“Oh the only good vermin is a dead ’un,
me dear ould mother used to say,
she was always puttin’ paid to rats an’ ferrets,
when they got in her way.
Ma was also very good at skinnin’ weasels,
she made all the babies winter coats,
an’ whenever we needed extra blankets,
why, she’d go an’ collar two fat stoats!
“So the only good vermin is a dead ’un,
they’re peaceful wid their paws turned up,
an’ they’re wonderful for fertilisin’ roses,
but you mustn’t dig ’em up.
We often had a ferret’s nose to play wid,
a liddle game that we called hunt the snout,
and we had a sweepin’ broom, made from a
fox’s brush,
for dustin’ the parlour out!”
Vizka began tying a knot into a rope’s end. The slight about the fox had got through to him. “I need dem alive, but dat’s all dey gotta be, alive. A taste of rope an’ dey’ll be singin’ a diff’rent song!”
One of the stoats on sentry duty at the camp fringes interrupted Vizka’s intentions as he hurried in to report. “Cap’n, dere’s one o’ der crew outside o’ camp, ’e wants ter speak wid ya.”
The golden fox continued knotting the rope’s end. “Which one of der crew is it?”
The sentry, Dogleg, whispered confidentially, “Magger.”
Vizka Longtooth’s grip tightened about the rope he was holding, his eyes glinting icily. Then he changed suddenly; swinging the rope in a carefree manner, he called out jovially, “My ole shipmate Magger, I t’ought he wuz slayed. Bring ’im ’ere t’me if’n ’e’s alive an’ ’appy!”
Dogleg scurried off to get Magger, as Vizka sat smiling from ear to ear.
The three prisoners were becoming weary of vermin baiting, nobeast seemed to be taking much notice of them. Rangval shouted out a final taunt. “Shure, the only difference ye can tell twixt a vermin’s bottom an’ his face is that his nose ain’t got a tail sticking out of it!” The roguish squirrel gave up further efforts.
Maudie called out, almost halfheartedly, “Too right, old sport, I always say that if looks could kill, then vermin would never stare at each other!” The haremaid gave a snort of disgust. “Oh, what’s the bally use? A blinkin’ plum pudden’s got more feelin’s than that rotten lot, wot!”
But Orkwil was enjoying himself, he carried on with his insults, undeterred. “Yah, go an’ boil yore mouldy ole bottoms, ye snipe-nosed, twiggly tailed bunch of frog followers!”
Maudie sighed. “I say, old lad, d’you mind leavin’ off, wot, you’re givin’ me a flippin’ earache!”
However, the young hedgehog was in full flow. “I could lick ye all with a single quill! Ye droopy-bellied, snotty-snouted, pongy-pawed, whiffle-eared scruffsacks! I’ll bet yore grannies were all snigglety wooflers!”
Bonk! One of the guards sprang forward, and dealt Orkwil a stunning blow with his spearhaft, muttering, “My ole grannie wasn’t no snigglety woofler, take dat!”
From where she was suspended, Maudie took a peep at her senseless friend. “He’s not hurt bad, but he’ll have a jolly red lump twixt his ears for a few days, wot. Anyhow, at least we’ll get a bit of peace for awhile, what d’you say?”
Rangval shook his head. “A snigglety woofler, wot’n the name o’ fur’n’feathers is that?”
The haremaid groaned as she tried to shrug. “Haven’t a bally clue, but I’ll be sure to remember it whenever I’m baitin’ vermin. Hmm, snigglety woofler eh, I rather like that! Good grief, eyes front, bucko, d’you see what I jolly well see?”
Magger edged hesitantly into the camp. Every eye was upon the fabulous sword he had thrust into his belt. The weasel nodded uncertainly at Vizka, acknowledging him. “Ahoy, Cap’n.”
The golden fox left his mace and chain on the ground. Waving the knotted rope, he greeted his former second in command affably. “Ho ho, Magger, welcome, mate! Sit ya down an’ get a bite to eat. It ain’t much, but ’tis the best we kin do fer now.”
The weasel glanced warily about, staying on his footpaws, and disregarding the offer of food. His paw never strayed far from the sword, as he enquired, “Ain’t ya mad at me, Cap’n?”
Vizka’s face was the picture of astonished amusement. “Mad at ya, wot would I be mad at ya for, matey?”
Magger replied, having first got his story prepared. “When dose Brownrats attacked I wuz out, lookin’ fer vittles ter feed der crew. By der time I got back, yew was all gone an’ der camp wuz empty, Cap’n.” He avoided looking at Vizka, staring at the ground, and scuffing a footpaw to and fro.
Enjoying Magger’s discomfort, Vizka pursued his interrogation, but in a lighthearted tone. “So, wot did ya do den, mate, an’ where did ya get dat big, pretty knife, eh?”
One lie followed another as Magger embellished the tale. “I tuk it offen a big Brownrat, Cap’n.”
The crew of the Bludgullet watched the exchange in silence, knowing the outcome as Vizka chuckled.
“Ye tuk it, jus’ like dat?”
The weasel shook his head stoutly. “No, not jus’ like dat, Cap’n, wot ’appened was dis. I surprised four of der rats, layin’ round a campfire dey was. One of dem ’ad stuck der sword in d’ground. Dey was restin’, so I sneaked in, grabbed der sword an’ slayed ’em all. I been lukkin’ fer yew ever since, Cap’n.”
Vizka began advancing slowly on Magger, all the time keeping his eye on Martin’s sword. The weasel sensed he was in trouble, he dropped his paw until he was grasping the hilt of the weapon. Vizka stopped within a pace of him, shaking his head sadly.
“Don’t do dat, Magger me ole mate. I left my mace on d’ground over dere. Wot could I do agin a blade like dat, I ain’t armed, ’cept fer dis cob o’ rope. Yew keep yore sword, messmate, ye deserve it after slayin’ four Brownrats ta gerrit. Ain’t dat right, mates?” The vermin crew nodded dutifully.
Magger looked around at them, relinquishing his hold on the sword. Stars went off inside his head as the knotted rope thudded into his eye. He fell backward with an agonised yelp as Vizka leapt on him, stepping on his sword paw and lashing mercilessly with the rope. Every stroke hit Magger’s head, his eyes, jaw, snout, teeth, cheeks and chin. Vizka never let up the savage assault until he was certain Magger was finished.
The blade sliced through Magger’s belt as Vizka pulled it free. Breathing heavily, he stood over his victim, bellowing with rage at the prone body. “Traitor! Turntail! Yew ran at the first whiff o’ dose Brownrats! Ye deserted me’n’my crew, all yore mates! Now ya come runnin’ back ’ere wid ya lies. Carryin’ a fancy blade, an’ thinkin’ Vizka Longtooth is some kinda fool. Well, who’s the fool now, scum-brain!”
The golden fox seized Magger by an ear. Raising the weasel’s head he swung with the sword. The Bludgullet’s crew stared, horrified, as Vizka held up the severed head. His warning was not lost on them.
“Ya see, Magger ain’t tellin’ lies no more. I can’t stand a runaway, or a traitor. Remember dat, all of ya!”
Rangval and Maudie had witnessed the whole shocking incident. Maudie whispered, “As soon as Orkwil wakens, we’d do well to tell him not to mention the sword. Right, bucko, mum’s the word!”
The rogue squirrel agreed readily. “Oh, right y’are, marm, ’tis a good job the fox never had that grand ould blade afore we started baitin’ him. He might’ve tried it out on us, just for practice.”
The haremaid murmured urgently, “Don’t talk too bloomin’ soon, old chap, he’s headed over here lookin’ rather like he’s become pretty fond of head-choppin’, wot!”
Rangval swallowed hard as he watched Vizka approaching. “Shure, I hope he’s not about to become a pain in the neck. I like bein’ attached t’this ould head o’ mine!”
Vizka held the sword forth, until it was at the captives’ eye level. “Dis ain’t no Brownrat weapon, ’tis a fine blade. Tell me, where�
�ve ya seen it afore?”
The keen blade came close to Maudie’s throat as she answered. “Seen it before? No, ’fraid not, sah. But let me say, it suits you well. The sword was obviously made for you, it’s yours by right of conquest I think.”
Vizka stared up at the three friends, suspended from the branch by their paws. He drew back the sword and struck with a yell. “Yaaaaah!”
30
Soft clouds shrouded the dawn, lending the new day a pearllike sheen. The Tabura sat in the orchard, completely at one with his surroundings. Not a leaf or a blade of grass stirred, it was as if the earth lay still, enjoying the brief, peaceful moment, before the morning bustle of Abbey life.
A young robin landed in the folds of the badger’s homespun garment. He sat motionless, watching the little bird. At the sound of approaching voices, the robin flew off into the trees. At his bidding, the badgermaid Salixa had brought Gorath, Abbot Daucus, Log a Log Osbil, Skipper Rorc, Barbowla, Foremole Burff and Benjo Tipps.
They seated themselves round and about the upturned barrow, which the old badger was using as a chair. Friar Chondrus and two helpers trundled up, pushing a trolley laden with breakfast food.
The Tabura declined a bowl of honeyed oatmeal, nodding at the trolley. “None for me just yet, thank you. I will eat after I have spoken. But please, do not let me stop you from breaking your fast, friends. Everything looks so delicious, I hope you will save me a little.”
When everybeast was served, the Tabura gave voice to his thoughts. “Gorath, let us face your problem first. It is right and just that the murderer of your kinbeasts should pay for his crimes. Therefore you must pursue this fox. I know by the vow you made to yourself that you will seek him, right to Hellgates if need be. But my young friend, it is not the fox that you must worry about, it is yourself that you must fear. Aye, fear I say, for your own Bloodwrath may be the death of you. Go now, but before you do, grant me just one wish.”
The young badger took his pitchfork, the frown creasing his brow making the vivid, red scar look even more like a flickering flame. Gorath was frankly puzzled. “Tabura, I am bound in honour to obey one so wise. What is your wish?”
The old badger turned his gaze on the slender badgermaid. “That if Salixa so desires, you will allow her to go with you. To stay by your side and accompany you.”
Gorath was lost for words, all he could say was, “But why?”
The Tabura was still staring at Salixa. “Would you go with Gorath if I asked you to do so?”
The badgermaid went to stand at Gorath’s side, she replied without hesitation, calmly. “I will go with him because we both wish it.”
The Tabura smiled at them both for a moment, then closed his eyes. “Go then, and may the fates be kind to you. With the Father Abbot’s permission, I will be staying here, now that Redwall has lost its healer.”
Abbot Daucus took the two young badgers’ paws. “You must bow to your Tabura’s wisdom. Friar Chondrus, will you see they are provided with supplies? Alas, your stay at our Abbey has been all too brief. We wish you well. Be kind to one another, remember, friendship is the greatest gift one creature can offer to another.”
With the Friar following them, they departed without another word. The Tabura only opened his eyes after they had gone. There was a moment’s silence, then Skipper shook his head in amazement.
“Gorath’s a fine, young badger alright, but he’s a Bloodwrath warrior, an’ a dangerous beast to be around. I tell ye, I wouldn’t allow any daughter o’ mine to go off on the loose with one like him. Why did ye let yore daughter go, Tabura?”
The old badger stared at the spot where the pair had been standing a moment ago. “Salixa is no kin of mine, though I care for her as much as any father would for his daughter. You saw the two of them together, they need each other.”
Benjo Tipps scratched his headspikes. “But suppose Gorath gets into one of his rages, what could a slip of a maid do then? She could be in peril.”
Reaching into his belt pouch, the Tabura brought forth a small, round stone, which he passed to the Cellarhog. “Tell me, friend, what do you think that is?”
Foremole Burff took a swift glance, answering promptly. “Hurr, et bee’s a pebble, zurr, make’d o’ grannet, oi think?”
Everybeast present nodded in agreement. The old badger took the pebble back and held it up. “A simple pebble, which I took from a stream. One time, maybe before creatures ever walked the land, that was a chip of granite from some mountain. Somehow it fell into a stream, or a river. A small, sharp lump of stone, rough and misshapen. No tool, no chisel or hammer, turned it into a smooth pebble. Completely round, without any keen edges, a perfect little stone ball. It was water, streamwater, running softly through countless ages, which continually washed this stone, finally turning it into a pebble.”
Skipper nodded. “You mean that the maid could smooth the rough edges off’n Gorath. But you said the water took countless ages t’do it, sir.”
Abbot Daucus answered for the old badger. “Aye, but Gorath and Salixa aren’t water and stone, they’re living creatures who care for each other. It won’t take ages, Skip, believe me!”
The oldster chuckled. “Well said, Father Abbot, maybe someday you might become a Tabura?”
Daucus smiled modestly. “I hardly think so.”
The Tabura accepted a beaker of hot mint tea from Foremole. “We shall see. Now, let us face the problem of these Brownrats. What do you know of them, and their leader?”
The Abbot deferred to Barbowla’s explanation. “Wot’s to know, they’re a vermin horde, an’ Gruntan Kurdly’s a big, fat, evil, greedy beast. First he wanted the Guosim’s logboats, but then he set his twisted mind on Redwall. Now Kurdly wants this Abbey.”
Abbot Daucus spoke out angrily. “But he won’t get it, Redwall is too strong to fall into the paws of scum like that!”
Skipper slammed his rudder down hard. “That rat’ll only get Redwall over our dead bodies, we’ll fight him with everything we’ve got!”
The Tabura held up his paws until the indignant outcry halted. “Wait now, friends, what you’re telling me is that Kurdly is a rat who takes what he wants by brute force and ignorance, because he has a horde behind him.”
Osbil drew his rapier. “Aye, but if’n he wants war we’ll give it to the villain, hot’n’heavy!”
Draining his beaker, the Tabura nodded to Friar Chondrus. “This is very fine mint tea, may I have more, please? Now, on the subject of your enemies, Father Abbot. I think you would agree that war is the last resort of intelligent creatures. It brings only death and destruction.”
Abbot Daucus replied wistfully, “There’s no doubt about that, friend, but what are we to do? Vermin aren’t beasts you can reason with.”
There was a twinkle in the old badger’s eyes as he sipped his tea. “Indeed they aren’t, that’s what I’m relying on. They are not only our enemy, but they have no love for each other, these two vermin armies. My advice is, sit tight within your Abbey, defend it when you have to. Vermin are cruel, murderous, but most of all greedy. I think they’ll cancel one another out. I have seen vermin conquerors and armies before, trust me.”
At his camp, south of the Abbey wall, Gruntan Kurdly was reflecting also. He had become accustomed to the thunder of paws, either coming down or going up the ditch nearby. First it was Sea Raiders chasing Brownrats, then it was Brownrats chasing the Sea Raiders. Now it was his own horde again, madly stampeding from north to south. He watched with a jaundiced eye as they stumbled, slobbering and panting, into camp. As a change from boiled eggs, Gruntan was pigging down a mess of small, roasted trout. Hawking loudly he spat out in disgust, narrowly missing his old healer, Laggle. The Brownrat chieftain scowled sourly at her. “Wot did yer give me fishes for, ye ole frowsebag? Fishes ain’t good vittles, they got bones in ’em, sharp ones, they got fish skin, too, an’…an’…bits, lots o’ slimey bits!” Picking up another trout, he regarded it with disgust. “Yurgh! Fishes got eyes
, too, an’ they stares at ye when yore eatin’ ’em!”
He grabbed the nearest Brownrat and slapped his face several times with the cooked trout. “I likes eggs, d’yer know why?”
The unfortunate Brownrat tried to duck another slap from the trout. “’Cos eggs tastes better, Boss?”
Tossing the fish at Laggle, Gruntan wiped his paws on the Brownrat’s head before kicking him away. “No, stupid, it’s ’cos eggs ain’t got bones’n’skin, an’ slimy bits, too. Leastways, not when they’re boiled proper, an’ peeled well.”
He turned his attention on Stringle, and the rest, who were lolling about, still huffing and puffing. “So youse lot are back, eh? Hah, the way ye came bowlin’ down that ditch, it sounded like you was bein’ chased. So tell me, ’ow many was after ye, ten score, twenny score, or was it just a bad-tempered wasp? Stan’ up, Stringle, an’ let’s ’ear the sorry tale!”
Stringle stood, well clear of Gruntan Kurdly, and did his best to put a brave face on things. “We chased those seabeasts, Chief, jus’ like ye told us to. When they saw us after ’em, they took off like scalded frogs, ain’t that right, mates?”
There was a murmur of agreement, then Stringle carried on with his report. “Aye, they ran sure enough, but we charged after the gutless scum. Chased ’em right into their camp we did an’ slayed ’em, left, right’n’centre!”
Gruntan raised his eyebrows. “All of ’em?”
Stringle tried hard to look injured and gallant at the same time. “Well, not exac’ly all of ’em, Chief, one or two of the cowards ran off, but we took care o’ the main gang. Ye won’t be bothered by that lot no more!”
Gruntan took a while to digest this information. “Hmm, an’ wot ’appened to their chief, this fox, Fizzy Longteeth? Where’d he go?”
Stringle blurted out, “We catchered ’im!”
Gruntan picked a trout bone from his snaggled teeth. “Ye catchered ’im. Good! Well, where is he?”
Stringle hesitated, moving further away from Gruntan, or any missile he might choose to throw. “Well, that’s wot I was goin’ t’tell ye, Boss, it was like this, ye see. We ’ad ’im, all trussed up, comin’ back ’ere along the ditch we was. When all of a sudden, there’s this giant madbeast, wirra great big fork!”
Eulalia! Page 27
