Salamandastron (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Nordo held up a paw. ‘I know what you’re going to ask me next: when is the Feastday? Sorry, I don’t know – your guess is as good as mine. But while there’s life there’s hope, eh. At least we’ll be given food for a while.’

  ‘And then jolly well served up at a party.’ Pikkle gulped. ‘What a nice surprise. Makes a chap feel wanted, wot, wot?’

  Mara could not stand in the enclosed space, but she clenched her paws and growled fiercely, ‘I’d like to see them try to eat me. I’d give them a few bodies of their own to cook before they got me on the table. Nordo, why do you all wait down here doing nothing? Can’t you attempt some kind of escape instead of just sitting here waiting for those filthy creatures to eat you?’

  Nordo drew them close and whispered, ‘That’s exactly what we are doing. Are you with us?’

  Mara and Pikkle clasped his paw in the darkness.

  ‘We’re with you, all the way!’

  ‘Just say the jolly ol’ word an’ we’ll stick t’ you like slime on a toad’s back, if you’ll pardon the pun, old lad!’

  Nordo chuckled grimly. ‘Good! Let me explain. We have a messenger. When it is daylight if you look up you may see a wren fly over. That is Leaflad. He is a friend of the shrews, so keep a watchout for him. The day he drops an acorn into this hole, that’s the day we escape from here.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to break out with an acorn?’ Pikkle Ffolger scratched his nose.

  Mara slapped his paw. ‘Stop fooling, Ffolger, and listen to what our friend has to say. Sorry, Nordo. Carry on.’

  ‘Right. When the acorn drops in it means that my father and his shrews will attack from the river south of here. They will have to act quickly and drive the toads back beyond this hole. It is our job to defend ourselves until help arrives.’

  Mara nodded. ‘How will we do that?’

  ‘Simple really. The cave we are sitting in was dug by us to prevent the toads hooking us out when they want us. While we were digging this cave and others like it, we found lots of good heavy throwing pebbles in the mud. So we stockpiled them and tore up our jerkins to make slings. That’s how we’ll defend ourselves until the shrew warriors can get us out of this pit.’

  ‘Krrike! Hey down there, here’s food for you. Eat it all up now. Kraahaahaa!’

  As they piled out of the cave they were hit by a pile of watercress, roots, tubers and dandelions that the guards had thrown down. Mara gathered them and heaved them into the cave while they were still dry and edible.

  ‘As you said, Nordo, while there’s life there’s hope, and we need food to stay alive, so let’s eat up and keep our hopes high!’

  Pikkle mumbled through a mouthful of roots, ‘’Sright old gel, couldn’t have said it better m’self, wot!’

  BOOK TWO

  Warriors and Monsters

  Hazy sunlight pierced a pale-washed dawn, sending streaks of gold lancing to banish the sea mists over Salamandastron. Urthstripe the Strong strode boldly out on to the sands in front of his mountain with ten hares at his back. The badger Lord looked every inch what he was – a true warrior – clad in shining metal greaves and breastplate with a plumed and visored headgarb fringed in fine chainmail. Across his back a mighty double-hilted war sword was strapped; resting easily in his right paw was his famed spear, which weighed more than a grown hare and was tipped by a long double-edged blade with ornate iron crosstrees a third of the way down its length. He threw back his head and bellowed out the badger Lord’s challenge in a voice like rolling thunder.

  ‘Eulaliaaaa! I am Urthstripe the Strong, Ruler of the mountain! Who dares trespass on my domain?’

  A white flag appeared from behind some rocks on the shore, followed by the call of a high-pitched voice: ‘Flag of truce, flag of truce. My master would parley with you!’ Raptail the rat showed himself, waving the flag furiously.

  Behind the visor Urthstripe’s eyes glittered in anticipation. ‘Urthstripe does not parley with vermin, he buries them!’

  A tall blue-eyed weasel stood up behind Raptail. His voice carried neither menace nor challenge as he sidled forward. ‘I am called Ferahgo. We have no need to fight each other, Lord Urthstripe. Besides, if I did want to fight, you would lose sorely. I see you have only ten hares at your back.’

  Urthstripe had gone silent. He stared hard at Ferahgo, as if trying hard to call up something from the depths of memory. Sunlight flashed upon the badger medallion around the weasel’s neck, causing it to glimmer like fire, and his blue eyes opened wide in a disarming smile. The badger Lord peered at Ferahgo through the slitted visor; voices were calling dimly down the corridors of his mind, too distant for him to make sense of. The harder he looked the more the blue-eyed weasel with the golden medal seemed to confuse him. Urthstripe shook his head and lifted the visor.

  ‘Ferahgo, Ferahgo . . . where have I heard that name before?’ He banged the spearshaft down, bringing himself back to normality. ‘Hear me, Ferahgo. There may be only a few warriors at my back, but there are many more inside my mountain.’

  The Assassin stopped a few paces from the badger Lord and waved his claws once in the air. In a trice the rocks were bristling with armed vermin behind him. He turned right and left to wave his claws again. They flooded on to the sands of the shore and stood like a pestilence of evil weeds sprung there by magic: line upon line of ferrets, stoats, weasels, rats and foxes, each one armed to the fangs. Banners of blood red and standards decorated with skins, hanks of beast hair and skulls swayed in the light breeze.

  Ferahgo turned to Urthstripe with a confident smirk. ‘You have thirty more fighting hares inside, I know. The odds would be well over fivescore to one. But let us not talk of fighting. I am a visitor to this country – where is your famous hospitality? Invite me into your mountain and let me look around, we will talk . . .’

  ‘Never! I do not allow vermin into Salamandastron!’

  As he was speaking, Urthstripe noticed the front ranks of the horde advancing slowly. Behind him he heard the slither of arrows being drawn from quivers. Sapwood and the ten hares were readying themselves for trouble.

  Ferahgo shook his head. ‘You say you never allow vermin into your mountain, yet my son Klitch and his friend Goffa took breakfast with you not so long ago.’

  The point of Urthstripe’s spear had been gradually tilting. Now it dropped, centred on Ferahgo’s midriff a breath away. The Assassin took a cautious step back.

  Urthstripe’s short patience was worn exceedingly thin. ‘Leave Mossflower country, weasel, or you and your scum will die here. I am tired of talking. Take your face out of my sight. You offend me!’

  Ferahgo was not short of nerve. He spat scornfully in the sand. ‘Your mountain is surrounded, badger. If it comes to war there is no way you can win. What do you say to that?’

  But Urthstripe was finished talking, except for one word.

  ‘Eulaliaaaa!’

  There was a deadly hiss of shafts as ten of the advancing enemy were cut down by the Long Patrol arrows. Ferahgo leaped to one side roaring, ‘Charge!’

  The horde swept forward over the bodies of the fallen toward the badger and his ten hares. The hares dropped behind another ten who had been waiting to back them up with bows ready. They fired into the yelling horde as their comrades fitted fresh arrows to their bows and let loose another quick volley. Carried on by the lust for battle, Urthstripe, instead of retreating into the safety of the mountain, flung himself forward into the foe. A burly ferret wielding a pike charged Urthstripe. The badger’s spear took him through the chest and lifted him like a rag doll, hurling him into the seething horde. A weasel flung himself on Urthstripe’s back and stabbed the big badger between greave and breastplate. Urthstripe slew him with the backward stroke of a huge mailed paw. Three hares were down – two to spears, one to slingshot.

  ‘I’ll try an’ get Lord Urthstripe away,’ Sapwood called out to Oxeye. ‘Keep the entrance open till we gets back!’

  Oxeye coolly notched an arrow to his b
ow and felled a fox. ‘Righty ho, but put a move on, Sap. We can’t keep up this bally performance all day. Dearie me, what a chap has t’ do for these badger Lords!’

  Sapwood dropped his bow and tore out into the mêlée. Punching, kicking, butting and hooking, he made it to the badger’s side.

  ‘Cook sez breakfast’s gettin’ cold, sir. Hare you comin’ in.’

  An ill-timed thrust from a vermin spear missed Urthstripe but knocked Sapwood senseless on the rebound as his head met the blunt end of the spearbutt. Urthstripe grabbed the hare in one paw and slung him over his shoulder as he fought his way back to the entrance. Suddenly Klitch appeared in front of him, brandishing his short sword. The badger turned as he thrust, taking the blade in his arm. Burdened as he was with Sapwood, the badger Lord stood for a moment glaring at the young weasel. Tearing the sword from his arm, he stood on it and snapped the blade, snarling angrily, ‘Better luck next time, brat. We’ll meet again. Eulaliaaa!’

  Urthstripe went hurtling through the mêlée like a juggernaut. Scattering bodies right and left, he pounded through to the entrance, dropping the unconscious Sapwood into the paws of two waiting hares as he roared out orders.

  ‘Oxeye, get your hares inside. I’ll block off the entrance!’

  Within seconds the hares had ducked into the passage and Urthstripe threw his weight against a mighty boulder. The stone rolled into place, sealing the mountain from the horde outside. The badger Lord drove a large oak wedge into its base with a mallet.

  Oxeye leaned on his bow, watching him. ‘Not very friendly those chaps, sir. I take it they want to fight us, wot?’

  Urthstripe licked blood from his shoulder and grinned at the irrepressible hare. ‘Good enough, Oxeye you old battler. We’ll give them a fight, one that we can talk about in the winters to come, when we’re sitting round the fire growing old and lazy.’

  Big Oxeye checked his empty quiver. ‘Don’t mind me sayin’ so, M’lud, but there won’t be too many around to grow old after this fight’s finished!’

  16

  Dryditch Fever!

  The awful name was enough to chill the heart of any creature. A hasty conference was called by the Abbey elders – Abbess Vale, Bremmun, Faith Spinney and Brother Hollyberry, with Furgle the Hermit sitting in on the proceedings. Abbess Vale addressed them.

  ‘Friends, if something is not done swiftly this dreadful fever may wipe us all out. Brother Hollyberry, as Infirmary Keeper do you have any knowledge of this illness?’

  Hollyberry pursed his lips. ‘Mother Abbess, my skills are simple and very limited; tummyaches, headaches, scratches and wounds are what I am used to. I have had a quick look through my medical books, and the opinion of most former Infirmary Keepers is that there is no sure cure for Dryditch Fever. I can keep it under a certain amount of control with my own remedies, but alas I cannot cure it.’

  ‘Flowers of Icetor, heh heh heh! But that’s only an old mousewives’ tale. Heh heh heh, Flowers of Icetor indeed!’

  They all turned and stared at Furgle. The woodland Hermit shrugged as he did a small hopskip.

  ‘Never needed anything myself – medicines, pah! Though when I was young my grandma used to say that the only thing which could cure Dryditch Fever was the Flowers of Icetor, boiled in fresh springwater. I think she was mad, of course. Quite mad!’

  Faith Spinney shook her paw severely at Furgle. ‘Show some respect for your elders. My grandma used to say the same thing, Flowers of Icetor from the mountains of the north. Now I recalls her words, she always said that they could cure most anythin’. But who knows where the mountains of the north are? Mercy me, no right-thinkin’ Redwaller ever goes north. That’s badlands. ’Tis a hard and hostile region we know little about.’

  ‘Mousewives’ tale or no, we’ve got to give it a try.’ Bremmun stood up officiously. ‘I’ll go this very day, see if I don’t.’

  Thrugg had been standing nearby waiting to speak with Hollyberry. He pressed Bremmun back down into his chair. ‘No, matey, you’re too old and long in the tooth t’ be climbin’ northern mountains. I’ll go. Oh, Hollyberry, yore wanted up in the Affirmery – two more creatures just been took poorly.’

  Mrs Faith Spinney was very fond of Thrugg. She patted his paw. ‘Oh, you are a brave creature, Thrugg. We must send somebeast with you to help you on your quest.’

  Thrugg shuffled awkwardly. ‘Bless yer, marm, but I’ll be fine steerin’ a lone course. Every spare pair o’ paws will be needed ’ere at Redwall to cope with the fever. ’Sides, I’m mortal feared of bein’ sick, so I’d best find this flower quick like. What’s it called again, Furgle?’

  ‘Heh heh. Icetor, you great ignoramus – Flowers of Icetor. Though as to where you’ll find it or the north mountains is a mystery to me.’

  Thrugg took hold of Furgle in his brawny paws and lifted him easily on to the tabletop. ‘Hark t’ me, wood-vole. You ever call me iggeramius agin an’ you’ll be goin’ for a swim in the pond, fully dressed. Yore so clever, but not clever enough t’ see the answer to your own question. Where’s the north mountains? Why, in the North, o’ course. There’s a path right outside this ’ere Abbey leadin’ north, an’ I intends takin’ it. Flowers of Icetor, eh. Don’t you fret yore spikes, Mrs Spinney – ol’ Thrugg will bring back bouquets of ’em! I ain’t never seen no Flowers of Icetor, but I ’spect if they’re so val’ble an’ rare I’ll know those blossoms as soon as I claps eyes on ’em. Mountain’s in the north, flowers is on the mountain – what more does a beast need t’ know? You leave it t’ me, mates!’

  The big otter’s logic was so strong and straightforward that he received a hearty round of applause. Everybeast was in agreement, Thrugg was the otter for the job; in fact, the questing light in Thrugg’s eye discouraged any faint-hearted disagreement.

  Being a beast of his word and a creature of action, Thrugg set out without delay, taking with him his throwing sling and pebbles and a large haversack of food. Night had long fallen when he was waved off along the north path from the Abbey gates by a contingent of his Redwall friends.

  ‘Goodbye and good luck, Thrugg!’

  ‘Ho urr, you’m taken good care of ’ee’self.’

  ‘Hurry back with the flowers, matey!’

  ‘Do be careful, Mr Thrugg!’

  The gates shut behind him as the otter strode out boldly along the dusty brown path to the north.

  Thrugg had not been walking long when he began hearing sounds from the woodlands on his right. He tied a big pebble into his sling. Whoever was trailing him would be called sharply to account if they tried anything. A pale sliver of moon illuminated the path and woodlands dimly as the otter watched the small bushes and shrubs moving not far from where he trod; his hidden follower was trying hard to keep pace with him. Smiling grimly to himself, he twirled his sling meaningfully and stopped. The other stopped too. Suddenly a juniper bush began shaking and thrashing madly and a squeaky little voice cut through the night silence.

  ‘Elpelpelp! Mista Thugg, it’s a serpink, a serpink got me!’ The voice could belong to only one creature: Baby Dumble.

  Thrugg hurled himself into the woodland and pounced upon the bush, ripping leaves and branches as he shouted, ‘Belay, matey. Don’t be afrighted – Thrugg’s ’ere!’

  The infant dormouse was trapped in the coils of a fully grown grass snake. Though not poisonous, the creature was trying to squeeze the life from Dumble. Thrugg gripped it by the throat and dealt it a powerful blow with his loaded sling. It was knocked senseless in a trice. Baby Dumble’s face had an unhealthy bluish pallor and his cheeks were puffed out as he tried to breathe. Sudden shock had paralysed him.

  The big otter turned the tiny dormouse upside down and dealt him a hefty whack on his bottom. It was a drastic but surefire remedy. Dumble let out a yell that resounded through the woodlands, ‘Waaaahoooooh!’

  A short while later he was seated happily on a fallen tree, eating a candied chestnut from the otter’s haversack as he watched Thrugg tying th
e snake in an intricate knot around a sapling.

  ‘You stringy ol’ rascal, ’ow dare you try ter choke my liddle matey? Y’can stay there till you learn some manners!’

  Dumble chuckled. ‘Thatsa way, Mista Thugg. Tie d’serpink up!’

  Thrugg narrowed his eyes severely and squatted in front of Dumble. ‘Never mind the serpink, matey. What in the name of jib booms are you doin’ followin’ me?’

  ‘Wanna come wiv you to norf mountings, Mista Thugg.’

  ‘Do you now! Well, you lissen ter me, young dormouse. It’s back to yer bunk in Redwall Abbey for you. Now come on!’

  Dumble burst into floods of tears. ‘No no, don’t wanna go! Dumble get sick an’ die wiv feeva. Me fright’ned.’

  Thrugg shouldered his haversack and stood undecided with the tearful Dumble gazing beseechingly up at him.

  ‘You my matey, Mista Thugg. You not let Dumble get sicked inna Habbey. We find niceflowers together. Yeh?’

  Thrugg picked up the infant in one paw and set him atop the haversack. ‘Allright, you liddle rogue. I couldn’t think of ye lyin’ sick back there. I’m as feared of the fever as you are. Shove your paw through the straps up there an’ get some sleep, then we’ll find these Iceflowers t’gether.’

  Off they went up the path, the big otter having his patience sorely tried by the infant dormouse.

  ‘Good ol’ Mista Thugg. You’re my bes’ matey, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh aye. Now you git t’ sleep an’ stop gabbin’.’

  ‘I go t’sleep now. G’night, Mista Thugg.’

  ‘Good night!’

  ‘See you inna mornin’.’

  ‘Aye, now be quiet!’

  ‘I quiet now. Dumble quiet.’

  ‘Well, I should ’ope you are!’