‘I am Warden of Marshwood Hill. These are my marshes, and I am the only law. Lizards are lawbreakers, toads and snakes also. I do what must be done!’
Martin bowed formally. ‘I am Martin, this is Rose, Pallum and Grumm. We wish to thank you for saving our lives. We are travelling through your marshes on our way to Noonvale. I was hoping you could help us with some directions.’
The little dipper had landed next to Rose. She was stroking its head. The Warden preened his huge downy breast awhile as if considering what Martin had said.
‘I know no Noonvale, but I have heard its name spoken. I will guide you through my marshes. Obey my laws, or I kill you. Lawbreakers must be killed. Gather your things, and follow me.’
Martin picked up his sword, Grumm found his ladle, Rose and the dipper found the packs – they were untouched, the lizards had not bothered with them.
‘Can you put out fire?’ The Warden pointed his beak at Pallum. ‘I do not like fire.’
The hedgehog was about to reply when Grumm ambled over.
‘Oi c’n put they’m foire out, zurr Wardun, ho urr.’
The mole positioned himself by the fire pit and set to work with his remarkable digging claws. Shooting damp marsh earth backwards, he dug furiously. In a short time the fire pit was reduced to a smouldering mass, covered in the earth that Grumm had spread on it.
The Warden nodded abruptly. ‘I could not do that. You are a useful creature.’
Grumm tipped a paw to his snout. ‘Thankee, zurr, tho’ you’m ’as thoi own uses, oi ’spect, keepin’ ’ee law in these yurr swamps.’
But the Warden was not listening, he was stalking off out of the camp, calling back to them, ‘Come, follow me. I will guide you through my marshes to the mountain. I must stay here, I am the law.’
As they trekked over what appeared to be a slender trail through the wetlands, Grumm whispered to Pallum, ‘Yurr, they burd doant say much, do ’ee.’
Pallum could not resist doing a comical impression of the Warden. Strutting stiff-legged, he glared at Grumm and spoke sharply. ‘I am the law. These are my marshes. I am the law!’
Both the hedgehog and the mole burst into subdued chuckles.
The Warden turned and glared at them. ‘Make fun of the law, and I deal with you. I am the law!’
Pallum and Grumm froze for a moment then they saluted vigorously. ‘Yes, sir. Understood, sir!’
‘You’m ’ee law, zurr. Ho urr, gudd, foine!’
Martin walked along with Rose. He nodded at the little bird hopping by her side. ‘I see you’ve got a new friend, Rose. What’s his name?’
The mousemaid stroked the little creature’s downy head. ‘Dipper, that’s what he is and that’s what I’ll call him. Martin, did you hear what the Warden said – he’d guide us to the mountain. I wonder where that is.’
‘Me too. I suppose the only way we’ll find out is by following him. He seems to know the country well enough.’
‘Oh yes, and d’you know why that is?’
Martin smiled knowingly. Leaning dose he whispered into Rose’s ear so that the Warden could not hear.
‘Because he is the law!’
The marshes were dreary, foggy and misty, drab and treacherous. The travellers followed the grey heron step for step, being careful not to deviate from the tortuously narrow trail. Either side of them, moss-hung branches stuck up like spectral limbs from the green-dark ooze that exuded occasional bubbles and wisps of swamp gas. The only sign that evening was approaching was that the atmosphere grew decidedly gloomier. The Warden halted at a juncture where two paths crossed to form a wooded islet. They sat down in the damp grass as the grey heron looked about.
‘Camp here tonight, travel tomorrow.’
Grumm took out his ladle and set about snapping dead twigs. ‘Hurr, thank gudness fur that. C’mon, Pallum, lend ee thoi paw yurr.’
The piercing eyes of the Warden stopped them in their tracks. ‘What do you do?’
‘Make zoop, zurr.’ Grumm waved his ladle about, chuckling. ‘Fer zoop you’m need a foire. You’m loik moi zoop.’
‘I do not know zoop. Make no fire. I am the law. I do not like fire!’
Somewhere nearby a frog croaked in the marsh. The Warden followed the direction of the sound with his savage eyes. He swallowed hungrily. ‘Stay here, do not move. Frogs are about. They are lawbreakers. I am the law, I will deal with them!’
He stalked off into the darkening mists. When he was out of sight, Pallum gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Looks to me like the law wants its supper.’
Rose was unpacking rations. ‘What a dreadful idea!’ she shuddered.
Martin helped her prepare their meal. ‘Maybe so, but without the Warden of Marshwood Hill we’d have been lizard lunch today. The bird is a necessary evil, believe me.’
Rose laid out two fruit flans, some hazelnut scones and the last canteen of mint and lavender cordial. The food was a bit battered and squashed but still very tasty. Rose laughed as they watched the dipper pecking furiously at a scone.
‘Oh look, Martin, Dipper’s really enjoying himself. I’ll bet he’s never tasted anything as nice.’
The tiny bird sprayed them with crumbs as he attempted to communicate his pleasure to his new-found friends.
‘Goodiz, goodiz!’
After supper, the dipper whistled and chirped happily. When he had finished they applauded him. Martin lay back, sipping at the tangy cordial.
‘Wish I could sing like that. I’ve got the worst singing voice in the world. Come on, Rose, sing something to cheer us up in this gloomy marsh.’
The mousemaid obliged willingly, her wondrous clear voice ringing melodiously into the deep marshland night.
‘O happy is as happy does,
Misery never useful was,
And I am happy now because
I’m with the ones I love.
Sing fol lol loh a lairy lay,
Let the sun shine bright all day,
So I’ll go happy on my way
With the good ones that I love.
O fie on you, O great disgrace,
Look at that sad unhappy face,
I’ll not walk with you, not one pace,
You’re not the one I love.
Sing dumble dum and derry dee,
You’ll have to smile to come with me,
Till happiness doth let you see
You’re the one that I love!’
The dipper chirped appreciatively as they applauded. Grumm shook his head admiringly. ‘Oi loikes that un, Miz Roser. Allus makes oi feel loike darncen!’
Rose gave the mole a playful shove. ‘Well come on, old Grummchops, it’s ages since I saw you dance!’ Grumm stuck his digging claws in his ears, rolling from side to side with embarrassment. ‘Ho no, oi’m no gurt shakes at ’ee darncen. You’m papa allus used to larff when oi darnced.’
‘Well, papa’s not here now, so you’ll dance – or we’ll tell the Warden that you’ve been making fun of him!’ Rose picked up Grumm’s ladle and shook it at him in mock anger.
‘Ho no, you’m wudden do a thing loik that.’
‘Oh yes she would!’ Martin and Pallum chorused together.
Grumm stood up, shuffling his paws. ‘Hurr, s’pose oi better sing ’n’ darnce then. You’m awful crool beasts.’
Rose could see that the mole wanted to sing and dance. ‘Come on, Grummyface, do your party piece, the one about your old grandfather. I like that one.’
Mole dancing is a curious spectacle and is invariably accompanied by singing. Grumm held up his digging claws and did a small hopskip.
‘Naow Granfer were a pow’ful mole.
Scratch a tunnel dig an ’ole,
The moightiest eater, so oi’m tole,
In all of all ’ee wuddlands.
You’m should’ve seen him eaten cake.
Granmum said, fer gudness sake,
Oi’ll start ’ee oven up to bake
An’ twelveteen cakes oi’ll make.
If Granfer ate wun, him ate two,
Ho dearie me, oi’m tellen you,
Him ate those twelveteen cakes roight throo,
Then went asleep till zummer.
An’ when ’ee zummer sun did break,
My ole granfer came awake,
The gudd ole beast drinked all ’ee lake
An’ left ’ee fishes sobbin’.
Him’n story as oi’ve toald to you,
Oi swears as every wurd be troo,
Iffen you’m think oi tole fibs to you,
Then go an’ arsk ’ee fishes!’
Rose, Pallum and Martin were falling about laughing as Grumm took a bow. He was puffing from the exertion of song and dance combined.
The Warden appeared as if from nowhere. He stared hard at Grumm and shook his head once. ‘Good at putting out fire, not at singing. Mouse Rose is the best singer. I know this. Sleep now! Dipper, you go back to your family nest!’
Sometime before dawn Martin stirred. Vague muffled sounds had gradually wakened him. He lay awhile taking stock of their hostile surroundings. The muffled sounds continued. Rolling over slowly, he checked the sleeping forms of Rose, Grumm and Pallum. They were deep in slumber, breathing peacefully. Martin’s eyes strayed over to where the grey heron was lying. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but he sensed that something was not right. He peered long at the bird, his paw straying to the short sword stuck in the ground near his head. The Warden appeared to be rolling about in his sleep, making muffled noises.
Slowly Martin rose until he was crouching. Placing his paws carefully among the damp grass tussocks, he edged over. Something slimy slapped him in the face as he reached the moving figure of the Warden. There were dark shapes all over the great bird, and it was moving more slowly and weakly. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Martin saw that creatures he could not make out were strangling the grey heron, winding about its neck whilst others secured its legs and wings.
So that was what the muffled noises were. They must have been attacking the Warden for some time because the big bird’s struggles were very weak. Martin threw himself into the fray with a shout that wakened his three friends instantly.
‘Yaaaaah, Maaaaartin!’
24
IT WAS GETTING towards evening and shadows were beginning to lengthen on the shoreline as Brome climbed down from the cliffs. Ahead of him he could see Wulpp, the searat who had taken Felldoh’s javelin through his footpaw, limping along by himself. Suddenly Brome had an idea that might gain him entrance into Marshank. He padded silently up until he was almost level with Wulpp.
‘Hi there, mate. You the beast they left be’ind?’
Wulpp sat down on the sand, wincing as he nursed his paw. ‘Aye that’s me. What’s yer name, matey?’
Brome sat down by him and began ripping a strip from his shirt. ‘Harr, I’m Bucktail. Cap’n sent me back for ye. I was walkin’ along the clifftops when I saw you down ’ere. ’Old still while I binds that paw up fer ye, messmate.’
Wulpp gritted his teeth as Brome worked. ‘Aagh, it ’urts bad, Bucktail. Wot d’ye think, will it give me a limp for the rest o’ me life?’
‘More’n likely, bucko.’ Brome nodded as he tied the improvised bandage off neatly. ‘You was lucky it didn’t catch you ’igher, or you’da been a goner. Come on, mate, up on yer paws. I’ll give yer a lift back to the fortress.’
Hopping on one paw, the injured searat threw an arm about Brome’s shoulders and leaned on him as they made their way slowly back. ‘Bucktail, eh. Well my name’s Wulpp, an’ I won’t fergit yer fer the ’elp you’ve give me this day, messmate.’
They entered the fortress as darkness fell. Nobeast paid much attention to them both. The main centre of attraction was the continuing feud between the two leaders. Clogg sat on the courtyard stones, surrounded by his crew as he tore ravenously at hard bread and dried fish, guzzling seaweed ale from an oversized tankard. Badrang stood on the porch of his longhouse, haranguing the corsair.
‘Now let me get this right, one creature, a single squirrelmaid at that, killed three of your great hairy waverobbers and wounded another. Well, lack a season and lose a day!’
Clogg hurled a hard crust at Badrang. It fell short. ‘Harr go an’ boil yer ’ead, stoatears. You was safe enough inside o’ yer fancy fortress surrounded by yer lubber-nosed ’orde!’
Badrang leaned over the porch rail, his voice mocking. ‘And what, pray, was the dreaded Cap’n Tramun Clogg doing while this dreadful slaughter took place? Hiding from the squirrelmaid?’
Clogg’s nose glinted purple with rage as he spat out dried fish. ‘It weren’t no squirrelymaid did the killin’, it was those excaped slaves o’ yourn throwin’ javelins, an’ by the way they could throw I’d ’ate t’ be in yer shirt if they attacks ’ere!’
The Tyrant spread his paws appealingly to the listeners. ‘Why should they come back here after escaping? Strikes me they’d want to put as much distance between themselves and Marshank as possible. By the way, how’s your ship refloating coming along?’
A slow smile spread across Clogg’s villainous face. ‘Much the same as yer stone quarryin’ an’ field croppin’, me ole messmate. ’Ave yer done much empire buildin’ today, haharrharr?’
Stung by the taunt that had rebounded on him, Badrang pointed his sword at the corsair. ‘I’ll remind you that you’re eating my food, Clogg, and your worthless mob of seascum are filling their bellies at my expense too. But all that’s going to change. From now on if you want to eat our supplies at Marshank you’ll have to earn your food like any of my creatures!’
Clogg hurled the tankard. It smashed on the ground in front of Badrang as the corsair bellowed defiantly, ‘We ain’t yer creatures, me an’ my crew is seabeasts, rovers an’ freebooters. We’re ’onourin’ you by takin’ our meals ’ere ’cos you owe us that much, you boat-burnin’ barnacle. We’d ’ave sailed off from this fort long since but for yer treachery!’
Brome threw a paw about Wulpp, steering him towards the walls of the slave compound. ‘C’mon, mate, let’s find someplace for you to sit easy. We can’t stand around listenin’ to those two stoats jawin’ each other to death while yer paw’s injured bad.’
They sat with their backs against the wooden fence. ‘Harr, ’tis rest you need, Wulpp.’ Brome spoke loudly on purpose. ‘A good deep sleep’d do you a power o’ good, matey. Sleep, the best healer of all!’
Wulpp did not argue. He was weary and his footpaw throbbed relentlessly. Closing his eyes, he lay back.
‘Right you are, Bucktail. I feel like I could sleep fer a season!’
Keyla had been listening to the two creatures on the other side of the fence. Curiosity overcame the young otter, and he was not long in climbing the timbers to peer over the top at the pair.
Brome made sure that Wulpp’s eyes were closed and they were not being observed, then he swept the floppy hat from his head and grinned cheekily up at Keyla. Holding up a warning paw, he pointed at Wulpp, stroking the searat’s head gently and crooning in a soft voice, ‘Sleep, matey. You need a long deep sleep, long an’ deep.’
Keyla understood. He gave a broad wink and disappeared.
Brome continued speaking soothingly to the half-asleep Wulpp. ‘Sleep, matey, that’s all you need, sleepy sleep sleep . . .’
Wulpp’s eyelids flickered. He glanced at Brome and smiled lazily. ‘Bucktail, me ole matey, you looks like some kind o’ mouse without yore hat on . . .’
Assisted by a mouse named Yarrow, Keyla popped up over the compound top. Between them they held a big improvised sandbag.
Whump!
Wulpp’s head was a target they could not miss. The heavy object landed forcefully, knocking the searat out like a light.
‘He’s got enough on his mind to keep him asleep a good while,’ the irrepressible Keyla giggled. ‘Brome, what are you doing back here, friend?’
The young mouse clamped his floppy hat back on. ‘I’ve come to get you and the rest
away from here, Keyla, though I thought you’d have escaped with the last lot.’
The young otter shook his head. ‘I could have, but there’s old ones and some babes here that weren’t quick enough to get away. I couldn’t hop it and leave them just because I was young and fast, now could I?’
Brome propped Wulpp’s head on the sandbag as if it were a pillow. ‘You’re a good otter, Keyla. Listen, here’s the plan. We’ll get them all out between us, tonight.’
Gurrad watched as Badrang poured poison into a flagon of blackberry grog.
‘Great seasons, Sire, there’s enough in there to lay an army out!’
Badrang shook the small vial to make sure the last drops went in. ‘Clogg could never resist a drop of blackberry grog. It’ll be his last drop, laced with wolfbane and hemlock. There’s not a creature born who could drink that and live to tell the tale.’ He pulled Gurrad close, his voice a sinister hiss. ‘Listen now, rat. Here’s what you must do!’
The rat called Oilback threw his knife. It zipped through the air to bury itself deep in the driftwood spar set up on the beach. Cap’n Tramun Clogg grunted as he tugged the quivering blade free and returned it to its owner.
‘Good throw, matey. I likes to see a beast who’s skilled at slingin’ a frogsticker. Do it agin, Oilback.’
The searat twirled his knife expertly, dosed one eye, sighted and threw hard. This time the blade went a third of its length into the timber. Clogg clapped his back heartily.
‘Haharr, yore a murderer born, Oilback. Now cock a lug, matey, an’ listen to a liddle plan that I’ve arranged fer that stingy grubswipin’ former partner o’ mine . . .’
The moon appeared over Marshank, casting pale light and deep shadow over the fortress where three separate schemes were being laid, two for for death and one for freedom.
Martin The Warrior (Redwall) Page 18
