Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  23

  EVENING SHADOWS BEGAN closing in on a cloudless sky as the sun reddened and began its descent into the west. The stones of Redwall took from it their dusky red brown hue; heat shimmer on the flatlands gave way to purplish twilight. Gabriel Quill had relieved Saxtus on the walltop. The fat cellarmaster yawned, looked north along the path, blinked and rubbed his eyes before calling across to the west ramparts:

  ‘Sister Serena, marm. What d’you make of this ’ere?’

  Serena hurried across. Shielding her eyes with a paw, she peered short-sightedly in the direction Gabe was pointing.

  ‘Hmm, don’t know, Mr Quill. Very pretty, though. It looks like a lot of party lanterns bobbing along the path, little golden lights . . .’

  Rufe Brush came bounding up the steps. He caught the last phrase. ‘Little golden lights? Where? Oh, by the fur of my fathers! Sister, those little golden lights are fire! Torches, being carried towards the Abbey. I’ll sound the alarm!’

  In a twinkling Rufe was down from the ramparts, across the lawn and up in the half-finished belltower. Grabbing the wooden cudgels, he began pounding on the hollow log.

  Thonkthonkathonkthonkathonkthonkathonk!

  As soon as the sound reached his ears, Greypatch sent the rope and grapnel brigade dashing into the woods on the east side of the path. Jumping across the ditch on to the flatlands with his own contingent, he stood with a thin smile playing on his lips, watching Bigfang.

  ‘Rush ’em an’ burn the gates, eh, shipmate. Well, it was your idea in the first place, so go to it, matey, go to it!’

  Desperation and fear showed in Bigfang’s face as the flickering torchlights illuminated it. He knew the element of surprise had gone with the sounding of the Abbey alarm. Furthermore there were only seven proper searats with him. Greypatch had sent them more to keep the oarslaves in line and watch his performance than to fight alongside Bigfang. Oarslaves and a frightened squirrel – that was all he had with him. Greypatch was trying to get him killed – that much was obvious. Bigfang laughed, a half-hearty cackle that grated on his own ears. He tried to sound belligerent in his reply.

  ‘I’ll burn ’em out, matey, never fear. Just make sure you’re there to back us up and rush in when we do!’

  Saxtus and three young otters stood with Flagg over the threshold. Piles of stones were heaped by them, ready for slinging. Friar Alder, with a mixed group of moles and mice, ranged the east and west walls, carrying spears in bundles. They were little more than sharpened yew stakes, but in the right place they could wreak considerable damage. Foremold headed a group that was in charge of large baskets of rock and rubble placed around the east and west walls they could be conveniently tipped onto foebeast heads below. Sister Sage, Rufe Brush and Gabe Quill led a small contingent of archers. The Abbey was not a place of war; as a result the weapons were sadly piecemeal, ancient and few.

  Mellus paced the walls slowly, her gruff homely voice reassuring the Redwallers, who were all first-time warriors. ‘Be calm now, don’t panic. They’re outside and we’re safe within. Don’t go firing or throwing anything. Let them make the first move. Besides, they may just want to parley.’

  Flagg could not help snorting a little. ‘Just like a fox parleys with a baby mouse, if you’ll pardon me turn of phrase, marm.’

  Mellus nodded confidently. ‘They look more like a bunch of searats than hungry foxes, though I’m pretty sure they’ll find we’re not baby mice, by any means.’

  Greypatch walked the far side of the ditch edge until he and his cohort were directly facing the threshold above Redwall’s main gate. Bigfang faltered just short of the gate, and stood undecided amid the bearers of the blazing torches. There was an audible silence, finally broken by Saxtus as he called down to Greypatch:

  ‘What do you want this time, rat?’

  Greypatch smiled as he looked from side to side at his searats. Savage, bloodthirsty and eager, each one a picture of barbarism, decked out in their tawdry finery, they displayed an array of the most fearsome-looking weapons.

  ‘We want this Abbey. You might have known we’d come back. Why don’t you just give up now while you’re all still alive, save yourselves and us a great lot of trouble?’

  Saxtus picked up a sharpened stake and held it ready to throw. ‘It’s no trouble, rat. Why don’t you turn your vermin round, go back the way you came and save yourselves the trouble.’

  The searat Captain decided the time for talking was over. He raised his sword, yelling at the top of his lungs:

  ‘Attack! Kiiilll!’

  Saxtus dropped to one side as an arrow sped by his head. Straightening up he hurled the spear hard at Greypatch.

  The searat saw it coming and ducked. Unfortunately there was another rat standing directly behind him who took the hurtling spear straight through his middle. He fell with an ear splitting scream.

  The battle was joined!

  Mellus watched as Bigfang and his gang of torch-bearers made a rush at the gates. Straightaway she countered the move.

  ‘Foremole, rubble over here, quick! Aim it down on to them. Try not to kill the slaves!’

  Foremold and his crew hurtled the baskets of mixed rock and rubble over the parapet wall. Bigfang was about to swing his torch at the gates when the first basket hit him, extinguishing the flames as it stunned him. He lay spread on the path. The oarslaves backed off, but Frink and Fishgill threw their torches. One hit the gates and bounced back, but the other fell just right, at the bottom of the woodwork. Flagg was about to see to it when he tripped over Saxtus. The young mouse was crouching down, head in paws, sobbing uncontrollably. The big otter grabbed hold of him.

  ‘Saxtus, matey, are you all right? Have ye been wounded?’

  Blinded by tears and hardly able to speak, Saxtus shook his head. ‘Oh, Flagg, I’ve just killed a living creature. It’s horrible! One moment he was alive, and suddenly my spear hit him. Did you hear him scream? He’s dead, Flagg. . . . Dead, and I killed him!’

  Flagg turned to Mellus as she passed. ‘They’ve fired the gates. See what you can do, marm. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Flagg raised Saxtus’s tearstained face with a rough paw. ‘None of us wants to kill anybeast, matey, but this is a war! It’s kill or be killed now. We’re not just protectin’ our own skins, there’s the whole of Redwall an’ what it stands for. What about that dormitory of Dibbuns – do you want t’ see them slain by searats? Make no mistake about it, young ’un, those rats’ll kill us all if they conquer our Abbey. Come on now, Saxtus me old Cully. Let’s see you up on your paws defendin’ your home!’

  Saxtus wiped away his tears. Grabbing his sling, he fitted a rock and sent it hurtling into the searats.

  ‘Come on, fight, you dirty cowards. You won’t conquer us!’

  Rocks and spears, arrows and lances filled the air, zinging backwards and forwards between searat and Redwaller. Mother Mellus and three moles, Buxton, Drubber and Danty, rolled a barrel of water from the Abbey pond to damp down the back of the gates. Foremole and his crew hurled baskets of earth over the ramparts to smother the flames licking up the front of the gates.

  Grubb the baby mole, together with the little twin otters Bagg and Runn, had escaped from the dormitory. Wakened by the noise and clangour of battle, they decided to take part and distinguish themselves as warriors. Wandering through the deserted kitchens inside the Abbey, they searched for suitable armament. Bagg gave a shout. ‘Whohoa! Looka these!’

  Friar Alder’s large vegetable chopping knives lay sharp and gleaming upon the worn worktable. They selected one each, dancing about and waving the dangerous blades.

  ‘Heehee, let’s make searat pies!’

  ‘I’m goin’ to chop their chief’s head right off. Choppo!’

  ‘Burrhurr, this hinfant’ll skin ’ee a few. Oi’ll make they squeal!’

  Creeping out on to the Abbey lawn, they ducked behind some bushes as Mellus and the moles hurried by, trundling another big barrelful of water towards
the main gate. Runn held a paw to his lips.

  ‘Ssshh! Come on, this way.’

  They mastered the steps to the top of the north wall near the east end, helping each other to scramble up the big rough-hewn stone stairs, pushing the knives ahead of them as they went. At the top aft argument broke out over which knife belonged to whom.

  ‘Hey, that’s my knife – this one’s yours!’

  ‘No, ’t’ain’t – I had the pointy one with the brown handle.’

  ‘Yurr, give yon knoifer t’ me – moin were the big ’un.’

  As they were sorting out the weaponry, a three-hooked grapnel narrowly missed Bagg’s head. It caught a crack in the stones, and the rope attached to it was pulled taut. Grubb patted Bagg’s head.

  ‘Boi ’okey, that were near a gudd shot. It nurly went roight daown you’m ear!’

  The whirring and clanking of grapnels increased as all along the east wall metal hooks clamped into stonework cracks and ropes pulled twangingly tight. Runn climbed up on Grubb’s head and peered down into the forest darkness.

  ‘It’s searats, lads. Climbin’ up the ropes to get in here!’

  Bagg glanced over to the west wall, where the battle was concentrated. ‘Huh, no good a-shoutin’ f’r that lot, they got enough t’ do. ‘Sides, Ma Mellus’d tan our hides an’ make us go back t’ bed an’ not give us no breakfast tomorrow an’ keep us in our room all day an –’

  Grubb placed a grimy paw over Bagg’s mouth. ‘Oh, tell oi no more ’orrible stories, otter. Usn’s cut ’ee ropes wi’ our gurt knoifs. Hoa hoa! ’Ee rats’ll fall bump on they bottems when ’ee ropes do be cutted. Oi’ll start in ’ee middle, you two come frum both ends, hurr hurr!’

  Kybo was nearly at the top of the wall. Holding his sword between his teeth, he looked back at the others swarming up the ropes, their eyes glinting triumphantly through the darkness as they hauled themselves upwards, claw over claw. It was a great distance from the walltop to the woodland floor, and Kybo was not too fond of heights. He partially closed his eyes and tried not to look down, staring at the wallface in front as he pulled himself ever higher. The searat’s claw was about to stretch up and grab the battlement at the walltop, when there was an ominous chuckle, a sawing noise and a discordant twang as the rope parted company with the metal grapnel it had been lashed to.

  ‘Oh noooooooooo!’

  Kybo sailed outwards from the walltop and dropped like a stone.

  Several searats looked up in amazement, their eyes following Kybo as he plunged to the dark floor far below. In a very short time ropes were popping and cracking as they were sliced through by the Redwall Friar’s keen vegetable knives. The thud of bodies and the terrified screams of searats filled the night air. One rat plunged earthwards without a sound, staring in puzzlement at the loose rope still firmly clenched in his claws.

  Bagg, Runn and Grubb were truly having fun. It only took three slices to cut through the toughest rope, stretched taut as they were.

  ‘A wunn, a two, an’ a three, an’ away ’ee do go vermint!’ Grubb chanted happily.

  And away the ‘vermint’ did go, with a loud wail of despair!

  Meanwhile, at the Abbey front Greypatch had drastically changed his opinion of the creatures he once called bumpkins; the accuracy of their stone-slinging had driven him and his searats off the flatlands and down into the ditch. Shaking with frustration, he ducked smartly as another salvo of rocks and home-made spears rattled overhead. The fire at the gates had been smothered under heaps of rubble. Bigfang was still lying senseless on the path; Frink, Fishgill and some others had their claws fully occupied trying to catch the little oarslaves, some of whom had crossed the ditch and were dodging about on the flatlands. Dripnose scrambled along the ditch bed to Greypatch. He was nursing a fractured limb, keeping his head well down as missiles rained in from above.

  ‘Aagh! These creatures fight like mad things, Cap’n!’

  ‘What did you expect them to do, weevilbrain – throw flowers at us?’

  ‘Maybe not, but we’re out of spears an’ arrows. The crew are havin’ to make do with throwin’ back the stuff that’s been flung at us. Huh, they don’t seem t’ be short of arms atop o’ that wall.’

  Greypatch spat contemptuously. ‘Home-made rubbish! There’s not a proper sword or cutlass between the lot of ’em. Just wait till Kybo an’ his buckoes come over their precious wall – we’ll soon sort out the warriors from the wetnoses!’

  Deadglim was nearby. He shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘Well, where is Kybo an’ the rest? They’ve been around there long enough to build a blasted wall, never mind climb one!’

  A second later he regretted the outburst as Greypatch turned to him. ‘Avast there, smartmouth. Get yourself round to the back of the east wall an’ see what’s keepin’ ’em. Look lively now. Dripnose, get Lardgutt an’ see if you can drag that oaf Bigfang back down the ditch here. He’s neither use nor ornament lyin’ spark out on that path.’

  Mother Mellus seized a full basket of rubble and heaved it towards the ditch with a mighty effort. The screams and curses from below confirmed her accuracy. She winked at a group of enthusiastic slingthrowers. ‘That’s the stuff to give ’em. Keep it up – we’ve got them pinned down tight. How are you doing, Saxtus?’

  The young mouse dodged a flying rock and slung one smartly back. ‘Fine, marm, just fine. Though it’s all a bit puzzling; I’ve noticed that we only seem to be fighting about thirty or so searats, and they had nearly a hundred by Flagg’s count. Where’s the rest of ’em?’

  The badger weighed a large chunk of rock in both paws as she pondered the question. ‘I don’t know, really. I wasn’t counting. Maybe we’d better check around the walls to see they’re not laying some sort of trap. You take the south wall and I’ll cover the eas – Oh, thundering fur! The east wall, look, there’s Dibbuns over there!’

  The three small comrades in arms were looking for more ropes to cut when Mellus, Saxtus and Flagg descended upon them.

  ‘You naughty little rascals! What are you doing out of your beds, eh?’

  ‘Burr, us’n’s oanly a-cutt –’

  ‘Give me those knives this instant! You could have cut the paws off yourselves, playing around with them. Oh, you scallywags!’

  ‘But we was on’y savin’ the Abbey!’

  ‘Not another word, do you hear me! Wait until Friar Alder sees his best vegetable chopping knives. I wouldn’t like to be in your fur!’

  Flagg picked up a three-pronged grappling hook. ‘Hold on there, marm. Look at this – there’s lots of ’em lyin’ about. I wonder where they came from.’

  Grubb shook his paw severely at Mother Mellus. ‘That’s what oi be tryin’ a-tell ’ee, missus. ’Twere us’n’s who chopped ’ee ropes off’n they ’ooks.’

  ‘But we won’t nex’ time if you start a-shoutin’ an’ ascoldin’. So there!’

  Saxtus was peering over the wall. ‘Golly! Look at this!’

  Upwards of half a dozen searats had been killed by the fall, impaled on broken branches or crushed by their falling comrades. The rest lay about in a pitiful state, moaning as they nursed broken and aching limbs. Flagg scratched his whiskers in disbelief.

  ‘Well, give me fins an’ call me a fish! So that’s what the rest of the pesky vermin were up to . . .’

  Grubb shook his furry head. ‘Not oop, maister. Only arfways oop!’

  Saxtus laughed loud at the joke, but his merriment withered under Mellus’s icy stare. Flagg, however, was shaking paws, hugging and patting the three Dibbuns.

  ‘Well done, fellers. Strike me, you saved the Abbey an’ no mistake!’

  Bagg and Runn sat against the wall, rubbing their eyes and yawning. The badger swept them up, one in each big paw. She tried to look stem but could not help smiling.

  ‘Come on, heroes. Bed for you three, and stay there this time.’

  Grubb rode down the wallsteps piggyback upon Flagg’s broad back. ‘Oim not afeared of nobeast. Mar-th
en ’ee Wurrier, that be oi!’

  Greypatch stood out on the path, his sword tight at Pakatugg’s neck as he called up to the ramparts, ‘Truce, or I kill the squirrel!’

  Rufe Brush slackened off his sling. ‘Truce then. Speak your piece, rat.’

  All along the west and north walls the defenders put aside their missiles to listen. Greypatch stood in a pool of moonlight and delivered his message:

  ‘Stop throwing and let us withdraw.’

  Rufe chuckled scornfully. ‘Had enough, mangy chops?’

  Pakatugg squealed slightly as the sword pressed closer. Greypatch was in no mood to bandy insults.

  ‘Aye, we’ve had enough . . . For one try. You may have won the battle but I’ll win the war. Now let us walk away in peace, or this one dies.’

  Simeon appeared, leaning on his friend the Abbot. ‘Go then. You could have done that any time without threatening the life of a helpless squirrel.’

  At a signal from Greypatch the defeated searats began their retreat north along the path. Greypatch could not resist a parting shot.

  ‘Wait and wonder when we will return, mouse – then you will really see what a battle is like.’

  Simeon turned his head in the direction of Greypatch’s voice. ‘Alas, I will never see anything for I am blind; but I can sense a lot. I can feel you are both evil and desperate. They say you have only one eye. I am surprised at you – even a fool with half an eye could see that you will never triumph against good if you are evil.’