soo . . .’

  As soon as the long shaft struck Dakkle between his eyes, Vannan was off, rolling to one side into a patch of fern. Thunk! Another arrow embedded itself in the spot where she had crouched a moment before. Flattening herself, she wriggled away through the ferns. Two more arrows followed, the last grazing her footpaw. Vannan sprang up then and ran for the trees in a zigzagging rush, tripping and falling flat by the sycamore as a clothyard shaft buzzed overhead like an angry wasp into the woodlands.

  Gelltor grabbed the vixen and dragged her to safety behind the tree. ‘We’ll have to think of another way to burn that door down.’

  Vannan tried to regulate her panting breath. ‘What about using fire arrows?’

  Gelltor looked at her pityingly. ‘Fire arrows? Did you see the length of those shafts the Redwallers are shooting? You need a great longbow to fire such a shaft. We don’t have anything like that. Our bows aren’t powerful enough – we’d be well within their range long before we could loose off a shot.’

  The vixen settled her back against the sycamore, pouting sulkily. ‘Well, why don’t you think of something, brother? You’re supposed to be the one with all the good ideas.’

  With a wave, Gelltor summoned his rats from the underbush. ‘No need to look so smug, sister. As it happens I do have an idea, a good one!’

  The otter Borrakul made his way over to Skipper from the north wall. ‘Bargle says that they’re rainin’ stones an’ arrows heavy on the north side, Skip. He thinks they’re plannin’ some kind o’ move over that way, usin’ their firepower t’keep our heads down.’

  From his position by the south wallgate, Skipper called up to Janglur, ‘Y’hear that, mate? What d’ye think they’re up to?’

  The warrior squirrel called back confidently, ‘Hah! That’s the oldest trick in the book, Skip. They’re tryin’ to decoy us away from ’ere so they can burn the wallgate. Borrakul, tell Bargle to sit tight there an’ keep low.’

  Rusvul had spotted movement at the woodland edges. Notching a shaft to his bowstring, he murmured calmly to Janglur, ‘Here they come again, matey. Spread out this time, about eight o’ them, I count. They’re goin’ to take some stoppin’ this time!’

  Janglur called to the otter on the ground below. ‘Best make yore move now, Skip, whilst they’re still far enough away.’

  Skipper gave the nod to Gubbio Foremole and his crew, half of whom were carrying pails of water. ‘You ready, Gubb?’

  ‘Say ee word, zurr, us’n’s be’s never readier, hurr aye!’

  Skipper unbolted the wallgate and swung it open. ‘Go!’

  Those moles not carrying pails scuttled outside and cleared the gateway of inflammable wood and brush, heaving it inside, whilst the rest doused the outside of the gate down with pails of water. Skipper stood out in front of them, his longbow bent with a big arrow resting on its taut string, protecting the moles from attack. Now vermin were about halfway across the open ground. Janglur watched them pause, spread wide in a half-circle. Suddenly the night blossomed with orange flame, as the water rats set burning tow to speartops bound with oily rags and charged for the gate.

  ‘Front’n’centre, Skip!’

  The otter heard Janglur’s warning. Gritting his teeth he strained the longbow to its limit, letting the middle rat run straight at him. So strong was Skipper’s shot that the arrow passed clean through the charging rat, who fell forward upon the burning spear. When the door was clear of brush and soaked well with water and all the moles were inside, Skipper jumped back in and slammed the bolts home. Janglur let his bow drop, unwrapping the sling from about his waist.

  ‘They’re close enough for stones now, Rus. Don’t need these longbows.’ He had already dropped one rat before Rusvul could load his sling.

  ‘Come on, scum, my name’s Regubaaaaaa!’

  Another rat fell to Rusvul’s whirling sling. The rest broke and ran back to the tree cover, all except one who carried on charging forward. Seconds before both the squirrels’ slingstones laid him low he threw his spear. It thudded, blazing, into the wallgate door. ‘Pail o’ water on a rope, quick!’ Rusvul yelled out.

  Skipper hurled the rope end up. Rusvul hauled the water pail to the battlements, and then lowered it over the top until it struck the outstretched spear haft, upsetting its contents over it. Rewarded by the hissing sound of extinguished flames, Rusvul winked at Janglur. ‘No sense takin’ chances, even if the door is soaked.’

  Janglur Swifteye retrieved his longbow and loosed off an arrow. It thudded into the far sycamore trunk, quivering. ‘Aye, yore right there. Let’s turn the tables on ’em an’ keep their ’eads down for the night!’

  Foremole gathered pawfuls of the bracken and wood which had been intended to burn the gate. ‘Noice of ee vurmints to gather kindlin’ for ee kitchen ovens, hurr!’

  Gelltor stayed well back in the woodlands, issuing orders to a rat. ‘Tell Ascrod and Predak to pull back from the north wall and meet me back here. Vannan, this is no time to be dozing. Liven yourself up, we’ve got to plan our next move.’

  The vixen grinned maliciously at her brother. ‘Oh, given up the idea of burning our way in, have we? What’s the matter, didn’t your good idea work?’

  In the grey hour before dawn, Song came awake. All round her in the packed cave watervoles were snoring and snuffling in the hot stuffy atmosphere. The squirrelmaid shook Dann lightly. Startled awake, he instinctively touched his swordhilt to make sure it was still there. Song gestured for him to make his way outside, then prodded the sleeping Dippler. Rolling over, the Guosim shrew muttered drowsily, ‘Mmm. Any o’ that stew left, mate?’

  Song stifled his mouth with a paw, whispering in his ear, ‘Wake up, Dipp. We’re going, if the boat’s still there.’

  Luckily it was. Dippler grumbled as they carried it to the water’s edge. ‘Wot’s all the rush for? I liked it in there, that stew was nice.’

  Dann tugged the shrew’s tail sharply. ‘Keep your voice down an’ stop thinkin’ of just yore stomach. Song’s right, we’d best get goin’ whilst the goin’s good. I don’t trust that ole grey watervole. He’d like it fine if’n he could hang on to both the Leafwood an’ his boat. Those voles seemed friendly enough, but you never can tell.’

  ‘Yiss yiss, y’could never tell, ‘specially with a crafty ole beast like the Grey One!’

  They whirled around as Burble emerged from the willows, carrying a sack of food and two extra oars. Dann eyed him levelly. ‘Where d’you think you’re goin’?’

  Brushing past them, Burble slid the boat into the water and threw his gear aboard. He leapt in after it and held the vessel still by grabbing firm hold of overhead branches. ‘
Goin’ wid you, yiss yiss, ain’t livin’ in some ould hole on a riverbank till I got grey whiskers like the rest of ’em. Stir yer stumps an’ get in ’ere. We’ve got to get goin’ quickish, afore the River’eads wake up an’ find their Swallow gone!’

  Dippler was about to debate the point when Song shoved him unceremoniously into the boat and thrust a paddle at him. ‘Don’t argue, Dipp, we haven’t got time. Something tells me Burble’s right. Let’s get away from here. We can argue all you like as we paddle. I’ll take this side with you, an’ Dann, you an’ Burble take the other side. Don’t waste time, dawn’ll soon be up!’

  With the two oars already aboard the friends had an oar each. They steered their vessel out into the fast-flowing centre of the river, heading downstream. Wise in the ways of boats, Dippler praised their new craft immediately. Even with their limited knowledge, Song and Dann had to agree with him: the watervole’s boat was a traveller’s dream. The Guosim shrew watched happily as the boat responded to their paddles.

  ‘Light as a feather she is, mates. This’n don’t sit in the water, she skims it, like a bird. So that’s why y’called ’er Swallow, eh?’

  Burble nodded vigorously, casting worried glances behind. ‘Yiss yiss, Dipp, now less o’ the tongue an’ more o’ the paddle!’

  Song peered suspiciously across at the young watervole, even as she took his advice and paddled harder. ‘Burble, I’ve got a feelin’ you haven’t told us all. The way you talk, anybeast would think we stole the Swallow.’

  Burble explained in part as the Swallow shot along the river like a glittering arrow. ‘Ah well, y’see, missie, that Grey One is a real slybeast. The Swallow don’t belong to ’im, she belongs to the River’ead tribe, but they all think Grey One traded his ole boat for yore Leafwood, an’ he never told ’em different. They’ll come after us soon, oh yiss yiss, sure as trout like mayflies. The River’ead’ll want their Swallow back.’

  Dann dug the paddle deep, his jaw tight with anger. ‘So we’re sailin’ a stolen vessel. That ole watervole tricked us. He gets the Leafwood, but if they catch up with us we get nothin’!’

  The prow dipped and rose beautifully, skirting a rocky outcrop poking from the river as they feathered their paddle blades. ‘Rotten old swindler!’ Song burst out, expressing her dislike of the Grey One.

  However, Burble was smiling fit to burst, now that he judged there was some distance between themselves and the Riverhead voles. ‘Heeheehee! Don’t git yore paws in an uproar, pals. Grey One thinks that ’cos he’s old it makes ’im smart. But I’m younger an’ smarter than ’im by a good stretch o’ river. Yiss yiss!’

  Song eyed Burble curiously. ‘How so?’

  The little fat creature shook with unconcealed glee. ‘’Cos I tricked ’im! When that ole barrelbelly wakes up ’e’ll find ’imself clutchin’ a stew ladle in ’is paws, not a Leafwood. Yiss yiss, I pinched it back off ’im. Yore Leafwood is inside that sack o’ grub I fetched wid me. Heeheehee!’

  Song looked sternly at the watervole. ‘That was very wrong, Burble. Grey One deceived the tribe, but we kept our part of the bargain. Now we’re got double trouble!’

  Dawnlight had begun filtering over the river in a pale wash of cerise and gold when a cry rang out faintly from behind them, echoing down the tree-shaded banks.

  ‘Waaaaylaaahoooo!’

  Burble’s chubby face blanched with fright. ‘River’eads! Paddle for yore lives, pals!’

  ‘But I thought this Swallow could outrun anythin’ on the river?’ Dann called out as they wielded their paddles furiously.

  Burble blew spray from his face. ‘Mebbe, but they got eight rowers to a boat, an’ River’ead voles know these waters a lot better’n you do, squirrel. They’ll take every shortcut, fast current an’ riverdodge the Grey One can think of. Look for a cutoff. We gotta get off the mainstream!’

  Bending their backs, the four young creatures laboured at their paddles, mouths wide open as they sucked in air, every muscle and sinew of their bodies throbbing with strain. Behind them the cries of the Riverhead voles grew louder. They were getting closer, gaining on the Swallow with their riverskills and greater numbers. Shaking perspiration and riverwater from his eyes, Dann gestured with his chin, nodding forward to a spot further upriver on the south bank.

  ‘Looks like a sidestream ahead up yonder!’ he gasped out.

  But the watervole did not seem to fancy the idea. ‘No no, not that ’un. ’Tis a dead end, I think, full o’ slime an’ gnats. ‘Twould be stupid to go up there, Dann!’

  ‘Waaaaylaaaahoooo! Death to boat-robbers!’

  Song chanced a quick glance back up the river, her mind made up. ‘Head towards that sidestream before they come round the bend and sight us. If ’tis a stupid idea to hide up a slimy dead end then mayhap they won’t look there. Don’t argue, just do it!’

  As they cut across the stream, Burble scattered some supplies from his sack, bread and clay dishes, into the water. ‘They’ll find those in the rapids downstream. P’raps they’ll think we was wrecked. Duck yore ’eads an’ ship those paddles!’

  Weeds, tall rushes and overhanging bush raked their backs as the Swallow glided into the cutoff. The water was dark, murky and fetid; gnats, mosquitoes and all manner of winged pests shrouded the four fugitives. Dippler grabbed some bulrushes and held the boat still. Sloppy green water vegetation swirled briefly on the surface and then settled again, as if no boat had ever disturbed it. Song’s heart was pounding like a triphammer – she was sure it could be heard if anybeast passed too close. Fighting to get their breathing under control, they flattened themselves in the well of the Swallow. Dippler slapped at a large flying beetle that was trying to settle on his face. Darin shot him a warning glance, and then they heard the Riverhead tribe. It sounded as if they had a dozen or more boats out in pursuit. Old Grey One was in the lead craft, directing them.

  ‘Waaaaylaaaahoooo! Straight ahead, they can’t outrun us much longer. Bend yore backs, River’eads, keep t’the middle current!’

  ‘Yiss yiss, but we ain’t sighted ’em yet. Wot if they’ve shot off up’n sidewater, like that’n o’er there?’

  ‘Arr, don’t talk daft, vole, they got’n a Guosim shrew wid ’em. That’n ‘ud know enough not t’do anythin’ so silly. Cain’t y’see, ’tis a dead end up there? Has bin fer many a long season!’

  ‘Mebbe we’ll overtake ’em at the rapids. Even Guosim shrews ain’t so crafty when it comes ter rocks’n’rapids, eh?’

  ‘Aye, y’could be right there. Wait’ll I gits me paws on ’em, an’ that liddle turnfur Burble. I’ll beat ’is brains out wid the Leafwood afore I toss ’im into the rapids wid ’is thievin’ friends. Yiss yiss!’

  ‘Flamin’ cheek of ’em, stealin’ our Swallow like that!’

  ‘Pirates, that’s wot they are, matey, river pirates!’

  ‘Well, mark me word, they’ll suffer the same fate as any pirate would. Onward, River’eads, straight course ahead now!’

  The shouts died away on the still air as the Riverhead tribe paddled downstream. Dann sat up and began slapping at the winged pests that assailed him. ‘Gerroff! Leave me alone, you rotten villains!’

  A big insect flew right into Song’s eye, so hard that it caused her to see coloured stars. Dippler was tearing at his fur, moaning, ‘We musta been mad comin’ in ’ere to ’ide!’

  The boat rocked as Burble performed a little dance. ‘Ouchouch! I’m bein’ et alive! Back out onto the river!’

  Song squinched her eye, rubbing hard with a sweaty paw. ‘No, we can’t go out there. ‘Twouldn’t be long before we’d be running right into the back of them. Let’s go a bit further up this creek. Maybe it won’t be as bad farther along.’

  Swatting and slapping at the insect hordes, they dug paddles into the muddy creekbed and poled the Swallow south up the vile-smelling inlet.

  At mid-morning they called a halt. Though there were still a few insects about, most of the myriad from the creek mouth had given up following t
he four friends. Shipping the paddles, they looked around. Fungus bedecked and pulp-soft, dead trees lay across the creek, preventing them from going any further. The water was black and peaty, with odd bubbles rising here and there, leaving a foul odour hovering in the air. In the bank shallows on one side there was a riot of blue flowers, bit scabious, brooklime, butterwort and skullcap sprouting thick. Dippler moored the Swallow midships to a slender sessile oak on the shaded side of the creek. Song and Burble unpacked apples, some scones and a flagon of cold dandelion and burdock cordial which had been stowed deep in her haversack. Wearily they hauled themselves on to the mossy bank and began eating, groaning as they stretched aching backs.

  ‘Ooh, me paws’ll never be the same again after grippin’ that paddle so tight, mates. I can ‘ardly pick me beaker up!’

  Dippler winked at the watervole. ‘Leave it there then, Burb, an’ I’ll drink it for ye!’

  Dann polished an apple on his tunic. ‘Whew! That was a narrow escape earlier. Those Riverheads wouldn’t ’ave accepted any excuses. We’d be deadbeasts now if they’d caught us!’

  Burble lifted the beaker in his cramped paws. ‘Oh yiss yiss, that’s true, pal. Ole Grey One’s missin’ both the Swallow an’ ‘is Leafwood. There’ll be no mercy in that’n’s ’eart!’

  Song bathed her eye with a drop of the cool cordial. ‘No, I don’t imagine there would be. Why did you do it, Burble?’

  The watervole made a derisory gesture with one paw. ‘Yah, that ole Grey’n was far too big fer ‘is coat. River’eads never ‘ad one leader, just a council, but he appointed hisself ‘ead of the council an’ now ’e calls hisself Chieftain. ‘Tain’t right. Grey One was allus a cheat an’ a liar. Bullied ‘is way in, ’e did. Miss Song, ’ere’s yore Leafwood. Take care of it.’

  The young squirrel caught the greenstone-topped stick Burble tossed to her. She looked at it pensively. ‘All that trouble just for this. Strange, isn’t it? Last night we were the best of friends with the Riverheads, this mornin’ they’re out for our blood. All because of a boat an’ a stick.’