Salamandastron (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Samkim unstrung his bow and tested its heft to find the best end. ‘Never fear, Mr Spriggat. We’ll be right there with you, thwacking!’

  Arula seconded her friend. ‘Ho aye, zurr. You’m cut oi a gurt stowt pole an’ oi’ll wopp ’ee foxer till ’ee ’m flatter’n a pancake, boi ecky oi will!’

  Spriggat shook paws with them. ‘Good! Now you take a li’l nap whilst I cuts a couple o’ staves.’

  Under a burgeoning three-part moon they set off through the woodland, slipping silently along amid the shadowed treetrunks and undergrowth. Samkim padded carefully, thrilled at the prospect of regaining the sword of Martin the Warrior for his Abbey. Somewhere a nightjar warbled among the foliage and a woodpigeon cooed on the breeze high in the trees. Arula’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight as she waggled a hefty yew stave.

  Spriggat turned and held up his stave. ‘Hush now. Samkim, you go to the right. Arula, you take the left. I know they ain’t posted sentries, may’aps they think themselves safe deep in these woods. Yew tew travel curvin’ inward, take a good thirty long paces, then stop, get those staves ready an’ wait on my cricket chirrup. Good luck an’ good ‘untin’, young uns!’

  ‘Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty – that’s it.’ Samkim halted among some junipers and peered in at the firelit camp. The rats lay about, wrapped in their cloaks, but over by the glowing embers he could see Dethbrush. The fox was resting in an upright position, his back against a log. The sword lay close to his paw, glimmering in the light of the dying campfire. There were wood-pigeon feathers and bones scattered about. The young squirrel shuddered. How vermin could kill and eat birds – the very idea caused revulsion within him.

  ‘Chrrrk!’

  At the sound of Spriggat’s call, Samkim leapt forward, yelling, ‘Yahaa! Death to the vermin! Redwaaaaalll!’

  The cricket close by the fire that had chirruped shot beneath the log and hid. Arula was marching slowly along. Counting had never been her strongpoint.

  ‘Urr, twenny-foiv, nointy-two, thurty-four. Boo urr! Wozzat?’ She went charging in waving her stave. ‘Boi okey, give ’em vinniger! Redwaaaaallllhooouuurrrrr!’

  At the same time, Spriggat dashed in and collided with a rat who had leapt up at the noise.

  The pandemonium was total. Set off by a real cricket call that proved to be a false alarm, the ambush went awry. Dethbrush jumped up to see two of his rats being belaboured by a mouse and a hedgehog. He was only halfway up when a mole with a yew stave chased a screeching rat past him, counting as it went, ‘Twenny-noin, take that ’ee vermin! Seventy-’leven, oi’ll wack ’ee! Fifty-foiv, sixteen-two . . . wot’s next? Take that ’n’ that ’n’ that!’

  The other three rats milled about, bumping into each other.

  Thinking they were under invasion from a much larger force, Dethbrush decided to escape with all speed. He hissed under his breath to the three rats: ‘Quick, over here. Scatter the fire and run that way, through there!’

  Grabbing the sword, Dethbrush helped the rats scatter flame and glowing embers all over the clearing with their spears. They took off through the trees, running southwest after the fox.

  Blinded by smoke and burning woodpigeon feathers, Arula whacked away at the log where Dethbrush had rested. ‘Nointy-seven, thurty-eight. Oi’ll teach ’ee a lessing, ho urr!’

  Spriggat caught the end of the stave and pulled her away. ‘It went wrong, we made a mess o’ it! Quickly, afore the woods go up in flame, put out the fires!’

  Swiftly they cut beaters of green juniper and lupin and set about tackling the blazes that were springing up all about the edges of the forest clearing. Each creature beat furiously, knowing their lives depended on putting out the woodland fire. Hot dry summer was the worst of all possible times to be caught in a woodland blaze, and once established it could’ devastate a whole wood, burning unchecked. Coughing and spluttering, their faces blackened by smoke, eyes red-rimmed and sore, they fought each fresh outbreak until the flames were subdued.

  Spriggat kicked dust on a spark as he leaned heavily on Arula. ‘Whoof! I’m gettin’ too long-seasoned for this sort o’ game. Where’s Samkim?’

  ‘Over here, look what I’ve caught!’ The young squirrel tugged a limping snarling rat. He had his bowstring looped about the creature’s neck. ‘I must have whacked him good and broke his footpaw. He didn’t manage to escape with the others.’

  Spriggat dealt the unfortunate rat a hefty cuff and pressed some lupins into his claw. ‘Fire-raiser, eh? Don’t snarl at me like that, you scum. Take that.’ He gave the rat another good buffet.

  ‘Right, get beating, go on! All round this clearing until there’s no more chance of a burn-up. And just let me find one spark, that’s all, just one – I’ll give you such a beating that the lumps’ll have lumps on top o’ them!’

  Arula took the bow. Playing the rat on the attached bowstring like a fish on a line, she kept him going around the clearing, hunting for any traces of sparks they had missed.

  Exhausted, Samkim and Spriggat sat down on the log. The young squirrel expressed his disappointment.

  ‘Well, we made a right old frog’s dinner of that. You must have chirruped like a cricket too early. Arula wasn’t in position and I was barely ready. What made you do it, Spriggat?’

  The cricket trundled out from under the log, chirruped twice at them and waddled off angrily into the night.

  Samkim covered his eyes, realizing what had happened. ‘Oh no!’

  Spriggat golloped a passing moth and began chuckling. ‘Ohohoho! Thank ye kindly, Samkim. ’Tis a tribute to my realistic cricket chirrup. Ohohohohohahaha!’

  The hedgehog’s laughter was infectious. Soon the three of them were doubled up pounding the log with their paws.

  ‘Ahahahaha! Ooh dear! And there was Arula, countin’ and whackin’. Ninety-seven, fifty-eight, twenty-three, take that an’ that, hahaha. An’ you ran smack-bang into that rat. Oh heeheehee! You should see the way your snout’s swelled up. Whoohahahaha!’

  ‘Hurr hurr hurr hurr! An’ thurr wurr oi, beatin’ up a log, hurrhurr. It wurr a gudd job ’ee log were dead, or oi’da killed et, hurr!’

  When the laughter had died down, Samkim kicked the dust gloomily. ‘Aye, but the fox got away with our sword. What’s to laugh at about that? He could be anywhere by now.’

  Arula had the solution. She reeled in the rat on the bowstring. ‘Hurr naow lissen, vurmen. Whurr be ’ee fox gone to? You’m best arnswer oi afore oi get turrible mad!’

  The rat sneered at Arula and remained silent. Spriggat smiled pitifully at the creature.

  ‘I ’opes you don’t talk, rat. Tell you why. See yon mole, she weren’t foolin’ when she said she were mad. Take it from us, she is mad, ain’t she, Samkim?’

  The young squirrel nodded, straightfaced and serious. ‘Mad? I’ll say she is. Remember the last rat she caught, Spriggat? Dearie me, I dread to think about that poor creature.’

  The rat began to look twitchy. Spriggat shook his head sadly. ‘On my oath, I ’opes never to see that done to a livin’ creature again, ’specially the bit with the three squashed frogs an’ those maggoty apples. Ugh! Sickens me t’ think of it.’

  The rat tried to limp away, but Arula reeled him in on the bowstring until their faces were almost touching. She put her head on one side and grinned insanely at him.

  ‘Oh, oi likes bein’ mad, oi do! Sanken, can ’ee get oi sum big wurms, smelly mud an’ dedd wuddbeetles. Oi got a noice idea, hurr.’

  The rat went limp. He fell to the ground blubbering, ‘No, please, don’t be mad with me! The fox’s name is Dethbrush an’ he’s got five others with him – tracker rats like myself. We’re not killers, I swear it. Dethbrush serves in the horde of Lord Ferahgo the Assassin. We were going to the South Stream to journey by water to the west shore and join up with Ferahgo. We were sent to bring back Dingeye an’ Thura, but they’re both dead. Dethbrush is takin’ the sword as a gift to Ferahgo. That’s all I know, I promise you. Don’t hurt me, pl
ease!’

  Arula looked crestfallen. ‘Doant say you’ll take us’ns an’ show us ’ee way, pleeze. Oi wants to ’ave moi fun!’

  Tears streamed from the rat’s eyes as he beseeched Samkim, ‘I’ll show you every footpaw of the way. I’ll show you – only please keep the mad mole away from me, sir.’

  ‘Oh well, all right.’ Samkim shrugged. ‘Tie him up to a tree for the night Arula, he can show us the way as soon as it’s light.’

  Samkim and Spriggat slept sitting against the log, but Arula was enjoying her new role as the terror of the woodlands. She snuggled up to the quivering rat, who was bound paw and claw to an elm.

  ‘Goo’ noit, ratface. Doant wake oi up, it makes oi mad.’

  ‘No sleep for you yet, friend,’ Spriggat called across to Arula. ‘First watch is yours. Remember what I said, always post a watch through the night. Samkim can take second and I’ll take the dawn watch – an ol’ grubber like meself needs his sleep. Hope stayin’ awake doesn’t make ye too mad.’

  ‘Hurr, ’spect moi matey ’ere will tell ’ee if’n oi gets mad.’

  The rat slumped in his bonds and gave a despairing sob.

  That night Samkim dreamt of Martin the Warrior. The spirit of Redwall held both his empty paws forth pleadingly. ‘Give me back my sword, Samkim. Do not let others use it for evil.’

  24

  Through his pale eyes showed no emotion, Farran the Poisoner knew he was in a dangerous position. Urthstripe and his fighters had returned from the fray; outside, the mountain was strewn with lifeless carcasses and groaning wounded. Ferahgo had called off his horde of Corpsemakers. Their losses were considerable, though not enough to make any great dent in numbers. Farran crouched in a dark corner of the passage between store room and dining hall, silently cursing the ill fortune that had caused his escape route to be cut off. From his hiding place the Poisoner could hear the badger Lord and his hares as they entered the dining hall. They talked of the battle they had won on the slopes of Salamandastron.

  ‘Sapwood, I never gave permission for you to fight outside. You could have been killed by those rolling fire boulders.’

  ‘Not me, sir. Hi was well out the way by the time they started. Paw-ter-paw combat is me best style, beggin’ y’ pardon, but this shootin’ arrows hout of winder slits an’ rollin’ boulders, that haint fer the like o’ me. Face t’ face with the enemy his wot I fancy. That’s the way I fights best, sir.’

  ‘I know you do, Sergeant. From all I hear you gave a good account of yourself out there – but ask me before you do anything like that in future.’

  ‘Good fight though, wasn’t it, sir?’ The squeaky voice of a hare, no more than a leveret, reached the ears of Farran.

  ‘Indeed it was, young Shorebuck. How do you feel after your first battle?’

  ‘Tip-top, m’lud! I say, is that breakfast laid out for us? I’m jolly well starvin’.’ Urthstripe chuckled good-humouredly. ‘I never knew a young hare that wasn’t always hungry. Go to it, Shorebuck. Seeing as it was your first fight, you shall be the first to take breakfast.’

  Farran’s pale eyes lit up momentarily. He listened to the young hare intently.

  ‘Good show! Thank you, sir. Mmm, oatcakes, an’ they’re still a bit warm. Pass me the honey, Sergeant.’

  ‘Git it y’self, you young rip. I ain’t waitin’ on you tail ’n’ paw.’

  Urthstripe’s voice cut in again. ‘Oxeye, did we suffer any losses or injuries?’

  ‘None reported, sah! A jolly old bloodless victory, wot? Though Windpaw never showed up at roll call after the skirmish. Still, I suppose she’s got her head down in some quiet corner. That hare c’d sleep on a bally clothesline.’

  The next sound to reach Farran was that of a pottery bowl smashing on the floor and a chair falling over.

  ‘Shorebuck, what’s the matter old lad?’ Bart Thistledown’s voice came through loud and urgent. ‘I say, looks like he’s chokin’ on a bit of scone. Lend a paw, you chaps!’

  For the first time Farran showed some sign of emotion. His paw struck the rock wall of his hiding place in disappointment. He had made the mixture too strong, his poison was working far too speedily. Other voices crowded in on the fox’s ears.

  ‘Give him somethin’ t’ drink, clear his throat!’

  ‘No, hold him upside down, shake him and pound his back!’

  ‘I can’t, sir. The pore young un’s all doubled up like . . .’

  ‘Out of my way, Sergeant! Here, give him to me. Shorebuck! Shorebuck! Come on, young feller. Stand up straight!’

  ‘Stand aside, chaps. Let Seawood through. He’s a healer!’

  There was a momentary silence, then Urthstripe’s anxious tones rang through the dining hall.

  ‘What’s the matter with him, Seawood?’

  A pause followed, then Seawood’s voice came through. He was sobbing softly. ‘He’s dead! Young Shorebuck is dead, sir!’

  ‘Dead? Surely not. Can’t you do something – herbs, a potion?’

  ‘It’s too late. Can’t you see, sir! Look at the way his poor face is all twisted, and his body doubled up tight an’ stiff. It’s poison. I’d recognize it anywhere. Shorebuck’s been poisoned!’

  ‘It must have been somethin’ he’s eaten, sir. The pore liddle feller was right as rain a moment ago.’

  ‘Spot on, Sarge. He dashed t’ that breakfast board like a bally young trooper after his first fight . . .’

  Urthstripe’s voice boomed through the dining hall. ‘Get away from that table! Don’t touch the food!’

  Ferahgo tossed his knife high in the air and caught it by the handle. He was in good spirits.

  ‘Haha, what’s thirty or forty creatures slain? There’s always more where they came from. That’s what soldiers are for, to kill or be killed. What’s the matter with your face, backstabber?’

  Klitch sat to one side with the four Captains, a scowl hovering around his blue eyes. ‘The whole thing was a waste of good fighting creatures.’

  Ferahgo flicked the knife. It stuck in the ground near his son’s paw. ‘Oh dear dear. Friends of yours, were they? Are you sad because they were killed in the battle?’

  Klitch ignored the dagger a fraction away from his footpaw. ‘Don’t worry, old one, I’m not going soft. I couldn’t give a split acorn whether your whole horde lives or dies. I just think that getting Farran inside the mountain could have been done easier, with a whole lot less killed.’

  Doghead, a stoat Captain, was about to agree with Klitch when he saw the wicked smile forming in the blue eyes of the Assassin. Doghead looked at the ground and kept his comments to himself.

  Ferahgo retrieved his knife, waggling it under Klitch’s nose. ‘It’s not important what a wet-behind-the-ears weasel like you thinks, my son. I’m your old daddy, Ferahgo the Assassin, and only what I think counts around here. Tell him, you Captains: won’t life be easier once the badger and his hares are dead from Farran’s poison and we’re lords of the mountain? Surely that’s worth the lives of a few ragtailed scavengers?’

  Badtooth the other stoat nodded. ‘The Master’s right, Klitch. If Farran does the job proper then it was a good plan.’

  Without another word, Klitch jumped up and stalked off in high bad mood.

  Ferahgo winked at the four Captains. ‘It’s a sad thing, being young and thinking you’re clever like that. No one can outthink the old Master. Remember that if he ever starts talking to you behind my back. I’ll let him live because he’s my son, but anyone who plots with him I’ll kill stone dead – after skinning them alive, of course. Now, the next move! If Farran shows up and says they’re all poisoned inside the mountain, we’ll hack a way in and take over the place.’

  Crabeyes the rat Captain held up a paw respectfully. ‘But he should have been well out of there by now, Master. What happens if he doesn’t show up?’

  Ferahgo sheathed his knife and winked at Crabeyes.

  ‘That means he’s still inside there. Oh, don’t worry. Farran ha
s never let me down. He’ll poison them all, make no mistake. But then, I’ve become worried over Mister Farran of late. Maybe he’s getting greedy and wants all the badger’s treasure for himself . . .’

  ‘Badger’s treasure?’ Crabeyes sounded surprised.

  Ferahgo patted his back and smiled broadly. ‘Badger’s treasure, friends. Didn’t I tell you? That’s why I made you Captains. It will be too much for one; I need four good loyal comrades to share the treasure with – you four. Keep it to yourselves, though. Don’t tell the others. When we take Salamandastron I’ll make you rich beyond your dreams. We’ll be five kings together . . .’

  The Assassin watched the joyous greed shining from all four faces. He had them hooked. His tone dropped slightly. ‘There’s just one thing, however. Farran wants all the treasure for himself. The Poisoner has got to be removed.’

  Greed turned to apprehension on the Captains’ faces, but Ferahgo had them like clay in his paws.

  ‘Have you ever seen the treasure of the badger Lords? I know for a fact that the centre of that mountain is packed with gold, silver, jewels, armour, swords, encrusted shields and all manner of wonderful weapons. Just think, if you owned a fifth part of all that, every creature in the land would be bowing their heads and fighting to kiss your footpaws. Once the badger and his hares are dead, all that stands in our way is the greedy one, Farran. Now I think that between five warriors like ourselves we could manage to slip a dagger in his ribs while we’re congratulating him on a job well done. So it’s either get rid of the black fox, or back to the life of an ordinary horde soldier.’

  Four paws touched that of Ferahgo’s. ‘We’re with you, Master!’

  The Assassin watched them as they went back to their duties as Captains of his horde. He threw back his head, eyes reflecting the summer blue sky as he laughed aloud.

  ‘Hahahaha! Fools!’

  The body of Windpaw lay alongside that of Shorebuck. Big Oxeye gripped his javelin tightly.

  ‘Found her in the top corridors, sah! Slain by a different type of poison. The filthy scum stuck somethin’ in her neck – see the mark? Only a tiny wound, but by the swellin’ it looks like poison.’