Outcast Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Swartt took the flagon, pausing as he held it to his lips. ‘You see, Lord, I learn from you all the time. If this wine were poison then I would be a deadbeast . . .’ Tipping the flagon he drank deep. ‘But I would be the stupid one if I offered you poisoned wine. It is good wine, the best, that’s why I brought it to you.’

  Bowfleg watched Swartt a moment, on the look-out for ill effects, then said, ‘Give me somm, I tell you if it iss gudd wine!’

  Swartt offered the bottle, then, as if remembering his manners, he pulled back and filled the big silver drinking cup, which he passed to Bowfleg.

  The Warlord smiled over the rim of the cup at him. ‘I still be’s watchin’ you. ‘Ow you feel, eh?’

  ‘Never better, sire,’ Swartt chuckled, ‘but if you still doubt me, then try the wine on your giant there.’

  The Warlord patted the massive weasel’s paw. ‘Ah yiss, my h’fait’ful Wurgg, comm drink.’

  The weasel lifted the chalice like an eggcup between two of his thick claws. He emptied it with a loud sucking noise and gave the cup back to his Lord with a smile and a single word: ‘Good!’

  Bowfleg put on a face of mock indignation as he looked up at Wurgg. ‘Hoi! I say h’wodd’s gudd, give me somm a dis wine!’

  Swartt filled the cup three times before the greedy Warlord was satisfied. Bowfleg lounged back on the throne, confident that the new arrival posed no threat to his leadership. ‘Zo, h’you back now, Sixclaw, gudd, gudd! You go now, find you’self a tent, inna mornen we spikk more togedder.’

  Swartt knew he had been dismissed. He made an elegant leg, and bowed before he left the tent, saying, ‘Sleep well, Lord Bowfleg!’

  * * *

  5

  Dawn arrived wreathed in soft white mist, promising a mild sunny day. The drums beat out again over the scrub-scarred highlands, but this time the rat runners did not raise the alarm, for only one creature approached the camp. It was the vixen Nightshade, whom Swartt had purposefully instructed to follow him, leaving one day’s gap between their arrivals.

  The rat runners kept their distance from the fox, considering her some kind of wild mystic. Nightshade did nothing to disabuse them of the idea, indeed, she had dressed to look the part. A tatty feather-trimmed cloak swirled about her painted and mud-daubed body, and she carried a long staff decorated with bones, hanks of hair and shells. It clanked and clattered as she shook it at the runners, chanting in a reedy quaver:

  ‘Gurgling, rattling, final breath,

  Brings me from Dark Forest gate,

  I, the messenger of death,

  King of Darkness, Lord of Fate!’

  Fires from the previous night’s embers were being blown into life by a few early risers, as the runners escorted the vixen into Lord Bowfleg’s hordecamp. Spying the main tent with its prominent pavilion, she made her way straight to it. Two stoat sentries guarding the closed tentflap moved nervously aside as the odd-looking fox grimaced and shook her staff at them. Nightshade stood in front of the entrance and howled a long eerie call.

  ‘Hawoooooooo! I am the Seer! Ayaaaaaaaaai! Death has been here!’

  The runners and sentries were obviously frightened of the ragged vixen, who was now performing a crazy shuffling dance in front of the main tent. They huddled together, muttering.

  ‘I wonder why Lord Bowfleg hasn’t heard her?’

  ‘Aye, it’s strange that he hasn’t sent Wurgg out to snap ’er scrawny neck an’ stop ’er caterwaulin’ like that.’

  ‘Well, I’m not goin’ to try an’ move ’er!’

  ‘But we can’t just stand ’ere, what’s t’be done?’

  ‘I say we go an’ rouse the Captains, let them sort it out.’

  ‘Aye, good idea, mate, come on!’

  As word of the vixen’s arrival swept through the camp, the hordebeasts deserted tents and cooking fires en masse to follow the group of officers heading to the main tent. Two stoat Captains, Greenclaw and Aggal, together with a rat named Scraw, who was a senior Counsellor, heard all the sentries and runners had to say. They watched the vixen dancing and chanting in front of the closed pavilion entrance.

  ‘Mightier than the Warlord,

  Who must come to his call,

  I am but a messenger,

  Death rules over all!’

  Greenclaw was made of stern stuff. He drew his sword, and rapping out orders, pushed the vixen to one side. ‘Seize this one and hold ’er, I’ll get t’the bottom o’ this!’ Greenclaw ripped the flaps aside, and strode boldly into the tent. The other officers followed him in a bunch.

  Lord Bowfleg sat slumped in his chair; the giant Wurgg was seated on the top dais step, his back against the throne legs. Both creatures looked as if they were merely sleeping, but the rat Scraw could see different. He put his face close to Bowfleg’s, at the same time touching his foot-paw to Wurgg’s limp form.

  A short inspection was sufficient for Scraw. He turned to the assembly, shaking his head. ‘Dead, both dead! Not a mark on either of ’em. Who could have done this?’

  Greenclaw voiced his opinions so that all could hear. ‘I left Lord Bowfleg and Wurgg alive and well with Swartt yesterday – let’s ask him!’

  The sixclawed ferret was dragged into the tent by four armed guards. He struggled free, shouting, ‘Getcher claws off me or I’ll flay yeh alive!’

  Greenclaw had appointed himself official interrogator. ‘Answer me, Swartt. What took place here yesterday when you were alone with Lord Bowfleg and Wurgg?’

  ‘I gave Lord Bowfleg gifts,’ Swartt sneered at the officious Captain, ‘and he said he’d accept me into his ranks as a Captain, nothing else.’

  Scraw picked up the gifts of spear, belts and wine. He shook the flagon; wine swished inside. ‘Was this wine one of the gifts you brought? Did the Lord drink any?’

  Swartt chuckled knowingly. ‘He certainly did!’

  ‘Did you drink the wine also?’

  ‘No, it’d be churlish t’bring wine as a gift and then drink it.’

  ‘Did Wurgg?’

  ‘No, Lord Bowfleg said that the wine was too good for a clod like him, only Bowfleg drank that wine,’ Swartt lied.

  Scraw was nodding and smiling grimly as he thrust the flagon towards the ferret. ‘I think this wine is poisoned. Prove that it’s not – take a sip.’

  Swartt grabbed the flagon and drank it empty. ‘Anything else y’want me t’do, rat?’ he sneered.

  Anger was rising in Greenclaw. He snatched the flagon from Swartt and hurled it away, growling, ‘You’re too smart for your own good, ferret. Why did you come here in the first place, tell me?’

  Swartt spoke loud, so that the hordebeasts crowded outside the tent could hear him. ‘I had no need to come here, I was doing well with my own band. Then one night I had a dream. Lord Bowfleg appeared to me and implored me to come to his side with all speed – he said that he needed my help.’

  Greenclaw curled his lip derisively. ‘A likely story. Bring in the fox!’

  Nightshade was prodded in at spearpoint by several soldiers, who did not want to get too close to her. Greenclaw asked Swartt, ‘Have you ever met this vixen before?’

  ‘Never in the light o’ day, though I often see her in dreams.’

  ‘This is all nonsense!’ snapped Greenclaw, as he paced the dais steps angrily.

  The vixen shook her staff warningly at him. ‘Do not mock what you cannot understand. None have seen me in this camp before, yet I knew of Lord Bowfleg’s death long before I came here. I am the messenger of Death and Fate. I see visions in the stars, the wind, and the eyes of many!’

  Greenclaw had heard enough. Drawing his sword, he came at the vixen. ‘Did your visions tell that you’d end up dead today?’

  Scraw stepped in the way, knocking the sword aside. ‘Put up your weapon, stoat. The fox is a seer. It is bad luck to slay one with gifts like hers.’

  ‘A seer, huh!’ sneered Greenclaw, as he sheathed his sword with bad grace. ‘Well, tell us what you see, vixen!�
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  Nightshade shook her staff until the shells and bones attached to it clattered ominously. She shut her eyes and wailed:

  ‘Seasons of glory will come to the horde,

  Nobeast will lack plunder while Sixclaw is Lord!’

  Greenclaw was furious. He turned on Swartt, but the ferret was ready, and before the stoat Captain could unsheathe his sword, Swartt grabbed the carved spear from Aggal and slew Greenclaw.

  Nightshade was still chanting and wailing:

  ‘Allbeasts who challenge the Sixclaw will die,

  Dark Forest gates will reflect in their eye!’

  Swiftly she moved among the Captains, staring wildly into their eyes. To a beast they believed the seer’s words, and all looked the other way, avoiding Nightshade’s mad stare.

  Then Swartt Sixclaw strode dramatically forward and, holding the vixen’s face between both paws, he stared steadily into her eyes, saying, ‘You shall be my eyes and see all for me, nobeast will be able to hide secret thoughts against me!’

  Thus it was that the ferret Swartt Sixclaw became Warlord of the great horde, with only a few gifts: two belts, a spear, a good flagon of wine, and one other thing – a silver drinking cup whose rim and inside had been smeared with deadly poison!

  With that and a clever vixen he had won the day.

  The entire horde gathered around a small hillock to hear their new Warlord announce his plans. Swartt had repainted the green and purple stripes upon his face and coated his fangs with fresh red dye. Drawing his curved sword from the wide snakeskin belt he whirled in a circle, and a magnificent bright blue velvet cloak, which he had plundered from Bowfleg’s belongings, swirled around his muscular body. He pointed the sword at the main tent, which still contained the bodies of Bowfleg and Wurgg, and cried aloud, ‘Burn!’

  From high on the cliffs a score of weasel archers fired flaming arrows down into the brushwood-laden tent. In moments the whole thing was ablaze. The firelight danced in Swartt’s eyes as he held up his sixclawed paw for all to see.

  ‘This is what you follow from now on, Sixclaws! No more lying about in these hills and scrublands, no more idling under a fatbeast who was too lazy to move! Take down your tents and pack them for travel: today we move west and south to the lands of plenty. Food, plunder, captives! All of these you will have if you follow me into the sunwarmed lands. Aye, me, Swartt Sixclaw the Warlord!’

  The earth trembled as the massive horde stamped their footpaws and hammered down their spearbutts. A mighty roar rose up like thunder as it echoed from the cliffs.

  ‘Sixclaaaaaaaw!’

  Tents were flattened and rolled, drums beat ominously, and banners with the new Sixclaw symbol unfurled on the autumn breeze.

  The ferret bared his reddened teeth at the vixen by his side. ‘Now let’s see if Sunflash the Mace can pick this lot off one by one. Hahahahahaaaaa!’

  * * *

  6

  The year turned, and bright spring became bounteous summer. Sunflash the Mace straightened up from his labours, arching his mighty back. The two little molemaids Nilly and Podd imitated his movements impishly.

  ‘That’s enough potatoes for one day, good work!’ he said, winking at them.

  ‘Hurr, an’ thurr be lots o’ taters left furr another toime.’

  ‘Ho aye, leave’m in ee ground t’get ’ooj an’ gurtly tastyful.’

  The big badger looked around at the neat rows he had created last autumn, clearing bush and moving rock until a sizeable food garden bloomed in the forest amid the hills and woodland. Bordered by several fruit trees, plum, apple and pear, already growing there, plus a couple of horse chestnuts further back, the crops cut straight furrows. Leek, onion, potato, turnip, peas and cabbage all thrived, with mushrooms to be found every few days in the dark shelter of a rocky slab to one side of the chestnuts. There would be berries later, redcurrant, blackberry, raspberry and strawberry. Sunflash had worked hard alongside his friends, and they had taught him about growing things. He liked cultivating the land, finding he had a natural flair as a farmer.

  Sweeping the tiny molemaids up with both paws, Sunflash deposited them on top of the basket of vegetables they had gathered. With a single swing he liftèd the basket onto one shoulder and strode off towards the dwelling cave of the Lingl and Dubbo clan. Sunflash’s deep voice blended harmoniously with the two moles’ as all three sang the riddle song:

  ‘Arm not alas sand, ’way south in the west,

  So star land a mat, there’s where I love best,

  Sand not as alarm, lone seabirds do wing,

  And alas most ran, list’ to me whilst I sing.’

  Skarlath was sunning himself in the rocks above the cave, watching Dearie Lingl, Aunt Ummer and Bruff’s wife Lully preparing lunch on the grass. Old Uncle Blunn came coughing out of the cave in a cloud of dust, followed by the four small hoglets with Tirry and Bruff. They sat on the grass, dusting their coats down.

  Tirry sneezed and blinked, saying, ‘Bright ole day out ’ere, ain’t it!’

  Sunflash marched up, nodding to one and all. Carefully he lifted the basket down, with the two molemaids sitting atop. ‘Some nice button mushrooms in here for you, Dearie,’ he said. ‘How’s the store chamber coming along, Bruff?’

  The mole pawed dust from his eyes as he answered, ‘Near dunn, zurr, we’m jus’ abowt finished. Lined et wi’ those rock slabs you’m found larst wintur, lukks ’andsome, bo urr!’

  Lully used her apron to protect her paws as she gingerly removed a large flat pie from the rock oven Sunflash had made. ‘Us’n’s got lots o’ things dunn since ee been yurr, zurr. Lookit, apple’n’blackb’rry pie, yore fav’rite!’

  Sunflash sniffed the aroma, his gold-striped face alight with pleasure.

  ‘Come away,’ oglets, you’ll burn yore snouts agin’ that ’ot thing.’ Dearie shooed the four hoglets off as they crowded round to smell the pie. ‘Wait’ll it cools an’ I’ll give ye a big slice each.’

  Old Uncle Blunn took the hoglets and the two molemaids off to the stream, which was only a short walk away. Flagons of dandelion and burdock cordial, brewed by Blunn, were submerged in the streamwater to keep cool.

  ‘Wash ee dusty paws’n’snouts in yon stream, ee mucky liddle vurmints, aye an’ ee too, Blunn Dubbo!’ Aunt Ummer called after them.

  Dearie bustled about preparing salad from the fresh vegetables whilst Skarlath waddled off behind Lully, who was going to test a cheese she had been turning since early last winter. The good molewife smiled fondly at the kestrel, whom she considered to be her special friend. ‘On moi loif, zurr, oi never see’d an ’awkburd oo luvved cheeses more’n ee. Cumm naow, us’ll try et furr taste, hurr.’

  Skarlath eagerly assisted her to roll the cheese out of the cave’s dark recesses, where it had been maturing. He had helped make the oval-shaped cheese, right from the greensap milk stage, pounding tirelessly at the fat white grass stems and special tubers, which only true woodlanders knew of. They had gathered nuts together in late autumn, hazel, almond and chestnuts, to stud their cheese with. Between them, the kestrel and the molewife peeled off the thin layer of damp crack willow bark which protected the cheese. It had no rind and was a delicate pale yellow colour. A fragrance of almond drifted faintly about them.

  Skarlath hopped from talon to talon, his fierce eyes shining. ‘Kraaaah! Is it ready, marm, shall we taste it?’

  The good molewife shook as she chuckled, ‘Aye, you’m surpintly shall taste et, zurr, hurr hurr hurr!’

  Taking a thin, greased twine from her apron pocket, Lully wound the ends round her digging claws and looped the twine over the cheese just below its top, then, placing both footpaws flat against the base of the cheese, she leaned backward pulling evenly on the twine. The molewife was well experienced in all aspects of cheese-making. Skarlath watched fascinated as the strong twine travelled smoothly through the cheese, neatly cutting a large oval piece from the top of their creation. Standing on its edge the slice resembled an oddly-shaped har
vest moon, with the white of the nuts and thin slivers of their brown skins highlighted against the buttercup hue of the cheese. Breaking two small pieces off, Lully gave one to her friend. They nibbled daintily, commenting.

  ‘Bo urr, ee be noice’n moist wi’ gudd flavour, aye!’

  ‘Mmm, wonderful nutty taste, good and firm!’

  ‘Ho aye, none too solid, none too soft, us’n’s dunn well!’

  Paw shook talon as the cheesemakers congratulated each other.

  On the sward outside the dwelling cave the older creatures lay about watching the young ones play. It had been a satisfying lunch: summer salad served with Lully and Skarlath’s new cheese, and fresh oatfarls baked by Auntie Ummer, followed by the magnificent apple and blackberry pie which Lully and Dearie had cooked, all washed down with beakers of old Uncle Blunn’s dandelion and burdock cordial, brought specially cooled from the stream. Sunflash stretched luxuriously and set his back against the sunwarmed rocks as he watched the babes trying to lift his mace between them.

  Tirry smiled at their efforts as he sprawled beside the big badger. ‘’Twill be many a long season afore they lift that thing, friend.’

  Sunflash shook his massive head. ‘Tirry, let us hope that they never have to. Learning the trade of a warrior and living in times of danger can rob a young creature of all its happy seasons, and make it grow up fast and hard, as I did. Peace is a precious thing.’

  ‘You brought peace here for our families,’ said the hedgehog, as he patted Sunflash’s paw. ‘You look peaceful an’ well content, Sunflash. Mayhap you like our life.’

  The badger had a distant look in his dark eyes. ‘Oh, I do like the life here. I am happier in this place than I have ever been and I wish dearly that I could live out all my seasons with you and your families on this very spot.’