Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
BOOK ONE - Travel Is An Adventure!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
BOOK TWO - Go Find the Babes!
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
BOOK THREE - Escape from Althier!
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
BOOK FOUR - The Battle of Redwall Abbey
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
EPILOGUE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Redwall
Mossflower
Mattimeo
Mariel of Redwall
Salamandastron
Martin the Warrior
The Bellmaker
Outcast of Redwall
Pearls of Lutra
The Long Patrol
Marlfox
The Legend of Luke
Lord Brocktree
Taggerung
Triss
Loamhedge
Rakkety Tam
High Rhulain
Eulalia!
Doomwyte
Castaways of the Flying Dutchman
The Angel’s Command
Voyage of Slaves
The Great Redwall Feast
A Redwall Winter’s Tale
The Tale of Urso Brunov
Urso Brunov and the White Emperor
Seven Strange and Ghostly Tales
The Ribbajack
PHILOMEL BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.
Published by The Penguin Group.
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Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3,
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.
Text copyright © 2010 by The Redwall Abbey Company, LTD.
Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Sean Rubin.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form
without permission in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, a division of Penguin
Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg.
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Published simultaneously in Canada.
Text set in Palatino.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
Jacques, Brian. The Sable Quean [sic] / Brian Jacques ; illustrated by Sean Rubin.
p. cm.—(Redwall) Summary: The courageous Redwall creatures band together as
Vilaya, the evil Sable Quean, and her horde of vermin attempt to make off with the young
animals of the Abbey. [1. Animals—Fiction. 2. Kidnapping—Fiction. 3. Fantasy.] I. Elliot,
David, 1952- ill. II. Title. PZ7.J15317Sab 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2009002653
eISBN : 978-1-101-16321-4
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Billy Maher,
Maestro Di Musica
and My Good Friend
One day when our hearts were young,
we went roving with right good will,
side by side two comrades
to find what lay o’er the hill.
Our spirits never wearied then,
in those high old times gone by.
What friends we made, what perils we faced,
together you and I.
Now eyes grow dim, and paws feel stiff,
even vittles don’t taste the same.
You wake one day, with your whiskers grey,
what price then, medals an’ fame?
Alas, all we have are memories,
to take out, dust off, and share.
But, oh, my friend, the pride we feel,
just to know that we were there!
We travelled an’ fought an’ feasted,
we triumphed, we marched and songs were sung,
we faced death, saw life and adventure!
One day when our hearts were young.
The Ballad of Colonel Meliton Gubthorpe
Digglethwaite (Retired)
BOOK ONE
Travel Is An Adventure!
1
Wreathing slowly through the foliage of a white willow, smoke spiralled into the warm summer noon. Below on the riverbank, two rats and a burly stoat squatted around the fire, roasting roots and wild turnips on sharpened sticks. Scraping away ashes and burnt soil, the stoat inspected his half-raw turnip. He spat sourly into the fire.
“Wot sorta vittles is this fer a warrior? Stinkin’ roots an’ turnips ’ard as rocks!”
One of the rats remarked hopefully, “If’n ye don’t fancy it, then I’ll eat it for ye.”
Baring his snaggled teeth, the stoat whipped forth a dagger. “Put a paw near my vittles an’ I’ll gut yer!”
The other rat nibbled at a ramson root, wincing with disgust. He was in agreement with the stoat. “Aye mate, meat’s wot we need, a brace o’ plump woodpigeons, or even a fish. I like fishes.”
The stoat flung his turnip into the fire, scowling. “We don’t have ter put up wid this muck. I thought we was Ravagers, not scavengers. Any’ow, wot are we supposed t’be doin’, that’s wot I’d like t’know?”
The first rat retrieved the turnip from the hot ashes, wiping it off on his tattered sleeve. “Zwilt the Shade sez Sable Quean wants woodlanders, young uns. So we’ve got t’stay hid in the area an’ capture any we sees. That’s our orders, mate.”
Testing the edge of his blade on a grimy paw, the stoat grinned wickedly. “Young uns would make good meat. Just let me git me paws on a fat dormouse or a chubby liddle squirrel. I’d let Zwilt ’ave the bones to give to the Sable Quean!”
The smalle
r of the two rats looked fearful. “You’d do that? I wouldn’t like t’be you if Zwilt found out.”
The burly stoat tossed his dagger into the air, catching it skilfully. “So, wot if’n he did, eh? Lissen, I ain’t scared of Zwilt, or ’is Sable Quean. They don’t bother me!”
The larger rat whispered nervously, “Be careful wot ye say. They don’t call ’im Zwilt the Shade for nothin’—some say ’e’s magic!”
The stoat scoffed. “Rubbish! Wot sort o’ magic, eh?”
The rat took swift glances up and down the bank. “Nobeast sees Zwilt, unless ’e wants ’em to. They say ’e can come an’ go secretly, just as ’e pleases.”
The big stoat shook his head pityingly. “Yer a right ole frogwife if’n ye believe that. Shade or no Shade, Zwilt’s just a beast like any other. Y’see this dagger o’ mine? Well, one good stab of it’d make Zwilt vanish forever!”
The voice came out of nowhere. “How can you do that when you’re already dead, fool?”
Brandishing his weapon, the stoat bounded upright. “Who said that—who’s there?”
From behind his back, a cloaked figure emerged through the smoky willow foliage. With lightning speed and savage strength, it wrenched the stoat’s paw backward, sending the dagger spinning. Dust rose as the stoat’s back slammed against the ground. He lay there, staring up into the face of Zwilt the Shade.
The sable was a sight to instil fear into most creatures. Behind the natural mask of dark fur, his eyes were totally black, dead and inscrutable. Zwilt was lean, wiry and very tall for one of his species. Beneath a flowing cloak of dull purple, he wore a snakeskin belt with a broadsword thrust through it. His teeth showed small, white and sharply pointed as he hissed at the hapless stoat.
“You should have believed the rats. They spoke truly.”
The burly stoat gulped. “Sire, I was only jestin’ . . .”
Zwilt held a paw to his lips. “Silence. You should not be speaking—I’ve already told you that you’re dead.”
In desperation, the stoat tried to rise. “No I ain’t—” The broadsword appeared suddenly in Zwilt’s paws; he swung it like lightning. As the severed head rolled into the river, Zwilt addressed it.
“Oh, yes you are. Perhaps you’ll believe me now?” Without raising his voice, Zwilt the Shade turned his unblinking stare on the two rats. “You believe me, don’t you?”
They both nodded wordlessly, in stunned silence.
The tall killer wiped his blade on the headless carcass. “Get this thing out of my sight. Throw it in the river.”
The rats scrambled to obey his order. When they turned back again, he had gone. There was only the fire, dying to embers in the bright summer afternoon. The remains of their former comrade drifted slowly away on the current.
None of the vermin band known as the Ravagers dared to disobey Zwilt the Shade. His orders came directly from Vilaya, the one they called the Sable Quean.
2
Waves broke endlessly on the sands of Mossflower’s western shore, with the lonely hissing sigh that is the music of the sea. Late noon sun was still warming the beach above the tideline, where the mountain of Salamandastron towered over all. Brang the Badger Lord and his trusty companion, General Flackbuth, sat watching a young hare drilling a group of leverets in the use of the sword. Brang nodded in admiration of the Blademaster.
“I tell ye, Flack, that young Buckler Kordyne is by far the best we’ve seen here since his grandsire, Feryn. What d’ye think, eh?”
The old officer brushed a paw over his drooping military mustachio. “Hmmph, I don’t doubt y’word, sah, not bein’ old enough to remember Feryn, wot!”
Brang gave a deep rumbling chuckle. “No, of course not. I’m the only one on this mountain still alive to tell the tale. That’s the trouble with living several life spans more than most beasts. Hoho—see that, Flack. Well parried, young un!”
Buckler had just returned the stroke of another hare’s lunge. With an expert flick, he sent his opponent’s sabre whirling in the air. The blade flashed in the sunlight, landing point first in the damp sand.
Executing a swift half turn, the Blademaster disarmed an attacker who had been stealing up on him. He shook his head at the culprit.
“Never hesitate when you see an opening, Tormy. I felt you behind me before I saw you. Remember, a slowbeast is a deadbeast. You’ll have to move faster.”
Tormy picked up his blade ruefully. “I say, Buck old thing, d’ye think I’ll ever be as jolly good as you are, wot?”
Buckler shrugged. “That’s up to you, mate. Keep practising. Also, if I were you, I’d choose a lighter blade. You lack the paw power to wield a sabre. Try a long rapier.”
The leveret cast a longing glance at Buckler’s blade. “Like that blinkin’ beauty of yours?”
The Blademaster cleaved air with his own special sword. It was a peculiar hybrid, longer than other rapiers, honed razor-sharp on both edges, with a cross-basketed hilt. The blade was thicker than that of a rapier but superbly tempered, to give it flexibility. Buckler winked good-naturedly at his pupil.
“There’s not another sword anywhere like this un. I designed it myself, but he made it. Isn’t that right, Brang?”
A flicker of annoyance showed in the Badger Lord’s dark eyes. He beckoned Buckler to attend him.
Saluting the leverets with his blade, Buckler dismissed them. “That’s enough for today, thank you.”
They returned his salute with various weapons. A sabre, a cutlass, a claymore and a broadsword. Sloping his blade over one shoulder, Buckler wandered over to where the huge badger was seated.
“What’s the matter? Have I done something wrong?”
Brang took the sword. He held it, feeling the balance. Bending the supple blade in an arc, he let it twang back, straight as a die.
“I had my doubts about forging this, but you were right—it’s the perfect weapon for you. I’ll tell you what you’ve done wrong, young un. Not showing your superiors the proper respect, that’s what!”
Returning the sword, Brang turned his back on Buckler, staring fixedly out to sea. The young Blademaster sighed audibly as General Flackbuth continued where the badger had left off.
“It’s the custom, laddie buck, to give title to those who’ve jolly well earned it, wot! How dare ye refer to the ruler of Salamandastron as Brang. ’Tis your duty to address him as m’Lord, or sah, d’ye hear me?”
Buckler stared coolly at the general. “Aye, I hear ye.”
Flackbuth bellowed in his face, “I hear ye, General!”
Buckler shrugged, repeating slowly, “I hear ye . . . General.”
Lord Brang turned back, his expression softening as he addressed the young hare. “Come up to the forge chamber with me, Buck. It’s high time you and I had a talk.”
Buckler gathered up his array of training swords. He piled them into the waiting paws of his trusty assistant, Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite, or Diggs, as he was more commonly known. He was the same age as Buckler, though marginally smaller and markedly tubby. They were lifelong friends, if poles apart in their views of mountain life and etiquette. Diggs nodded toward the retreating Badger Lord.
“What ho, Buck, are you in the stew again, wot? Has old Flackbuth slapped a blinkin’ fizzer on you?”
Buckler winked at his friend. “No, it’s just that the big fellow wants to give me another lecture. Put the blades away, Diggs. I’ll catch up with you in the mess at supper.”
The forge chamber was an airy room, carved from the living rock. It had all the equipment required by a Forge-beast. Weapons in various stages of construction hung everywhere. There was a low, wide window, facing the open sea, with a magnificent view of the western horizon. Lord Brang was proud of his elderflower and comfrey cordial. He poured two tankards, passing one to Buckler and indicating a seat on the window ledge.
Shaking his striped head wearily, the huge badger spoke. “Buckler Kordyne, what are we going to do with you, eh?”
<
br /> A smile hovered about the young hare’s lips. “I don’t know. Tell me, what are you going to do with me?”
Danger flashed in the badger’s eyes for one perilous moment. Then he burst out laughing, landing Buckler a hefty pat on the back, which almost sent him flying out of the window. Brang steadied him.
“Just like your grandsire—the same rebellious attitude, same carefree manner. Every time I look at you, I see him returned from beyond the silent valleys. Aye, you’re the very model of Feryn Kordyne. You won’t wear Long Patrol uniform, don’t obey orders, always in trouble. You don’t even speak like a Salamandastron hare. Why is that? What’s the matter with you, eh?”
Buckler answered the enquiry with a question. “I never knew my grandpa, was he as good as me with a blade?”
Brang replied, as if loath to say the words, “Feryn was a great Blademaster, the best I ever set eyes upon . . . until you came along.”
Embarrassed by the sudden compliment, Buckler quickly changed the subject. “Tell me again, how did he save your life?”
The sun was starting to drop beyond the horizon. Brang stared out at the crimson aisle it laid upon the calm sea. He never tired of relating the story of his escape from death.
“I was young in those seasons—your grandsire, too. We were about the same age as you are now. There was a plague of vermin sweeping the land. They were called the Ravagers. Aye, and a motley horde they were, murdering, burning, looting and torturing, right across Mossflower. Their leader was a silver sable, Armuk Rinn the Conqueror. Something had to be done to protect Redwall and all our woodland friends.
“I sent out Long Patrol Scouts to discover where he made his lair. They tracked Rinn and his Ravagers long and hard. They were located in an old quarry northeast of Redwall Abbey.”
Brang stopped to refill their tankards. He tossed Buckler a rough-looking chunk of pastry, with nuts baked into it. The young hare felt quite privileged—hardly anybeast was allowed to share the Mountain Lord’s scones, which he made himself on his forge. Brang watched him eating with pleasure.
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