“because you were so brave.
And when upon each baking day, my lovely cakes I make,
I’ll save a special one for you, for your kind action’s sake.”’
The moles fell about, rolling on the grass with helpless merriment.
‘Ahurr hurr hurr! Yon zur Gonffen, ’ee wurr a tricky un!’
‘Boi ’ecky, ’ee wurr a villyun aroight, a scrumpin’ ’ee gurt cake. Hohurrhurr!
‘Come on there,’ Saxtus called to a mole named Willyum. ‘What about a song from you, Willyum? You’re the champion mole singer, aren’t you?’
Willyum heaved his tiny fat body up from the grass; he needed no second bidding. Smoothing down his velvety coat and polishing his nose, he clasped his huge digging paws in front of him and began singing in the traditional manner of the moles, his voice a deep rusty bass, surprising in one so small.
‘Oi luvs a woodland stew, oi do; oi do loik apple tart,
An’ good October ale that foams is dear unto moi ’eart.
Of rabs’rry cream oi oft do dream, et makes moi eyes to shine,
’Tis a fact that oi loiks anythin, when oi sets daown to dine.
O mole, mole, daown thee ‘ole, doant you’m eat none o’ mine,
Else oi won’t get a bite to ate, when oi sets down to diiiiiiinnnnneeee.’
He bowed and kissed his paws to the company as they applauded, wrinkling his nose until his round black eyes were almost lost behind chubby cheeks.
Turning to Saxtus, Willyum returned the compliment. ‘Now et be thoi turn to sing a song, zurr Sackuz.’
Saxtus waved his paws blushing modestly. ‘No no, I’m the worst singer in the Abbey, my voice sounds like a mad owl with his beak trapped in a log.’
Dandin clapped his friend upon the back. ‘Go on, you dusty old bookworm, you’re as dry as Brother Hubert. Ah, I’ve got an idea! Why don’t you recite us a poem? You’ve learned lots of them from those old books and parchments in the gatehouse. Go on, Saxtus. Have a go!’
Saxtus remained seated, he shuffled and coughed nervously.
‘Oh, all right, if you really must, but I’m not too good at this sort of thing. Right, here goes. This is a rhyme I found on a scroll in the gatehouse some seasons ago, I’m not sure what it means, but I like the words.’ Saxtus summoned up his courage and began reciting.
‘The wind’s icy breath o’er the land of death
Tells a tale of the yet to come.
‘Cross the heaving waves which mark ships’ graves
Lies an island known to some,
Where seas pound loud and rocks stand proud
And blood flows free as water,
To the far northwest, which knows no rest,
Came a father and his daughter.
The mind was numb, and the heart struck dumb,
When the night seas took the child,
Hurled to her fate, by a son of Hellgate,
The dark one called The Wild.
You who they seek, though you do not speak,
The legend is yet to be born;
One day you will sing over stones that are red,
In the misty summer dawn.’
An eerie silence had fallen over the young creatures sitting beneath the oak in the sunlit midday grounds of the Abbey. Saxtus fidgeted with embarrassment as they stared at him. Treerose the pretty squirrel was the first to break the silence.
‘Well, that was a silly, nasty little rhyme. I didn’t like it one bit – there’s no story and no point to it. What a load of old mumbo jumbo!’
She shot off up the trunk of the oak, showering them with leaves and twigs as she did. To break the mood Dandin began applauding loudly.
‘Hurray! Well done, Saxtus. Very good!’
The others joined in until they were interrupted by Mother Mellus.
‘Come on, young ’uns. Bring any of those Dibbuns you can find along with you. Lunchtime! Come on, it’s being served in the orchard – turnip ’n’ mushroom flan with beetroot and scallions, followed by honeysuckle sauce and acorn dumplings. And I want to see clean paws before anybeast gets served!’
As they washed their paws in a rain barrel by the Abbey’s south wall, Dandin questioned Saxtus.
‘Where in the name of fur did you learn that poem? It was very strange.’
‘Told you, didn’t I, it was on some dusty old scroll in the gatehouse. I read it when Brother Hubert dozed off, now the confounded thing seems to have burnt itself into my memory.’
Blind Simeon joined the friends, dipping his paws into the butt with them.
‘Yes, some things have a habit of doing that, don’t they? Still, who knows, they may come in useful through the seasons to come. I’d be glad I remembered it, if I were you, young Saxtus.’
‘Would you, Brother?’
‘I certainly would. There is much knowledge in ancient writings. Actually, I was standing near the oak when you recited it. You were right, the words do have a certain ring to them. Oh, and Dandin, would you like something to remember also?’
‘Yes please, Brother Simeon. What is it?’
‘Remember to leave some of those acorn dumplings for us old ones. We can’t make it to table as fast as you young ’uns.’
Dandin smiled as he winked at Saxtus. ‘Come on then, Brother. Hold our paws. We’ll lead you round to lunch and you’ll get as much as anybeast – we’ll see to it.’
The two young friends led the blind herbalist off to the orchard, astounded by his perception of their movements.
‘Dandin, why did you wink at Saxtus when you said you would take me to lunch?’
‘I meant nothing, Brother. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I remember a similar wink passing between those two little otter villains Bagg and Runn, when they said they would assist me in to supper. I ended up in the dusty old gatehouse while they dashed off and scoffed up all the oat muffins with clover butter. But you wouldn’t do a thing like that to me, would you?’
This time it was Saxtus who winked at Dandin.
‘We couldn’t, Brother. You’re holding our paws far too tight!’
Earlier that same morn the Darkqueen had nosed her bows into Terramort cove. As Ledder gave the order, a double-fluked anchor splashed into the dear water. Saltar the Corsair came ashore with his crew. They were fully armed, but relaxed by the sight of the empty cove. The searats were still wading through the shallows to the shingled beach when the rocks in front of them came alive with a hundred of Gabool’s fighters, armed with long spears and cross-hilted pikes. Saltar cursed beneath his breath, but showed no alarm. Standing with his crew, knee-deep in the shallows, he faced the bristling pikes boldly.
‘Bilgerats! What’s all this about? Where’s Gabool?’
Blaggtail, the leader of the shore party shrugged. ‘In Fort Bladegirt. He said you’re to come up.’
Ledder waded up level with Saltar, drawing his scimitar. ‘And what if we choose not to?’
Blaggtail waved his pike twice in the air. Fifty archers stood up in the rocks above his head, each one with a shaft notched to his taut bowstring.
‘Gabool said to tell you he only wishes to be hospitable.’
The sound of Darkqueen’s anchor being hauled up caused Saltar to turn around. His worst suspicions were confirmed – the ship was drifting gently out into open water. Greypatch and five score grinning searats lined the decks.
‘Don’t worry, shipmate,’ he called out to Saltar in a mocking voice. ‘She’ll come to no harm. We’ll take her for a sail around the bay, while you’re jawin’ an’ chattin’ with Gabool.’
Ledder made as if to hurl his sword at the sneering Greytail, but Saltar muttered in his ear, ‘Stow it, mate. Leave this to me.’
Saltar strode up the beach, pushing Blaggtail’s pike to one side as he went.
‘Come on, let’s go and see what his High Lordship wants.’
The banqueting hall tables were piled high with food and drink. Gabool threw himself down in his throne a
t the head of the biggest table. He was wearing no sword and smiling expansively.
‘Hey, you seascum, here comes the best Captain in me fleet and his brave crew. Sit down, Saltar old messmate, and you, me favourite waverobbers, pull some chairs up and fill those bellies. Only the best for the best.’
Saltar’s crew fell to with a will, splashing wine, tearing meat, grabbing and stuffing for all they were worth. The King of Searats indicated that Saltar sit next to him. The corsair did as he was bid, one claw on his sabre, eating and drinking nothing.
Gabool laughed aloud, ripping a bite from a cooked fish and hurling it over his shoulder. He quaffed wine, slopping it over the table.
‘Haharr! Nought like good food and wine, eh, Saltar? I suppose you heard about your brother Bludrigg?’
‘No, what about my brother Bludrigg?’ Saltar lied with a straight face.
Gabool tore a roasted seabird apart in his claws, burying his face into the carcass as he gnawed through it, and came up grinning.
‘Had to kill ’im. Whipped his head off with me sword.’
Saltar’s expression never altered a flicker. ‘What for?’
Gabool wiped his greasy claws in his beard. ‘Disobedience, bein’ too greedy, wantin’ to take my place as King. Had to kill ’im. Swish! That was that, old Bludrigg lost his head.’
Gabool and Saltar’s eyes met, betraying nothing, but each waiting for the right moment. Saltar toyed with a goblet of wine.
‘Was he armed when you killed him?’
‘No, he was tryin’ a crown on for size. Haharr!’
Slowly Saltar stood up, his claw grasping the curved sword at his side. ‘I’ve heard you’re very good at killin’ unarmed beasts. How about trying one who’s got a weapon?’
Gabool’s claw began reaching for a sword hidden beneath the table. ‘Give us a chance, matey. You can see I’m not carryin’ a sword – look.’
Now it was Saltar’s turn to laugh. ‘Hoho! Then hurry and get yourself one, King of Searats, although I heard that even armed with a sword you were beaten by a little mousemaid . . .’
Gabool sent the table toppling as he kicked it and freed his swordblade, his face a mask of ugliness and cruelty as he launched himself forward.
‘That’s a lie! A black-hearted lie, and you’ll die for it, Saltar!’
Automatically the searats stood back; this was not only a battle to the death between two famous fighters, it was also a contest to decide Kingship.
Gabool the Wild slashed viciously at Saltar; the corsair dodged nimbly to one side, swinging his sword in one claw as he wound the cord of the steel hook round his other and beckoned with it, insulting and taunting in the manner of searats to goad his victim into a false move.
‘My brother could’ve taken you with a cooking ladle, coward!’
Gabool circled, the light glinting off his golden emerald-studded fangs. ‘I’m goin’ to hang you by your hook and let the gulls rip out your lyin’ tongue, crabsbait!’
Suddenly they clashed, sword ringing upon sword. Saltar’s hook ripped through Gabool’s doak, pulling him inward. Quick as a flash, Gabool cut his cloak loose with one of the daggers from his waist sash, staggering back as Saltar’s clanging blade drove him down the hall.
‘You’ll die screaming, Gabool. I’ll make you call me King before I put you out of your misery.’
Smiling inwardly, Gabool allowed Saltar’s onslaught to press him backwards down the hall, though outwardly the Warlord’s expression was grim and he acted as though he were hard-pressed, panting, parrying and dodging the cleaving blade and pointed hooktip. This gave Saltar the feeling that he had gained the upper claw.
‘Not as easy as fighting my unarmed brother, eh, Your Majesty?’ he taunted Gabool. ‘But no matter, Saltar the Corsair isn’t a mousemaid. I’ll finish the job properly, so that when you’re hacked to dollrags you’ll know it was me who did it!’
Stumbling over footstools, bumping into tables, reeling off walls, Gabool seemed to blunder backwards, Saltar’s sword threatening to spit him at each thrust, the flailing hook coming to within a hair’s-breadth of his throat. Now the King of Searats was down on one knee, a short distance from the hanging wall curtain. Saltar smashed mercilessly downward at him. Gabool’s sword, held sideways deflecting the blows, seemed to quaver for one desperate moment. A gasp arose from the piratical assembly. Suddenly Gabool fell, rolled over and, leaping high, snatched a walltorch from its brackets. He regained his stance on the other side of Saltar. Like lightning the corsair turned.
‘Aaaaiiieeee!’
Gabool struck Saltar with the blazing torch, driving him backwards into the hidden blade behind the wall hanging. The trap worked efficiently; Saltar died instantly, an expression of pained surprise stamped indelibly upon his brutal features.
Silence fell over the banqueting hall. Gabool spat carelessly at the impaled carcass of his one-time enemy. Turning on his heel, he sprang up on the largest dining table. Scattering cups, food, plates and drink with a series of resounding smashes, the Warlord turned upon the gathering of searats. Gabool’s eyes blazed, his rings and bracelets jangled, the gold emerald-studded teeth showed in a ferocious grin through his matted and beribboned beard. Pointing to all corners of the hall with his curving sword he roared at the top of his lungs:
‘I am Gabool the Wild, King of all Searats! Who am I, you carrion of the water? Speak my name, you vermin of the main!’
Swords, daggers, spears and pikes waved in the air. There was not one in all the crowd who dared not shout out aloud: ‘Gabool the Wild! King of all Searats!’
A pounding upon the hall doors echoed in the silence which followed. Blaggtail threw the doors open, to reveal one of the Darkqueen’s prize crew, Shornear, wounded and half-drowned. He staggered in, collapsing in an exhausted heap upon the floor. Raising himself on one daw, he pointed out of the window.
‘Lord, Greypatch has sailed off with the Darkqueen!’
Gabool came off the table like a springing panther. Seizing the wretched Shornear, he hoisted him to his paws.
‘What! How did this happen?’
‘Lord, he had it all planned with the others. I would not go along with his wishes so I was thrown overboard . . .’
‘Greypatch, my faithful old shipmate – why would he do this to me?’
‘He said that you were too dangerous, too wild and treacherous. Greypatch said to us all that anyrat who followed him would at least be able to sleep at night without fearing a knife in his back. He said that you were death to any creature your shadow fell upon, friend and enemy alike. I heard him say that he would take his crew to a place of safety where none could follow.’
Gabool absently let Shornear drop to the floor.
‘Well well, who would have thought it, eh? Me old messmate Greypatch, the one searat I thought I could trust, turned traitor on me. The Darkqueen was my best ship. Blaggtail, is there any more of my fleet anchored around the coves?’
Blaggtail scratched his chin. ‘Nightwake and Seatalon are beached in the north cove, Lord. They both need careening and recaulking. Crabclaw too, but she was holed and lost her rudder on the rocks. None of them are seaworthy.’
Gabool scowled. ‘Where are the rest of my ships?’
‘Waveblade, Blacksail, Rathelm and Greenfang are all on the high seas, Lord, but they should be back by the next full moon.’
The Warlord banged the table to emphasize each of his words. ‘As soon as they come in, turn ’em round and get ’em out to sea again. I want the Darkqueen back, I want to see her heading into Terramort cove with Greypatch’s head stuck on the bowsprit and his crew in chains. Whoever does this for me will be made Sea-captain of all me fleet, next only in rank to me.’ Immediately three rats sprang forward. Gabool hailed them. ‘Riptung, Catseyes, Grimtooth, pick yourself a crew each. Get those three craft in north cove shipshape again. I want them seaworthy two days from now. Take my houseslaves and chain ’em up as your oarcrews in the galleys. I will hunt Greypat
ch down, do you hear me! My fleet will track him across the main from tide-send to Hellwaters. There will be no place on land or sea where he will hide from the wrath of Gabool. Now go!’
9
JUST OVER HALF a day of being tugged about blindfolded by the ill-tempered Pakatugg was quite enough for Storm. She had been scratched by nettles, poked by branches and bumped by trees, when finally the recluse squirrel called a halt for lunch. They sat down beneath a wide-trunked sycamore which had pushed itself a fair living space in the dense forest. Storm unbound Gullwhacker from where Pakatugg had placed it about her eyes.
‘Hoi! Get that blin’fold back on right now, d’you hear!’
The mousemaid blinked and rubbed her eyes at the shafting sunlight of the green woodland aisles.
‘Oh, go and boil your tail, squirrel. How do you expect me to eat lunch with a rope round my eyes?’
Pakatugg pulled food and drink from his knapsack and sniffed. ‘Leave it off then, but only for mealtimes – and don’t be gazin’ all round, tryin’ t’ get a fix on your bearin’s, eh?’
Storm saw that the hares had left a small stone medallion threaded about her neck as she slept. It bore a badger’s head and a flat-peaked mountain insignia. She looked up, countering the squirrel’s remark.
‘Huh, who wants to see your silly old forest! It’s not yours, anyhow. It’d take more than a squirrel dressed as a tree to rule all this. What’s for lunch?’
Pakatugg sat on the rucksack, clutching the oatscones and flask he had taken from it.
‘Well, I’m havin’ these oatcakes and a sup o’ this, though I don’t know what you’re dinin’ on. I only said I’d take you t’ Redwall, never said I’d feed you as well. That weren’t part o’ the bargain.’
Storm could not believe her ears. She watched Pakatugg smugly munching away at a scone.
‘I’d share half of anything I had with a hungry creature, you . . . you greedy branchbound old miser!’
‘Right, that’s it! I’ve tooken enough cheek from you, mouse! Shut your mouth an’ get yon blin’fold back on, right now!’
Mariel Of Redwall Page 6
