The Sable Quean

by Brian Jacques

  Diggs chunnered. “Not quite certain, eh? That’s jolly useful, wot. Confounded great load o’ books on those shelves, an’ the blinkin’ chap doesn’t know the flippin’ name o’ the one he wants. Hah!”

  Buckler’s paw gagged his voluble friend’s mouth as Granvy continued, “I know it’s a weighty book, huge, thick thing, probably with a green cover. Or was it red? Something about a journal of somebeast or other. Name began with a G.”

  Now it was Marjoram’s turn to get excited. “The Journal of Abbess Germaine!”

  The glasses slipped down Granvy’s nose. “How did you know that?”

  Marjoram explained, “Because when I was made Abbess of Redwall I borrowed it from you to learn how other Abbesses ruled here!”

  Granvy scratched his ears. “Did you, really? Dearie me, I must be getting old. I don’t remember. Tell me more, please.”

  Marjoram did just that. “You were right. It’s a thick old green volume, but you won’t find it in here. I kept it in my study, you see. ’Twas very wrong of me, because I’ve never found the time to read it, though I keep promising myself that I will sometime. Shall we go and take a peep at it?”

  As they crossed the moonlit lawns, Diggs saw the dormitory lights going out one by one. He yawned. “Only one thing I like better’n’ scoffin’, an’ that’s snoozin’. In a snug little bunk with a soft pillow, wot!”

  Granvy blinked; Skipper caught him as he stumbled.

  “Are you tired, too, me ole mate?”

  The hedgehog Recorder shook himself briskly. “Not at all. Lead on, my friend!”

  The Abbess breathed in deeply. “Ah, just smell that summer night air. So warm and soft. I love the different scents, fennel, marigold, dandelion and gentian, so delicate, faint almost.”

  Jango growled, “Let’s get on an’ look at this book instead o’ yafflin’ about goin’ to bed an’ sniffin’ the flowers!”

  Oakheart chuckled quietly. “Ah, a true lover of nature and its many wonders.”

  The study was a neat room. Marjoram could not abide untidiness. The friends began sorting through her books, but she rapped sharply on her writing desk.

  “Touch nothing, please. I know exactly where everything is. See, here is the book!”

  Granvy immediately opened it, flicking through the yellowed barkpaper leaves.

  It was a huge green-bound volume. The Recorder muttered to himself as he leafed through it. “Must’ve taken Abbess Germaine many seasons to write all this. A good deal is about the time before our Abbey was even built. Goodness knows when that was!”

  Abbess Marjoram hovered about the old squirrel anxiously. “Please be careful with the book. It’s so old, and very precious. Take care you don’t damage it!”

  Granvy, however, was paying little attention to her. Knowing what he sought, he riffled speedily through. “Hmm, wildcats, vermin, Martin, Gonff, Bella of Brockhall . . . Ah, here it is!”

  Buckler leaned over his shoulder. “Here’s what? Have you found something valuable?”

  The Recorder raised a small spurt of dust as he slammed his paw down on the open page. “The answer to our problem, friends. Now I know what Corim means, and Althier, too. This has to be it!”

  14

  There are those in Mossflower who would deny the existence of a Warrior mole. None of these doubters had ever met Axtel Sturnclaw. There was not the slightest doubt that Axtel was a warrior. He was also a loner—bigger, stronger and fiercer than any of his species. In his broad belt, Axtel carried a war hammer, which he mainly used for breaking stones when he was tunnelling. Other than that, the big fellow needed no fancy weaponry. Just one glance at his massive digging claws was enough to warn anybeast. Axtel Sturnclaw was not a mole to be messed with. He led a solitary life, wandering the woodlands, furrowing his own workings and, for the most part, shunning the company of others.

  Vermin had never bothered him. The few who had tried never lived to tell the tale. He left their carcasses up in the branches of trees for carrion to dispose of. It was Axtel’s view that he would not sully good soil by burying vermin in it.

  In short, Axtel Sturnclaw was a warrior mole who lived quietly but by his own principles. He was a stranger to the Mossflower woodlands, so he was exploring.

  This particular day, he was tunnelling near a gigantic old oak, hoping to find a cave beneath the roots. Having dug all day with not much success, Axtel was about to finish and go back up to the woodland surface when something unexpected occurred.

  His tunnel collapsed. Not on his head but beneath him. Without warning, he shot downward and was only stopped from falling further by his own prompt action. Feeling the floor going out from under him, the powerful mole grabbed a thick root and hung on. As suddenly as it had started, the subsidence ceased. Axtel hung there in darkness for a moment, puzzled by the turn of events. Then something grabbed him by the footpaw.

  The stolid warrior mole did not panic; he was more overcome with curiosity than anything. Reaching down, he grabbed the creature who was clutching him and hauled it up. It was a little molemaid holding a lantern. With a single heave, Axtel lobbed her up into his own tunnel.

  Spitting out debris, she nodded. “Hurr, thankee, zurr!” Axtel eyed her suspiciously. “Yurr, missy, wot bee’s you’m doin’ daown thurr?”

  Gurchen, for it was she, dispensed with long-winded explanations, informing him, “Us’ns got curlapsed in, thurr bee’s two uthers a-buried asoide oi. Wudd ee be so koind as to diggen ’em owt, big zurr?”

  Axtel took the lantern, hanging it on the oak root. He shook a large digging claw at the molemaid. “You’m stay put, yurr—oi’ll gerrum!”

  Gurchen leaned over the tunnel edge, shielding her eyes as he shot into the loose soil, like a furry cannonball. Everything was still for a short time, then the ground erupted where Axtel had gone down. Gurchen was forced to move aside as he tossed the limp form of Flib up into the tunnel.

  Axtel blew soil from his snout. “Did ee say thurr wurr two?”

  A nod sent him burrowing back down. Loose earth moved this way and that, then he emerged with little Guffy clinging to his neck for dear life.

  Seizing the root, Axtel passed Gurchen the lantern. He clambered back up into the tunnel. Guffy sprang into Gurchen’s paws, weeping with fright after his underground ordeal. The big mole slung Flib across his back, gesturing upward.

  “Goo on with ee, back into ee fresh h’air!”

  It was dark night in the woodlands. Gurchen and Guffy breathed deeply, overjoyed even though they were moles to be free of the underground, no longer imprisoned in the cave. They both began to chatter, explaining their plight to their huge new friend, but he silenced them with a snort.

  “You’m ’ushed naow, whoilst oi see’s iffen this young un bee’s still aloive!”

  Retrieving the gear he had left above ground, Axtel cleared debris from Flib’s mouth and nostrils. He poured water between her open lips, until she gurgled and jerked, vomiting sludge and fine root tendrils onto the grass. Axtel sat her up.

  “Burr, she’m soon bee’s roighter ’n’rain!”

  Leading them off a small distance, he sat the escaped prisoners in a dry gully. Lighting a small smokeless fire from the lantern flame, Axtel dug food from his pack. “You uns must be furr ’ungered’n’thursty.”

  Guffy threw his paws around his saviour ’s neck. “Hurr hurrhurr, thankee muchly, zurr. You’m a guddbeast!”

  The Warrior mole had never been around young ones, nor had he ever witnessed a display of genuine affection. He allowed himself to be hugged awhile, then sitting Guffy down with Flib and Gurchen, Axtel covered his shyness, mumbling gruffly as he busied himself.

  “Yurr, naow, you’m likkle uns set thurr whoilst oi gets ee summat t’be eaten.”

  Flib, still spitting up bits of rubble, was unable to eat, though she did drink some of the big mole’s excellent dandelion cordial. The two little moles tucked gratefully into acorn and chestnut scones. They had no sooner finished eatin
g and drinking than both Dibbuns fell instantly to sleep.

  Axtel dug an old cloak out of his gear and covered them both. He turned his attention to Flib. “Naow, mizzy, may’aps ee can tell oi abowt ’ow ee cummed to be daown thurr unnergrounds.”

  The Guosim maid told her story, recounting from the time of her capture up to the tunnel collapse. She described in detail her vermin captors and their regime over the young prisoners, the darkness of the gloomy dungeon, the meagre rations and harsh treatment. Flib mentioned that she had a younger sister and a brother, a mere babe, still held in captivity with the rest. She also told of Thwip and Binta, the cruel fox jailers.

  When she had finished her report, Flib watched Axtel Sturnclaw closely. The Warrior mole sat silent, his eyes flickering savagely in the firelight. He picked up a thick dead root end, wrenching it from the earth with one paw. His formidable digging claws snapped the root with a quick swat. Throwing the wood on the fire, he turned his gaze on the sleeping Dibbuns.

  “You’m a sayin’ ee vurmints gotten gurt numbers o’ likkle uns locked away daown thurr, miz?”

  Flib nodded. “About a score of ’em. Most been stolen from their families, some babes scarce two seasons old, pore liddle mites.”

  She fell quiet, afraid to say more. Axtel’s teeth were grinding audibly; his eyes had taken on a fearful glaze. Taking the war hammer from his belt, he shook it right under Flib’s nose, growling, “Gurt brave vurmints, eh? A-locken up babbies an’ keepin’ ’em ’ungered! Et b’aint roight, no, miz, et b’aint. They’m villuns got t’be punish ered! Hurr, bo aye, an’ oi bee’s ee one who’ll do ee pun ishen, take moi wurd fur et!”

  Out in Mossflower woodlands, Zwilt dismissed the main force of Ravagers, sending them back to their camp. Joining Vilaya and Dirva, he accompanied them, his chosen cave guards and the three small hostages back to Althier. Even before they reached the entrance in the old oak tree trunk, Dirva began twitching oddly.

  The Sable Quean eyed her coldly. “Why all the shaking and hopping about?”

  Dirva replied darkly, “I feels it in my bones’n’fur, Majesty—there’s somethin’ amiss. Althier isn’t the same as when we left it!”

  Vilaya knew enough to trust her aide’s feelings. She commanded Zwilt, “Leave two guards here with the prisoners. Go ahead swiftly—find out what has gone on in my absence. We’ll follow on.”

  When the Sable Quean eventually reached Althier, Zwilt was standing inside the entrance. His Ravagers were holding guards, two of the four who had remained behind with Thwip and Binta.

  The tall sable shoved both vermin forward, snarling at them, “Report to your Quean, tell her what happened here!”

  The elder of the two swallowed hard. “It was a collapse, Majesty, inside the prisoners’ cell. We heard the noise and saw soil comin’ out o’ the door gratin’.”

  Both guards quailed under Vilaya’s piercing eyes. She pointed to the younger vermin. “Did you see it? Were any of the captives hurt?”

  He told her, constantly looking at his companion for reassurance. “Majesty, we didn’t see it. We only heard the noise, but we went quickly t’see wot it was. The dungeon door was jammed, with rubble piled up agin it.”

  The older guard nodded, as if his life depended upon it (which it did). “Aye, Majesty. The foxes saw it. They was there, just outside, all the time.”

  The younger one added, “Those other two guards, the ones you left with us to mind the prisoners, they was with the foxes. They must’ve saw it ’appen!”

  The Quean held up a paw, silencing them. “Then send them to me, immediately!”

  Zwilt interrupted, “Majesty, they are gone, deserted—Thwip, Binta and the two sentries.”

  Vilaya’s nostrils flared with wrath. “Find them. Hunt them down and bring them back here to me!”

  Zwilt the Shade bowed low. This was work he enjoyed. “Leave it to me, my Quean!” He indicated four guards. “Bring ropes to bind them. Hurry, I must go before the trail runs cold.”

  After the hunters departed, Vilaya had a seat set up close to the dungeon, where she could direct operations. There was no way of pushing open the dungeon door, with all the debris behind it. She watched awhile as a half-dozen guards tried to force an entrance, then sighed in irritation.

  “Break the hinges and pull it down.”

  Spearpoints hacked at the woodwork until the old iron hinges were exposed. The rusty metal creaked as the guards’ spearhafts levered them loose. With a joint heave, the vermin pulled the battered door down. A guard held up a lantern, peering inside through the settling dust.

  “There’s still many in there, sitting on the ledges mainly. I can’t see clearly yet, but there’s quite a number of them.”

  Vilaya sounded irate. “Then get them out before they become buried by another collapse. Guards!”

  Shortly thereafter, the young creatures, dusty and bedraggled, were seated on the floor gazing up at their captors. Vilaya questioned the guard who had first sighted them.

  “Are they all here, or are any missing?”

  The vermin’s voice trembled as he answered, “I dunno, yore Majesty. ’Twasn’t my job to count ’em.”

  The Sable Quean swept the other guards with an icy glare. “One of ye must know. Speak up—how many prisoners were there?”

  The old rat Dirva tugged at Vilaya’s cloak. “None of these know, Mighty One. Only those foxes, Thwip an’ Binta, knew, but they’re gone. Allow me to try. I’ll soon find out.”

  She confronted the young ones in a calm manner. “Tell me, do ye have any sisters, brothers or friends missin’? Was anybeast lost when the collapse happened?”

  Young Jiddle Witherspyk held up a paw. “My sister Jinty’s gone, an’ Tassy, an’ a liddle hare, too. Those vermin put ’em in sacks an’ took ’em away. They’re bad, wicked villuns!”

  Dirva nodded, as if in agreement. She smiled at the small hog. “I’ll trade ye, if’n I get ’em back. Will ye tell me who’s missin’ then, eh?”

  Flandor spoke out boldly. “None of us are sayin’ a word ’til we sees ’em safe back!”

  The Sable Quean signalled a guard. “Bring them here!”

  Three Ravagers carried the sacks in. They emptied the little trio out roughly.

  Tura carried Urfa to her brother, reuniting the leverets.

  Tassy, the Redwall Dibbun, ran to Midda, calling, “Where’s Guffy, my likkle molefriend?”

  Jinty scurried to Jiddle; they hugged each other tightly.

  Midda put a paw about the little squirrelmaid. “There’s been no sign of Guffy, or Gurchen an’ Flib, not since the collapse.”

  Tears popped out onto Tassy’s cheeks. She blurted out without thinking, “Did the tunnel fall in on them?”

  Like a whirlwind, Vilaya was amongst them. She seized Midda, shrieking as she shook the shrewmaid savagely. “Tunnel, what tunnel? Tell me or I’ll rip ye apart!”

  Flandor charged to Midda’s aid. Leaping on the sable’s back, he battered at her with clenched paws, roaring, “Git yore paws off’n her, ye slimy bully. Let her go!”

  Vilaya almost went down under the young otter’s attack. She was saved by her guards. They hauled Flandor off her forcibly. As they dragged him away, he lashed out with his rudder, catching the Sable Quean a smashing blow in her left eye.

  They crowded in on the brave young creature then, subduing him by main force. Vilaya turned on him. Leaping forward, she struck him in the throat. Flandor clapped a paw to his neck and fell. The sable stood over him, covering her injured eye.

  She returned the tiny poisoned dagger to its crystal sheath, hissing viciously, “You dare to strike a Quean? Fool, you will never again raise a paw to anybeast!”

  Midda was instantly at Flandor’s side, holding up his head. The courageous otter smiled dreamily up at her, his eyes starting to droop.

  “I’m thirsty, mate . . . thirsty. . . .”

  He shuddered, then slumped to one side and lay still. The shrewmaid shook her friend’s lim
p form. “I’ll get water for ye, Flandor. Flandor?”

  Tura realised what had happened. The squirrelmaid ran at Vilaya, shouting, “You’ve murdered him, you rotten scum!”

  The Sable Quean retreated several paces, allowing the guards to intercept Tura, who struggled in their grip.

  “You dirty, stinkin’ vermin, Flandor was worth ten of you!”

  Holding the bunched hem of her cloak over her injured eye, Vilaya stood quivering with rage and pain. She screamed, “Get them out of my sight, all of them! Throw them in a cave where they can’t dig their way out. Lock them in there and double the guard!”

  The captives were herded off at spearpoint. Midda, Tura and some of the older creatures scrambled to pick up the babes. Frightened and bewildered, the little ones began weeping piteously. Dirva attempted to place a poultice over her mistress’s eye; it was swollen and discoloured.

  “Hold still, Majesty. This will help with the pain.”

  Vilaya flung the poultice from her, snarling, “Keep that foul rubbish away from me. Go and stop those brats wailing or I’ll take a blade and do it myself!”

  Like most Guosim shrews, Log a Log Jango was no scholar, nor was he gifted with patience. He curled his lip sourly at the Recorder.

  “Well, come on—spit it out, matey. Are ye goin’ to sit there starin’ at yon book like a stuffed frog? When d’ye think ye’ll get round to tellin’ us where our young uns are bein’ held, eh?”

  Granvy did not like being hurried or ordered about by gruff beasts. He looked slowly up from the thick, open volume, blinking over the rim of his spectacles. “All in good time, sir. Being rude won’t speed me up.”

  Abbess Marjoram judged by the look in Jango’s eye that Granvy had said the wrong thing, so she took charge of the situation without delay. “Friend Granvy, I think that the good time you speak of should be right now. Kindly tell us what you know.”

  The Recorder was about to speak when the door to the Abbess’s room opened. The late Clerun Kordyne’s mate, Clarinna, staggered in. The harewife was wearing a flowing nightgown. Her head was in bandages, her paw in a sling and she looked totally distracted.