The Taggerung (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Eefera’s voice sang out from the ditch. ‘Pore liddle Nimbalo. I wouldn’t like to be ’im, if’n one of youse in there doesn’t make some kinda move soon. Hahahaha!’

  Cregga gave her instructions to Mhera. ‘I’m going to stand up in plain view. I know how to parley with those scum. You stay low, just so you can see over the wall; that way you can let me know what’s going on. Now don’t argue, pretty one, do as I say.’

  Mhera pressed the badger’s big paw to her cheek. ‘All right, but please be careful. You’re our only Badgermum!’

  Sister Alkanet tapped lightly upon the storeroom door and spoke in her no-nonsense voice.

  ‘Listen to me, vermin, I want straight and truthful answers, or you can stay locked up in there until you perish. Understood?’

  She was surprised that the answering voice was not a gruff snarl but a level and reasonable-sounding baritone. ‘I understand. What do you want to know?’

  ‘What do you and your friends want at Redwall Abbey?’

  ‘There are five vermin outside. They are not my friends, they are my enemies. I am not a vermin, I’m an otter.’

  Old Hoarg stamped his footpaw and chuckled. ‘Heehee, I knowed he was an otter, moment I set eyes on him!’ He wilted into silence under Alkanet’s sceptical stare. She continued.

  ‘They say you have a tattooed face, like the two vermin one of our creatures saw in Mossflower Wood. Why is that?’

  Tagg stood with his forehead against the door. He shrugged. ‘It’s a very very long story, if you have the time to listen. Let me ask you a question, marm. Have you seen a harvest mouse lately? His name is Nimbalo the Slayer.’

  The Sister’s severe voice left him in no doubt. ‘No we have not! I’m asking the questions, otter, if that’s what you are. Do you have a name? What is it?’

  ‘You can call me Tagg. It’s what I’ve been known as for as long as I can remember.’ The silence which followed was so long that Tagg asked, ‘What’s the matter, marm? Don’t you believe me? My name’s Tagg!’

  This time the Sister’s voice sounded a little shrill. ‘Tagg? Is that short for something? What’s your full name? The truth now, I want no lies!’

  ‘Zann Juskarath Taggerung!’

  Four voices echoed the last word. ‘Taggerung!’

  Egburt came hurtling into the cellar at that precise moment. Forgetting all his hare impressions he cried, ‘Brull said she saw you come down here. Quick, Drogg, an’ you too, Broggle an’ Hoarg! We’re all needed up at the front gate. The vermin have captured a mouse an’ they’re goin’ to kill him!’

  Tagg banged upon the cellar door and shouted, ‘This mouse, d’you know his name?’

  Egburt gaped at the door, wide-eyed. ‘Nimbalo the Slayer they said his name is. Why?’

  Suddenly the door shook as the otter smashed his body against it. ‘Let me out of here, d’you hear me? I must get out! I won’t harm anyone, I swear it! I’ve got to save my friend! It’s me the vermin want, me, the Taggerung of the Juska!’

  Sister Alkanet shook her head stubbornly. ‘We’ll have to report this to the elders for a counsellors’ meeting. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay locked up until they decide.’

  It was then that Broggle did something totally unexpected. He pushed the Sister to one side and heaved the bolts back. ‘Then go and save your friend. Hurry, Taggerung!’

  Cregga stood up in full view of the vermin. ‘We have no mouse here named Nimbalo, but if you are holding him prisoner I beg you not to harm him!’

  Vallug rose, an arrow notched full stretch on his bow. ‘Yore not in any position to make demands of us, stripedog. We’ll chop this ’ere mouse inter fishbait if’n yer don’t give up the Taggerung!’

  Mhera peeped over the battlements and saw the five tattooed vermin and Nimbalo lying bound on the path. Cregga spread her paws. ‘I don’t understand what you mean. There is no such thing as a Taggerung in our Abbey. How can we give what we don’t have?’

  Eefera whispered to Vallug as he watched the badger’s face. ‘That ole stripedog’s blind. See, she’s lookin’ right past us at the flatlands be’ind. I tell yer, she’s blinder’n a stone!’

  Vallug laughed scornfully at the old blind badger. ‘Hohoho, ’ow d’you know you ain’t got a Taggerung in there? You couldn’t see yer paw in front of ye, y’ole fool!’

  Cregga could feel anger coursing through her veins. ‘Listen, you thickbrained scum, it’s you who’s the fool. You can stand out there shouting for a Taggerung until you’re blue in the face. We haven’t got a Taggerung and we don’t even know what a Taggerung is. So use what little brain you have and tell us, what in the name of all seasons is a Taggerung, eh?’

  Nimbalo sawed through the last of his bonds and burst loose. Bloodlust shone from his eyes as he leaped for the battleaxe sticking up over the ditch’s edge. ‘Death t’the vermin!’ he roared.

  He grabbed the axehead. The shaft went sideways and struck Vallug on the elbow, and he released the arrow instinctively. Cregga stood stock still, the shaft buried in her chest. Mhera leaped up, screaming.

  Tagg came up the stairs like a thunderbolt. Dashing through Cavern Hole he collided with an ottermum. Stopping momentarily, he held her steady by the paw. ‘Sorry, marm!’ Then he was off up the stairs into Great Hall, leaving Filorn looking as if she had seen a ghost. As he bounded through Great Hall towards the Abbey door, the otter’s eyes flicked left and right, looking for a weapon. He saw the warrior mouse on a huge wall tapestry. Perched above it on two silver spikes, Martin’s sword shone like fire on ice. There was no time to stop. Bounding forward, Tagg gave a mighty leap. He snatched the sword and sped out of the door.

  Brother Hoben was already at the gate. He saw the big painted otter charging towards him, shouldering Redwallers aside as he came. Broggle was dashing to keep up with Tagg, waving his paws at Hoben, yelling, ‘Open the gates, Brother! Let him through, open the gates!’

  Hoben kicked the wooden bar up and threw open Redwall’s gates. Like lightning the otter charged past him, whirling the sword, his voice roaring like thunder upon the wind.

  ‘Vallug Bowbeast, ’tis death to you! I am Taggerung Juskaaaaaa!’

  Vallug already had another arrow on his taut bowstring. He let fly at Tagg. The shaft buried itself in the otter’s chest, but he kept coming, his mighty wrath unstoppable. Vallug was reaching for another arrow when the great sword flashed downward. Tagg’s shout was the last thing the ferret heard in his life.

  ‘For my father!’

  Vallug’s body remained standing; his head thudded into the ditch, alongside the severed bow. Eefera was up out of the ditch, running across the flatlands. Tagg spanned the ditch in a bound and went after him. Dagrab fled south along the ditchbed, with Nimbalo hard on her heels wielding the battleaxe. Gruven snatched up his fallen sword and ran, terror coursing through him. He ran as he had never run before, north up the ditchbed, away from the mêlée. Rawback paused, but only for an instant, before he chased after Gruven. As soon as the woodlands came into view on his right, Gruven left the ditch and scrambled into the tree cover, with Rawback in his wake. Together they hurried north, following the woodland fringe until more tree cover appeared on the west side. Recrossing the path hastily, the two stoats stumbled through the ditch and entered Mossflower’s west thicknesses, Rawback some way behind as they struck inward. When he ran out of breath Gruven halted. The ground beneath his paws was soft, and immediately he began sinking. With his final effort he pulled himself clear and found dry ground. When Rawback came staggering and panting along, Gruven leaned against a tree, puffing, and waved him on.

  ‘That way, mate. I’ll catch me breath an’ wait ’ere awhile to stop anybeast followin’ us. You go on, I’ll catch ye up.’

  Rawback ploughed wearily on. Gruven waited until he heard the terror-stricken screams from the swampland, and then he sat down until he regained enough breath to carry on. When the screaming had stopped, Gruven felt quite recovered. He cut off around the swam
p edges chuckling to himself.

  ‘Dead, all dead an’ gone, only me left. Gruven Zann Juskazann!’

  * * *

  30

  Rose-blushed skies and scattered creamy cloudbanks softened the western horizon with early evening. Twoscore seasoned otters, armed with slings and light javelins, dogtrotted tirelessly on, their footpaws thrumming over the flatlands. Grim-faced and silent, Skipper and Boorab led the column. The otter Chieftain took a bearing from the low-slung sun.

  ‘Chin up, bucko. We’ll make it t’the Abbey by nightfall!’

  The hare’s breathing was ragged. He had not slept since he left Redwall, but stubbornly he fought the weariness which threatened to overwhelm him.

  Skipper could not help but notice his plight. ‘You drop out an’ take a blow, mate, carry on when yore rested.’

  Boorab picked up his pace, snorting defiantly. ‘Never, sah! Officer never lies down an’ naps on a mission, wot. We’ll enter the blinkin’ Abbey together, side by jolly side!’

  Skipper’s eyes were never still when he and his crew were on the move. He was constantly reading the land ahead and to both sides. The otter’s roving gaze fixed on a bright glinting object, ahead and slightly south. At first he took it for a flame, but as he drew closer he recognised it as a metal object reflecting the reddening sunrays. He veered a point, taking his contingent in its direction.

  ‘Over there, mates. Keep yore javelins ready. At the double!’

  Boorab dropped behind slightly, then found himself in the centre of the crew, supported by two burly females who rushed him along.

  ‘Let yore footpaws go loose, matey. We’ll do the runnin‘!’

  Skipper was first at the scene, and his keen eyes took it all in at a glance. Death had visited the flatlands.

  The weasel Eefera lay slain, mouth lolling open, sightless eyes staring at the sky. Tagg sat slumped nearby, a broken arrow protruding from his chest. His head was bowed, but he still held on to the sword of Martin the Warrior, the blade pointing over his shoulder, resting against his cheek.

  Boorab joined Skipper, and surveyed the tableau gravely. ‘By thunder, sah, now that’s what I call a Warrior, wot!’

  Skipper reconstructed what had taken place from the tracks and bloodstains round about. ‘The weasel ain’t carryin’ bow’n’arrows. This big feller, the tattooed otter, that broken shaft’s been in him awhile. See, the weasel’s wounds are much fresher.’ He called to one of his crew who was tracking further forward. ‘Which way did they come?’

  The otter jerked a paw over his shoulder. ‘Back thataway, Skip, prob’ly from the Redwall direction!’

  Skipper picked up the broken halves of Eefera’s spear. ‘Hmm. The way I sees it is that the otter chased this weasel clear from the Abbey. That’s a big strong weasel, but he couldn’t outrun the otter, even though our friend ’ere ’ad taken an arrow right in his chest. This otter chased the weasel almost a league, aye, an’ caught the vermin too. I don’t know ’ow he did it, but a terrible fight took place ’ere. That otter slew the weasel then sat ’imself down an’ held the sword up. ’Tis an ole trick: the sun shines off’n the blade, like a signal to let yore mates know where y’are. But nobeast came, so the otter died there, sittin’ up holdin’ Martin’s sword, alongside his dead enemy. But ’ow did he come to be carryin’ the great sword o’ Redwall?’ Skipper knelt and tried to prise the weapon loose from Tagg’s grasp. ‘Like y’say, Boorab, ’ere’s wot y’call a Warrior. I can’t budge the blade from his paws, an’ I ain’t no weaklin’ . . . by the roarin’ river, this bucko’s still alive!’

  Tagg lifted his head a fraction, one eye flickering half open. ‘Juska . . . leave me ’lone . . . now.’ Then he slumped over, still gripping the sword.

  Boorab called out, ‘You chaps, take off y’belts. Use ’em with those javelins to make a stretcher. He’s comin’ back to the Abbey with us. Look sharp there, jump to it now, no time t’waste, wot!’

  Skipper stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘Juska, eh? I’ve seen Juskas afore. They go in clans, tattooed murderin’ thieves. But Juskabeasts are all vermin: rats, stoats an’ the like. ’Ow did an otter come t’be mixed up with ’em? See, ’is face is all tattooed up, even more’n an ordinary Juska.’

  The hare had got his second wind and was feeling impatient. ‘Won’t matter if the chap’s tattooed from rock to rudder, looks like he’s goin’ to peg out soon if we don’t get him help. Besides, who knows what’s goin’ on back at the Abbey, wot? They could be besieged, battered an’ waitin’ on us to arrive!’

  With a renewed sense of urgency they set off again. Borne between eight stout ottercrew, Tagg lay on the stretcher clasping the sword, mercifully unconscious as they travelled at the double.

  Nimbalo made his way back along the ditchbed in the failing light, using his battleaxe as a walking staff. He went into a fighting crouch at the sound of a gruff voice.

  ‘Halt, who goes there?’

  Brandishing the axe, he answered in equally gruff tones, ‘Nimbalo the Slayer, so stan’ aside, whoever ye be!’

  Drogg Cellarhog held out a paw to help him from the ditch. ‘Yore the ’arvest mouse who went after that rat. C’mon up, friend. Did ye have any luck?’

  Nimbalo scrambled up on to the flatlands, where a party of Redwallers were waiting. He winked knowingly at them. ‘Oh, I ’ad all the luck in the land, ’twas the rat who ran outta luck. She won’t be slayin’ any more, y’can bet on that, mates!’

  Egburt held up a lantern he had just lit. ‘Nimbalo, have you seen anything of your otter friend? He ran out here somewhere, chasing a weasel. We’ve got to find him because he took the sword of Martin the Warrior with him.’

  Nimbalo leaned nonchalantly on his battleaxe. ‘Don’t worry, matey, if’n Tagg’s out ’ere, then he’ll find us.’

  A cry rang out of the darkness. ‘Ahoy the lantern there! Egburt, is that you, laddie buck?’ Skipper and Boorab loomed up out of the darkness, with the ottercrew at their back. The hare shook Drogg’s paw.

  ‘Well met, old chap, as y’can see I made it. What’s the situation back at Redwall? Any problems back home, wot?’

  The Cellarhog’s spikes rattled as he shook his head, bright tears glistening in his eyes. ‘This mouse ’ere, Nimbalo, ’twas him an’ the otter called Taggerung, they drove the vermin off, but not afore one o’ the scum shot Cregga Badgermum with an arrow. She’s hit real bad! I don’t suppose ye came across the otter? He was carryin’ the sword of Martin. We’re out searchin’ for him.’

  The ottercrew parted ranks, allowing the stretcher bearers to carry Tagg into the lantern light. Skipper patted his paw. ‘We found yore otter, lyin’ by a slain weasel; there’s an arrow in his chest too. But he’s still breathin’ an’ the sword’s safe. Though he’s got some sort o’ death grip on it.’

  Nimbalo ran to Tagg’s side, suddenly feeling frightened and lonely. ‘Tagg, mate, it’s me, Nimbalo. Say somethin’, Tagg. ’Tis me, Nimbalo the Slayer, yore ole matey!’

  Tagg did not stir. Nimbalo collapsed, grief-stricken, against him.

  Boorab detailed two more otters. ‘Put your shoulders to that stretcher. We can’t let this brave beast die. Get Nimbalo up there with him. He can keep his pal company on the way back to the Abbey.’

  Redwall’s main gates were still open. Filorn stood out on the path with old Hoarg, holding a lantern each. Noting the ottermum’s drawn, anxious face, Hoarg murmured, ‘Go an’ sit in my gate’ouse, marm. Put your paws up an’ have a nice ’ot beaker o’ motherwort tea. You’ll do no good standin’ out ’ere. I’ll give ye news, soon as I see them returnin’.’

  Filorn shook her head, smiling at the kindly dormouse. ‘No, I must wait here, but you go in, Hoarg. It’s been a long weary day for you. Please, go in. I’ll be fine right here.’

  Hoarg tugged his grizzled whiskers courteously. ‘If yore sure, marm. I ain’t as young as I used t’be.’

  He shuffled slowly inside to the gatehouse, where his supper was awaiti
ng him. Filorn drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. It was the otter. Something about his tattoo-covered face, the deep sound of his voice, the way he moved. She had to wait and see if the search party had found him. Worry piled upon worry in her mind. Brother Hoben had said he saw the otter hit by an arrow. Was he badly hurt?

  ‘Ho the gate! Is that the pretty young Filorn waitin’ to greet me?’

  Filorn knew Skipper’s gruff voice. She ran south down the path towards a small lantern gleaming over the ottercrew and the Redwallers who had gone searching.

  They entered the Abbey, with Filorn holding Tagg’s paws, still clasped upon the sword. Nimbalo was aching from supporting his friend’s head against the bumping and jogging of the journey. He looked up into Filorn’s face. ‘Don’t fret, marm. Tagg’s my matey, I won’t let ’im die.’

  Foremole Brull’s moles were laying mattresses and cushions upon the floor of Great Hall. Filorn fussed about the ottercrew as they lifted Tagg from the stretcher. ‘Easy now, lower him gently, try not to bump him, please.’

  Mhera appeared at her mother’s side. ‘Mama, what is it? Who is that creature with his face all tattooed like a vermin?’

  Filorn drew her daughter close, leaning forward with her until Mhera could feel the unconscious otter’s shallow breath on her brow. ‘Look, my child, look. Does his face mean nothing to you?’

  Even in repose, Tagg’s features looked barbaric because of the red, black and blue markings ingrained into them. The dream came back to Mhera as she stared harder and harder.

  ‘Father . . . is it Papa? He looks something like him.’

  Filorn did not reply, but much to Mhera’s astonishment began singing and caressing Tagg’s paws, which were still locked on to the sword hilt.